Archive of Our Own

Keith is in the middle of tying a wispy string around a fresh bouquet of flowers when the distinct click of a camera shutter goes off. 

“No photographing the staff,” he drones without looking up.

“Dude, you look dumb as hell right now.”

He knows. His friends have made it their moral obligation to remind him everyday, lest he forget. Customers must know too—Keith catches the way their stares drift down to the cutesy staff apron Shiro subjects his employees to wearing. By employees, he means himself and Coran, an eccentric man who dilly-dallies around the aisles to motivate the flowers into full bloom with his encouraging words. More often than not, Keith is left to fend for himself at the register. It’s not terrible, except for the brief hours in Lance McClain’s hectic schedule that he somehow manages to allocate towards nagging Keith.

“What do you want, Lance?” Keith bores holes with his eyes into the potted plants lining the floor of the shop. They sit tall, with stiff, green stems shooting up and wide, waxy leaves shading the dirt around it. It would be so conducive to dig a hole in the dirt just large enough to fit his body and bury himself right next to the tangling plant roots. Surely, they wouldn’t mind his company.

Lance ignores his question. He invites himself into Keith’s space and leans fully over the counter. “What are you working on?”

“None of your business.”

“Come on! Aren’t we friends?”

Keith pretends to give it some thought. “Nah.”

He swivels to the back shelf to grab kraft paper to wrap the bouquet in while Lance sputters out protests like a faulty car engine. Despite Keith’s strong discouragement, he makes his way behind the counter and starts poking and prodding at the delicate flower petals adorning the arrangement. And despite the strict store policy that only staff are allowed behind the counter and the sign that enforces it, Keith lets him.

It’s Lance’s bouquet after all.

Not that he knows.

Not that he’s known any time Keith has made him a bouquet and put it up for sale to general customers.

It’s a masochistic game Keith plays with himself when business is slow. It’s called: What kind of bouquet would I give to Lance? It involves picking at his tender heartstrings and seeing how it strums different melodies day by day. One day, longing. The next, bashfulness. Sometimes, the tunes mix up. Lance is no simple person and loving him is no simple, easy thing. There’s always something beautiful to be felt and some turmoil to riddle it. Like all nature, there is beauty in each scene no matter the harshness. Lance is painted like the expansive shore he speaks so highly of, with rippling blue eyes and skin tanner than sand. But he carries stormy waves with equal measure—their old fights are proof of this, with bitter days of silent treatment after long, explosive arguments. Fights about classes, about friends, about how to eat a sandwich, where to put away dishes, about plans, and how to dress. Fights that are no more, or else Lance wouldn’t come visit Keith at the shop everyday (and that would just be unbearable, wouldn’t it?). He’s glad they’re past that, for the most part. Keith is glad he can remember old wreckage fondly.

“What does this flower mean?” Lance points at a yellow acacia tucked behind feathery leaves.

“Secret love,” Keith says.

“And this one?”

“Please notice my feelings for you.”

“Hm?”

“It’s a clovenlip toadflax,” Keith clears his throat and makes his way towards Lance with the kraft paper in hand. “That’s what it means.”

Lance claps him on the shoulder. Keith revels in the way his fingers linger, noting the outline of each slender finger against his cotton shirt. He doesn’t mention it. He lets the feelings fester and bubble all while refusing to remove the lid to let it out. “You’ve always got some interesting combination of a bouquet every time I come in. Are you a secret romantic?” Lance squints at him. He’s so near.

“No. It’s good for sales.”

Suspicion doesn’t leave Lance’s face. “Sure…”

Keith lopsidedly bundles the kraft paper around the thick flower stems to avoid Lance’s gaze. His fingers are clumsy, like a pudgy baby who has recently learned fine motor skills. His heavy nerves have him crumpling up the paper in obvious and unaesthetic places. No one would buy a poorly wrapped bouquet—Keith tears off the paper and grabs a new sheet.

“Lots of people come in wanting to confess,” Keith insists. It’s true. It’s believable—he works in a flower shop, after all.

“So, you’re not a romantic.”

“Definitely not,” Keith stresses.

“That’s a shame,” Lance says, “You’d have lines out the door.”

“Oh well.”

He doesn’t know why this one topic seizes him with faint panic. Ideas of romance spewing from Lance’s mouth during a casual conversation is hardly nightmare fuel. Lance knows him. He knows about his time in the foster system and he’s known him through his expulsion. He has seen Keith shed tears—angry tears, sad tears, and happy tears. He’s been there through both bad and good birthdays. Throughout the years and seasons, he’s turned into a friend. He’s turned into something more for Keith, something that isn’t necessarily terrible or humiliating, but terrifying nevertheless.

Lance would never throw his bloomed feelings to the floor.

He wouldn’t leave.

Keith is sure he wouldn’t. He’s sure.

“So…” Lance rocks back and forth on his feet. “Can I buy that one?”

“Huh?”

He motions at the freshly made bouquet laying on the counter. “That one. The one you just made.”

Keith stares at the bouquet.

The one he made for Lance. 

The one he made for Lance that isn’t really for Lance…

The confession bouquet…

“Are you sure you want this one?” Keith asks weakly.

“Yep.”

Curiosity piques him. Why does Lance want a bouquet? He comes over often, but rarely ever to buy anything. He chats, looks around, throws things at Keith, and then leaves. For occasions like Mother’s Day and birthdays, Keith makes arrangements for him and his friends for free.

“Why?” He asks.

Lance shrugs. “Just cause.”

He places his next words with careful prudence. “Are you going on a date?”

Keith waits for his response with baited breath, like he’s ready to flinch from a sting that he’s sure will come. It’s not such a terrible thing for Lance to go on dates. He does it from time to time. He whisks up boys and girls that Keith wishes were him. He’s gotten used to it.

But the confession bouquet…

Lance laughs at him. Cackles, almost. Keith hopes there’s no other customers lurking around to hear him. 

“A date?” He guffaws. “Good one, Keith.”

Keith doesn’t get the joke.

“Uh,” he says, “Okay.”

So what if Lance wants to take the bouquet he made for him and give it to someone else? It’s just flowers. It’ll wither and die in a few weeks. It’s not important.

He tries his best to sway Lance’s mind. “This one is kind of ugly—I put it together just like that. There’s other better ones—”

“Nah.” Lance waves him off. “I want the one you made.”

“I can make you another one?”

“Nuh-uh.”

Damn Lance’s stubbornness. Damn Keith’s weak will. He can tell Lance to piss off—he’s done it so many times before for small and grand things alike. He quite literally works here. Keith has every right to deny a customer service. Lance isn’t special. Lance is—

He slides the newly made bouquet towards him. “No charge,” he says.

Keith is so pathetic.

He’s so dumb.

Lance isn’t special.

Yeah, sure. What a fucking lie. He’s a dumb, pathetic liar who’s going to watch his crush take flowers made for his pretend confession and give them to someone else. He’s going to hear Lance gush about it for days on end. He’s going to hear, Thanks Keith, You a real one my G, Couldn’t have swayed them without your help.

A knot builds in Keith’s chest.

“Are you sure?” Lance asks. “I can pay.”

“Lance, when have I ever made you pay?”

“But the business—”
With a sudden vexation, Keith grabs the bouquet by its stem and pushes it against Lance’s chest. “Just take it!”

The irony of the situation is comical. There must be some divine being laughing and popping grapes into their mouth as they watch Keith make bouquets for Lance and come up with different scenarios to present them to him. An arrangement of dwarf sunflowers too large to carry comfortably—meaning adoration—Keith would give them to him while picking him up from class. A vibrant assortment of  larkspur and water lilies—Lance’s birth month flowers—he’d get that for his birthday, of course. Roses for Valentine’s Day because Lance is so cliché and forget-me-nots—for true love—just because.

And finally, finally, this is how Keith ends up presenting these arrangements to Lance.

So that he can woo someone else.

“If you insist.” Lance puts his hands up in surrender. “I don’t want to take advantage of the—”

He’s interrupted by an abrupt coughing fit that seizes Keith's throat.

“Are you good?”

“Ye—” He dissolves into another series of coughs. It leaves his windpipe strained and dry. 

“Hang on, I have water in my bag.” Lance swings his backpack around and rummages around for a water bottle. “Here, say aaah.”

“Lance, I’m not—” Keith snatches the bottle from his hands. “I can drink by myself.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Lance says, “But seriously, are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“If you say so.” He rubs a comforting hand up and down Keith’s back. It sends shivers down his spine.

Lance wrinkles his nose. “Are these flowers even native to this region?”

“Who knows,” Keith shrugs. He’s glad that the conversation shifted. “Coran is the one who finds them.”

“What a strange guy.” Lance looks at his bare wrist. “Oh would you look at the time! I gotta head to class, smell ya later!”

Keith’s cough persists throughout the day.

He has to turn his head not to mist germs all over the bloomed flowers as he goes from aisle to aisle to water them with a spray bottle. Keith hunches over with his head turned away to avoid the all-seeing pistils seated in the bullseye between the petals. There’s no one in the store to judge him except for the plants—Coran had left early to go on a ‘scouting mission’, whatever that might mean. Shiro hadn’t come in today at all. All alone in the dark and closed store with only a dim light centered on the rows of flowers, Keith feels watched.

Keith isn’t sure how his cough started. He’s been sleeping on time and eating three meals a day, he’s not allergic to anything, and he hasn’t met anyone who’s sick recently. The only person Keith’s seen all day is Lance and he seemed perfectly fine.

He shoots him a message to be safe.

r u sick

His phone buzzes before he can pocket it.

no?

There’s another answer. Keith didn’t get sick from Lance. Or perhaps he didn’t fall ill at all! It could be that his body is acting strange today. Maybe nothing is wrong at all.

Keith coughs again.

Creeping paranoia tickles his spine like a slow blooming vine crawling around him. It circles around his back and wraps around his chest in a constraint that seizes his air. Keith has to consciously remind himself to breathe. He hates this, as irrationally strong of a sentiment that is for a simple cough. Keith despises unexplainable symptoms, no matter how severe or casual. The simplest rash or headache sends him careening—Keith needs answers. He needs to know why his body is acting a certain way.

“It could be the rare and awful Hanahaki disease! Did you know that a whopping 86% of patients diagnosed with it have died?” Coran had told him after a particularly harrowing coughing fit.

Keith rolls his eyes. He knows what Hanahaki disease is. He hears about it on the news from time to time, of devastating and tragic endings from heartbreaks that never eased up. Such a minor portion of the human population have had it and even less people live to tell its tale. It's rare enough that researchers have yet to find a particular scientific cause for the flower blooms. The disease has driven the plot of more trashy, B-rated romance films than it has seen the inside of a hospital.

A cough is a symptom of many things. Keith might have bronchitis or cancer or a fever or arrhythmia. He could have heat stroke, although that’s less likely given the frosty spring temperatures that have yet to break. He could’ve inhaled a lot of smoke without knowing it. He could be having heart failure.

Keith hates it. He hates it, he hates it, he hates it. He wants it to go away. 

Keith locks up the store early in the evening, all by himself. He bolts the front door tightly and shakes the door handle twice to check that it won’t budge. It remains locked.

He steps away from the door. Shakes the handle once more as if it might’ve unlocked in the time he blinked. Checks his pockets for the keys he remembers putting in. Checks it with his other hand.

Okay.

Good.

As if anyone would steal from a tiny flower shop. Keith scoffs. He’s always so paranoid for no reason.

The evening is still running strong, yet to have birthed the inky blues of a night sky. Patches of clouds mask the setting sun and cast the roads in a hazy light. Keith misses the sun rays; their disappearance douses his walk home in chills that he hadn’t anticipated. He hadn’t even brought a jacket in his careless rush to leave for work earlier in the day. Keith should've. Now that he has a cough, the symptom could easily transform it into something worse.

It’s okay. He’ll be at his apartment in five minutes. He’s not too far.

Keith ignores the burgeoning pain stabbing at his chest, right by his sternum. He walks faster.

He’ll get home, go to sleep, and tomorrow he’ll be better. Keith has faced plenty of bodily grievances throughout his life. Untreated broken bones, an unending runny nose, black eyes, and frostbite. A cough is nothing.

Keith practically barrels through the front door of his apartment when he reaches. It ricochets off of the wall with an echoing bang and swings back in his face. There’s no time for such hindrances. Keith lets the door hit him as he kicks off his shoes and tears off his shirt. He doesn’t bother to check where either landed. He needs to shower. Or drink water—warm water.

Between his turbulent movements, his phone clatters to the floor. When he picks it up, he sees a missed message from Lance.

y

r u sick

Keith wonders if he’s on his date right now.

It’s easy to picture it—Lance dressed up for a date. He’s probably at a fancy, low-lit dinner wearing a sweater that accentuates his broad swimmer-shoulders. Ever so classy, he’d pair it with a button down underneath. It’s a stuffy combination that would definitely bother Lance to no end, but he’d smile on with no complaints for the sake of looking handsome. He’d hold his date’s hand across the table and whisper sweet nothings. The image is so irritable and cliché. It’s so performative, so Lance-trying-his-hardest-to-make-a-good-impression, so like him and unlike him at the same time.

Keith pictures the bouquet he made laying on the table between Lance and his date.

Whatever.

There’s no point in him wasting energy ruminating this pretend scenario. Worst case, Lance will go on a few dates, break things off, and complain to him, Hunk, and Pidge about losing the love of his life before moving on the next day. It’s a classic Lance pattern.

Guilt bubbles in his chest and spurts out alongside a few more coughs. Why can’t Keith be happy for Lance? If he loves him so much, shouldn’t he want to see things work out for him?

Keith groans as he steps into the shower and turns the faucet on. The spray of hot water is welcoming.

His chest hurts. It twinges every time he takes a deep breath, like his ribs are an old, rickety bridge being trampled on by a horde of children. There’s an itch deep inside, one Keith can’t reach and scratch at his own pleasure. He feels the need to claw at his bare chest, to rub his skin away and pluck out the hurt and harm within. If he could brandish a scalpel and slice an incision deep enough into his chest to pierce the imposter organ nestled within, all his woes would evaporate away. The pain heightens every sense inside his body. Keith can feel his heartbeat pulsating, his ears ringing, and the air travelling down his throat. It’s weird. It’s wretched. His body doesn’t feel like his own. 

Abruptly, Keith retches.

He doubles over and braces his hands on the tiled walls. Droplets of condensation splat under his palms. Keith heaves. He heaves and gasps but nothing comes out.

This doesn’t feel like an innocuous cough.

He counts his breathing to stop it from accelerating.

In 1…2…3…4…

Out 1…2…3…4…

In 1…2…3…

Keith’s mind wanders. It’s hard to keep track of the numbers. The steam from the hot water makes it even harder to breathe. He turns off the faucet.

He wants Lance.

Why can’t Lance want him back?

Why can’t he want to be there for Keith the way Keith wants him to?

It’d be so nice to have him by his side, to have him sit Keith down in the bathtub and brush his wet hair out of his face. To kiss his forehead and tell him that it’ll be okay. The thought brings tears to his eyes. Why does it have to be someone else that gets this from Lance? Why not him?

Keith smacks himself across the face.

In 1…2…3…4…

Out 1…2…3…4…

In 1…2…3…4…

Out 1…2…3…4…

In 1…2…3…4…

Out 1—

A violent cough drags him to the floor. It’s as if the Earth’s gravity has suddenly become so enormous and powerful that his knees have to choice but to buckle. His palms sting as they quickly slap against the floor to stop his head from smacking the ground. Through all of this, he is still coughing.

He coughs and coughs and coughs. The sound of his struggles thunder in his ears. His nose stings. He feels lightheaded from the lack of air. Keith curls in on himself.

What is going on?

What is happening to him?

Keith’s vision is spotty and his mouth feels odd and soft. No, that’s not right—there is something soft in his mouth. Like cotton. The taste is unfamiliar, but the more clarity Keith regains, the more he is aware of the—the thing crawling up his throat.

Keith spits out a cluster of yellow flower petals.

They come out warm and slick with blood and spit. He can’t even tell what it is at first; his vision is blurry from the tear tracks racing down his cheeks and the stars dauntingly darting in and out of his periphery. His mouth still isn’t clear. Keith swipes a couple fingers into his mouth to drag out the lingering petals clinging to his gums and the roof of his mouth. The aftertaste remains. The soft, feather-like feeling. Keith can’t get rid of it.

He rubs his eyes. He rubs them raw. The coughing has stopped and air slowly starts entering his lungs. Keith is breathing again, with a little bit of struggle, but it feels wrong. It feels off. Air goes in his nose and out his mouth. In through his nose and out through his mouth. It’s the same function as always, as he’s done his whole life, but it’s not the same. Somewhere in between, somewhere inside, there has been a break. 

Keith lays on the ground for a while, catching his breath.

The action itself is toilsome, but he revels in it regardless. Keith won’t take breathing for granted. 

He groans and curls further in on himself. His head hurts and he feels dizzy or nauseous—he can’t tell which one. Even when Keith closes his eyes, he can’t find any reprieve. There’s always something pulsating, aching, or throbbing. He can’t catch a break.

When Keith lifts himself off the tub floor with wavering arms, he sees the mess around him and gags.

Red and yellow splotches desecrate the ground. It’s a vulgar mixture of blood, petals, and residue bathwater gathering in odd clumps. Traces of blood chase the water slowly seeping into the drain with pink trails. The tiny, fuzzy, yellow petals attempt to follow, only to clog up the drain. It’s gross. It’s disgusting.

Petals…?

Keith doesn’t remember eating flowers.

Coran’s annoying voice blares in his mind. It could be the rare and awful Hanahaki disease! 

He thinks about the next thing Coran said. Did you know that a whopping 86% of patients diagnosed with it have died?

Fuck.

Fuck.

FUCK.

Keith, as unamused by life and nonchalant as he seems, is not interested in dying. Not even remotely. He may fling himself and his dirtbike off of steep ramps and eat well-expired food, but such are the experiences of life. He’s enamored by the thrill of things, not its danger. Maybe his version of life looks different than the general crowds’; there are no weddings, picket-fence houses, children, and peaceful retirements in his future—at least not that Keith can see. Still, it doesn’t mean his life isn’t worth living. There are still things he wants to do and places he wants to go.

For a disease to come and snip it all at the bud—and a ridiculous one at that too—Keith finds himself truly doomed.

hanhaji

hanahaki disease

hanahaki disease reddit

how to cure hanahaki disease

hanahaki cure not involving confession

cost of hanahaki surgery

Keith deletes all the tabs dedicated to the hours of research he’s wasted his time on. He hasn’t learned anything new. If anything, it exacerbates his mood. His mind is littered with hospital cost calculations and dubitable online tales about the disease. Although his mouth is clear—and Keith double checked, he’s rinsed his mouth ten times within the morning—he can’t rid the phantom texture of cotton out of it.

He can’t stop thinking about it. How can he? Keith is going to die.

Plant roots have wrapped their clutches around his lungs. They pierce him deep and sap nutrients straight from his body. He’s already become feverish and fatigued from the growing seedlings stealing nutrients from his body over the span of weeks and he didn’t even know it. Keith thought it was only the stress from applying to graduate school and jobs that caused the gaunt looking circles under his eyes. No, instead there is a fucking flower inside of him. Casually growing and blooming between his bronchioles. Keith can feel it. Not in the way he can reach out and graze the flower blooms at work with his tender fingers. No, he feels it when he sneezes. When he sniffles. When he sleeps on his side. Keith can feel a presence.

He hates it.

Keith doesn’t want to die and he certainly doesn't want this awful pain.

He’s going to suffocate in the worst way possible unless Lance likes him back.

Lance, who is dating around and wooing people with Keith’s bouquets.

Keith is so screwed. He should start writing a will. He doesn’t even own much to give away, just the money in his checking account that’ll go to Shiro and some general life necessities, which he won’t need anymore since he’s going to die. Hunk can get the entirety of his kitchen tools, which is two pans and a knife and spoon. Pidge can get his old laptop. His clothes can be donated, but not his father’s jacket. Any photos he has can go to Lance.

And that’s it, isn’t it?

Once Keith dies, that’s all that’s left of him.

Through tears, he texts Hunk. do you want any spare pans?

Hunk’s reply is instantaneous. No thank you! I have too many

Keith supposes he’ll just fuck himself, then. He can donate the kitchen supplies. And come to think of it, Pidge won’t need his laptop with all the hi-fi technology she has. He can go ahead and donate that too. Keith adamantly ignores the tear rolling down his cheek. He tries not to think about how erasable he is.

Maybe if Keith did more with himself, his death could be impactful. If he got his degree earlier, he could’ve been working at a nice job or internship. He could donate money or start a nonprofit for kids interested in astronomy like he’s always dreamed about. Keith could’ve made a difference in someone’s life. He still can, if he gets his shit together in the…roughly estimated three months before he croaks. Through all the pain and suffering that’s allegedly supposed to get worse, Keith can make a difference.

Yeah, right.

If he couldn’t do it before, he wouldn’t be able to do it now with a disease. 

Keith groans. He can’t believe he’s going to die of heartbreak. He doesn’t even like Lance that much.

Liar.

The petals he coughed up came from the yellow acacia flower, the same ones he meticulously arranged a few days ago when Lance strolled into the store. He remembers browsing through his inventory and finding the flower so pulchritudinous. Keith thought the fickle petals resembled the way golden sunlight dances upon Lance’s skin as it pours between the crevices of overhanging shadows. It was a stretch, really, and also dumb, in retrospect. His affections allow him to draw connections between even the most tenuous of things. Keith had just wanted to see the bright flowers in the hands of his beloved. He had, for a fleeting moment, when he thrust the bouquet towards Lance just two days ago. Keith grimaces. The pom-pom like flowers hardly looked deathly back then, perched on a stem all quaint and pretty. Keith could easily crush the flower between his fingers—how did such a small thing render him incapable?

It’s so ironic that he’s coughed up the flower representing secret love. The disease is toying with him and laughing at his desperate crush. It taunts him. Confess and you might have a chance to live. An insignificant chance, but one that exists regardless. Not that it matters because you’re probably going to die anyways.

Keith…his feelings for Lance have never been so small or surmountable that he could present it in a few neat words, tie it with a bow, and hand it over to him. He’s thought of it over and over again—the many bouquets he’s made and rehomed are proof of that. Flowers are nice, but they’re not enough. They’re only a part of a whole package and Keith doesn’t know how to say the words to complete a full confession. 

Besides, what does the disease count as a confession? Would a simple I love you work? Or can it sense artificiality and desperation? Do his words have to come from a genuine eagerness to love and cherish Lance or can he say the bare minimum that’ll save his skin? The more Keith thinks about it, the more complex and sentient his illness becomes. It gets to decide if he confessed or not. It’ll know if Lance has accepted it. It chooses if he lives or dies. This feeble plant isn’t one that’s been uprooted from the dirt and relocated to inside of Keith’s body—it’s more than that. It’s conscious of his feelings and it’s aware, perhaps even now, of the thoughts playing in his mind. Maybe it muses, wondering when to bloom and strike him down. The flower possesses him wholly. He is rendered defenseless to it at all times.

Keith curses the lack of medical research towards the disease. He curses his lack of healthcare knowledge and while he’s wallowing in acrimony, he curses his poor misfortune as well.

His phone chimes with a message. It’s Lance.

ill be at ur house in five min

no u didn’t invite me and forget 

here

Keith’s heart plummets. What? Why is Lance coming over? What does he want from him? Does he…does he know?

There’s a knock on the door. “Yo, FBI, open up.”

Keith wipes his greasy hands on his pants. It’s unfathomable that Lance won’t be able to see his state of disarray. His skin is pale and clammy. His hair is unbrushed and unruly. His clothes, despite being freshly worn, are already sweaty and stained. Keith looks like the textbook definition of sick. A newborn monkey who is blind and deaf could come near him and understand that something is wrong with him.

And god, worst of all, his stupid crush is going to see him gross and nasty.

Now’s your chance to confess to him! The disease goads. Now’s your chance to live!

“Open up!” Lance bangs again.

What does he do? Keith wouldn’t put it past Lance to pry open a window with pliers and shimmy in through its crack. He’s got a degree in showing up to places uninvited and unwarranted.

Reluctantly, Keith opens the door.

“Hey I just wanted to—” Lance’s eyes narrow at him. Keith can tell exactly when he detects the state he’s in. It makes him queasy to be analyzed. Has he figured out that Keith has Hanahaki disease? Does he know that it’s for him? Lance is the obvious selection for a crush; Keith only talks to a few people and his sexuality shrinks down his dating pool even further. He could choose from Lance, Hunk, Matt, Coran (???), or god forbid go talk to more people. Only one of these options is someone Keith talks to on the daily (not Coran). It’s so evident that he likes Lance. He eats lunch with him, he sits in on his lectures, and he even comes over to his apartment. He’s initiated hugs with Lance before and Keith just—he doesn’t casually do that, okay?

The point is, if Lance knew he had Hanahaki disease, that would be a confession in itself.

Lance points an accusatory finger at Keith. “I knew it! I knew you’re sick.”

“Uh.”

“You texted me the other day, being all like, are you sick? And I’m here thinking, this guy definitely caught something. And then you skipped work! For multiple days. Which kinda had me worried that you got kidnapped so I checked your location and it said you were at home. Honestly, I assumed you’d be passed out or something. So uh, yeah.” Lance finishes up his monologue by pretending to kick rocks.

“Yeah,” Keith says, “I’m sick.”

“Did you go to the doctors?”

“No…”

“Will you go to the doctors?”

“...yes?” Keith answers too late. Neither of them believe it.

He contemplates confessing. Ripping the bandaid off once and for all. Keith could do it if he dares himself to. He’s not such a coward that he’s scared of emotions. He’s not. He’d rather live single forever than die lamely.

“Oh, bye the way,” Lance speaks up, “Thanks for the bouquet! Came real handy.”

It’s like clockwork. Lance’s words fall upon the sentient flower in his body like tasty fertilizer. Greedy, growing buds open and stretch out their petals. Keith can’t tell anything except for the minute discomfort itching at his lungs, but he just knows that’s what’s happening.

Keith coughs. “Guh.”

“Oh no! Cough attack! That sounds bad, dude.”

“It’s okay,” he says. It’s not as terrible as before.

Lance shakes his head. “You worry me sometimes.”

“I do?” Keith asks.

He used to be reckless as a kid, but a lot of those dangerous past times have since worn off. Sure, Keith likes a nice thrill every now and then, but he's normal. He works a nine to five at a flower shop. He studies part time at a university. He even socializes. Most of all, Keith wants to live. He has dreams and aspirations. Isn’t that grounds for not being a source of worry?

Lance stares at him long and hard. “I wish you’d see yourself the way I see you.”

Huh? What’s that supposed to mean?  How does Lance see him?

Honestly, Keith doesn’t want to know. Lance must see him as a friend and that’s a straightforward guarantee that he should start going headstone shopping. Maybe he could bargain for a cheaper price if he showed off his pathetic, disease-riddled misery.

He questions Lance anyways. “What does that mean?”

“Like,” Lance huffs, as he stalks over and slouches onto Keith’s couch, “you’re so cool and awesome and…you’re really worth it. I think if you saw yourself the way I see you, you’d wanna take better care of yourself.”

Guilt grabs Keith by the chin and slaps him across the face. He feels exposed and pinned in place, like Medusa had swung by to freeze him still in the middle of a vulnerable moment. It’s not hard to believe that Keith looks sorry enough that Lance feels the need to take care of him, but to hear it is another thing. It washes him in another level of grossness that he can’t scrub off.

And Keith has been trying.

He’s been powering through things even when it hurts: eating food, using the bathroom, and stretching his body. He took days off from work despite his mind screaming to go and clock in. 

“You don’t think I…” Keith swallows. “Care about myself?”

“No! No! No, dude, oh my god.” Lance waves frantic hands at him. “You just—no offense dude, but I’ve never seen you look this bad before. You don’t look regular sick, dude. You—”

His mind clings to the words. He thinks I look bad. Keith’s stomach churns. He must smell bad too—even though he showered an hour ago. Lance is too nice to comment about it. Everything about him radiates illness. Lance is going to push him to go to the doctor and then he’s going to insistently pester him if things are okay. When he sees that Keith isn’t getting better, because a doctor would tell him the same thing he already knows—that he’s going to die if he doesn’t get surgery or have Lance reciprocate his feelings, Lance is going to ask. He’s going to find out.

He’s going to be so—

So—

Disgusted.

There’s no way in hell Lance loves him back. Keith is asking for something well beyond the reach of his begging hands.

Lance continues, unaware of the tirade running through Keith’s mind. “—do you want me to drive you to a doctor? I can do that for you. I can go in with you if you want, I mean, if that’s not too weird. I’m just really worried. I couldn’t stand it if anything actually happened to you.”

“I don’t…” Keith is surprised at how quickly the conversation drains him. The plant—it feeds off of it. “I don’t know,” he says.

“That’s okay,” Lance responds, “Just tell me what you need to make it better. Anything. Shoot me.”

Rejection sits steady on his tongue. It’s ready to roll out the second Keith opens his mouth. “I—” Keith thinks. What does he want? He certainly doesn’t want Lance to leave. He doesn’t want to drop all his burdens on Lance or treat him like a housemaid, asking him to clean his dishes or the mess of laundry scattered around his bedroom floor.

Thinking is exhausting. It’s embarrassing too; who spends this long forming a reply to a simple question?

Keith gives up. “Can we just, you know, hang out?” He sounds more uncertain than he’d like, as if he’s pleading with Lance for just a shred of his day. Keith knows that he’s on borrowed time, but that doesn’t mean he has to act so pitisome.

“Yeah dude.” Lance nods. “That’s what bros are here for.”

Bros. Keith coughs weakly. It might be better for his health that Lance doesn’t stick around if he continues chatting like this. 

Oh well. Lance is a part of his potential cure, so it’s worth enduring the pain if it means Keith might be able to get better.

And he wants to spend time with Lance. Mainly that.

“What do you want to do?” Lance asks.

“Your protein shakes are in the fridge,” Keith offers, “I restocked for you last week. Also, uh,” he calls as Lance eagerly rushes into his kitchen, “how was your date?”

“I didn’t…”

Lance’s voice trails off as he gets further from Keith. He sighs.

Better luck next time.

Lance comes back with his drink and they sit on his couch. “I don’t know how you hate these things. They taste great.”

“They taste like cardboard.”

“Blah, blah, blah. I’m Keith Kogane and I can’t tolerate a flavored milk drink because I—”

“It’s not the milk, it just tastes like shit.”

“Okay, lactose intolerant.” Lance grins. “You’d know a lot about shit, huh?”

Keith groans. How the fuck does he like this guy? He pushes at Lance’s face. “You’re so gross. I hate you.”

“No, you doooon’t,” Lance sings. He gets all up in Keith’s space, like, really in there. Their shoulders are pressed together and his knee is on top of Keith’s. His face is close enough that certain details, like Lance’s mole by his hairline or his pierced ears, are out of his peripheral view. He doesn’t know who taught Lance basic hygiene, but they forgot to tell him that he should not be getting up close and personal with someone who is sick. Especially if he doesn’t know what the sickness is.

“Dumbass,” Keith scoffs and shakes his head.

“Says you,” Lance counters, “I bet you got sick doing something dumb, like uh. Uh, climbing an old wall infected with vicious parasites, or uh, eating too many ice cubes.” He nods like he’s produced a scholarly theory. “Yeah, sounds right.”

“I mean this from the bottom of my heart: never go into the medical field.”

“You’re right, I shouldn’t.” Lance nods sagely. “The patients would be all over me. And the nurses. And the surgeons. And the janitors. And the evil insurance big pharma dudes. Hey, maybe I could woo them into reducing healthcare prices.”

Hell, if Lance could finish medical school, residency, get a job, and woo an evil healthcare CEO before Keith dies from Hanahaki disease, then he’s all for it. He’ll take the heartbreak if it means dodging a twenty thousand dollar surgery fee.

“You’re so funny,” Keith says.

Lance slaps his shoulder. “I know, right?”

Yes, YES! You are so funny and I love you and I love hearing you speak. Seeing you makes me happy and excited. I want to hold you and make you happy. I want to give you flowers with my hands, not with my lungs. I want you to take my breath away METAPHORICALLY. I want to live happily ever after with you.

Keith does not say that.

“How was your date?” he asks instead.

He’s feeling a little desperate asking again and again, but he needs to know. If it went well, if Lance is dating someone, it messes with his chances a lot. Confessing to a friend is different from confessing to a taken friend. If Lance friendzones him, Keith’s fucked, but their friendship will stay fine for the rest of his months. Lance will treat it like a dude thing or a bros loving bros moment and talk about how all friends are a little gay for each other! It’s chill! But if Lance is dating someone, that makes it weird. That makes it uncomfortable and invasive.

“My date?” Lance looks confused before he shakes his hand in a so-so motion. “Meh, he kept bringing up his salary every five minutes. Like dude, I don’t give a fuck.”

“Oh…that’s…”

It should be reassuring. It is reassuring, but it pushes Keith towards the big and scary thing. The C-word. Confess, the flower chants. CONFESS!!

“But that was a month ago, Keith. Thought I told you about it.” Lance gives him a quizzical look. “Why are you asking now?”

What?

Then what were the flowers for?

“You didn’t…” Keith doesn’t know how to phrase it without sounding weird and suspicious. “Go on a date last night?”

“Are you checking if I’m single?” Lance wiggles his eyebrows. “Looking to ask me out?”

YES.

Now’s his chance! Keith can say something—anything. A simple yes gives him a chance to elaborate further in the future. Lance’s reaction to this will tell him what he needs to know about Lance’s feelings. The opening presented to him makes things so much easier.

“I—”

Keith opens his mouth and coughs all over Lance’s face.

He isn’t even able to stop and apologize. Keith watches in horror as spit sprays all over Lance’s shocked face in the more seconds before he’s able to cover his mouth with his elbow. He keeps hacking and coughing and it’s just like the night in the shower. Keith can feel the flower petals coming. They crawl up his throat at a tantalizing speed. At every sharp intake of air, they thwip from wall to wall in his trachea.

Lance wipes his face. Keith can’t tell what expression he’s making past the blur in his eyes. He can only make out generic movements. He presses his face against the couch out of both shame and necessity.

“Sor—s—” Keith can’t speak. He can’t even breathe.

The couch cushions are irritable against his nose and mouth. Keith’s face strains with effort, but no matter what, he’s unable to regain composure. He’s unable to win against the flower. His throat hurts. His eyes hurt. His chest hurts. His shoulders hurt. Keith can’t even think straight—he’s dizzy. He’s going to pass out and Lance is going to find sticky flower petals falling from his mouth. Or worse: he’ll die from asphyxiation. Keith will close his eyes and never wake up.

“Hey,” Lance says and rubs  a gentle hand up and down Keith’s spine. The other one is nestled in his hair. “Deep breaths. It’s okay, Keith. Just breathe.”

How can Lance stand to be near him right now? Why hasn’t he left yet?

“Do you want me to call Shiro? Adam?”

Keith furiously shakes his head no. He can’t be near more people. He can’t explain himself—how can he? His throat is all clogged up. All he can do is put on a show of despair and agony and close his eyes to ignore the way he’ll be watched. Even now, with Lance, it’s too much. His care and attention crowds him. Keith feels suffocated. He’s hyperaware of his presence.

Keith needs to escape.

He needs to breathe.

He crumples off the couch in an attempt to stand up. Keith’s knees are far from weak but they aren’t prepared for the way he shakes and folds over. He’s off balanced and he goes down hard. His shoulder hits the ground first. Dull pain blooms by the joint. It’s a balm to his body, an ache that distracts him momentarily from the clog in his airway.

It’s not enough.

“Keith?” Lance cries. 

Keith can only flop on the ground like a fish out of water.

If there was any chance Lance liked him, it’s gone now. He’s certainly scared him away. Keith has done it now.

Why is he acting like it matters? He’s going to die soon anyways.

Friendships, romance, academics, careers, hobbies—they’ll all vanish away as he reaches the approaching horizon.

“No,” Keith rasps. He wants to live. He doesn’t want this—this dumb, fucking flower disease.

He’ll figure it out. He’ll take a loan. Get that surgery. Sure, there’s lots of side-effects. Keith might even forget Lance. That’s alright—he’ll learn how to be friends with him again. Be friends normally, not fall in love, and not fall sick. He’ll work his whole life and pay off the hospital debts. That’s such a far away issue, further than dying. Less important. Less real.

Keith wants to exist a little longer. Be a little better. Breathe a little more.

Painstakingly, he’s able to crawl to the bathroom. Lance speaks rapidly on the phone behind him as he follows with caution. Keith pays him no mind—his humiliation has left him. The imperative desire to survive bites away all the insignificant feelings.

He shuts the bathroom door on Lance. Reaches his fingers down his throat.

When his fingers resurface, they extract a mangled stem of larkspur.

Huh.

It’s different.

Lance’s birth month flower, Keith reminds himself. He had bundled this very flower into a beautiful bouquet a few days before his birthday. Lance never even saw it.

Keith holds the stem up towards the bathroom light as he pants and slumps against the wall. The flower didn’t make it out intact. Many petals are torn and on one side, a whole row of flowers are missing. Everything is pressed towards the stem, like it all tried to squeeze together to become more compact. How considerate of the flower, Keith thinks, before tossing the stem into his garbage bin.

“Yeah, he’s in the bathroom. I’ll—” Lance is pacing on the other side of the door. “I’ll check up on him. Keith? Hey, Keith?”

Keith groans in response.

Lance is persistent to get an answer. “Keith? I’m coming in if you don’t respond.”

“I’m alive.”

And it’s true. He is alive. Keith lived. The flower didn’t kill him; he bested it once more. Bested is an extreme description. Keith barely escaped death. His lips are still cold. Maybe they were even blue at one point. His face is red from exertion. His limbs are shaky like he’s ran a marathon and his hands won’t stop trembling no matter how many times he opens and closes his fists. Keith is sweating. He’ll have to shower again. And fuck—his mouth feels like it’s still stuffed with petals. He needs to wash it.

Keith eyes the sink from where he sits on the floor. It’s so far. How will he get there?

“Keith?” Lance calls again. “He’s talking to me—yeah, I’ll—I’m gonna go check on him. I’ll give you updates. Bye.”

Oh god.

Lance. Lance.

What does Lance think of what just happened? Now that Keith can breathe again, he’ll have to explain himself. He can’t catch a fucking break. And the sink—it’s just too far. Every time he tries to hoist himself to his feet, his arms keep giving out.

Lance knocks. “If you don’t let me in, I’m gonna call Adam over.”

That surprises him. “You didn’t call Shiro?”

“Please. Then we’d have two health issues to worry about. Now let me in.”

“It’s open.”

Keith watches with dread as the doorknob twists. His heartbeat drums as he scooches towards the shower to make space for Lance. He hopes he doesn’t look into the trash can.

To his surprise, Lance holds a tall glass of water. When the fuck did he get that?

He kneels down to Keith’s level. “Dude uh, water?”

“Fuck.” Keith snatches the glass out of his hands. He downs the whole thing in seconds. It hurts, but he doesn’t care. “Thanks.”

They’re silent for an awkward amount of time. Lance is clearly waiting for something. Keith stares at a corner of the bathroom to avoid his gaze. Even after drinking water, his mouth still tastes like petals.

Eventually, Keith says, “Sorry.”

“Sorry?”

“I coughed in your face. I didn’t—I—my bad.”

“Yeah, didn’t appreciate that much, but my brothers have done worse so I’ll survive. Don’t worry about me.” Lance levels him with a stare that isn’t unkind. 

Keith puts the glass down. “I’m not trying to neglect my health.”

He’s not.

He’s really not. Keith so desperately wishes to go back to a week ago, when he hadn’t had a single concern about his well-being. Everything has declined so rapidly. His choices have dwindled to a minimal pool. He can choose to die painfully or he can tear his relations and money apart trying to live. Keith doesn’t want to die, but it’s hard to pour his life out of the mold he’s so lovingly created for himself. He’s shaped a nice corner of the world for himself after so many years of loneliness. To go into debt or maybe give up a person he loves—it’s a hard fucking move, okay?

Keith is trying.

He attempts to stuff down the quiet voice reminding him of the third option: that Lance loves him back and that he can live happily ever after. He can have it all.

How could he? Keith’s life doesn’t work like that.

“I didn’t say anything,” Lance says.

“You’re thinking it.”

“I’m thinking,” Lance comes closer. “That you need a hug.”

Please.

“I’m sick,” Keith protests.

“Yeah, not my brightest idea,” he says, “That’s okay. I’ll risk it for the biscuit.”

“You—what—”

“Keith.” Lance spreads his arm as wide as he can in the cramped bathroom.

Slowly, Keith leans towards him. He gives Lance plenty of time to retract his offer and assay how distasteful he truly looks. Lance stays stationary, awaiting. He doesn’t show a single sign of rejection. As Keith lowers his head onto Lance’s shoulder, Lance circles his arms around his back.

Keith shudders. He finds himself holding his breath in anticipation and scolds himself for such a wasteful action after his body has suffered so much.

“Comfy?” Lance asks. His lips move against Keith’s hair as he speaks. It pours trickles of sweet lava down his spine.

“Sort of.”

Lance readjusts. “Better?”

It really isn’t. Keith doesn’t think there’s anything Lance could do to make his body feel comfortable again. The sensation of wrongness follows him around like a persistent cloud.

Still, Keith says, “Yeah.”

He doesn’t want Lance to let go of him. There might not be any way to alleviate his ailments, but parting contact would feel like a plant that’s been grabbed by its roots and ripped out from the dirt that it thrives off of.

Ugh, plants.

Keith doesn’t want to think about that.

Work is dreadful when Keith comes back.

Everything is the same as before. The bright and vibrant sign greets him as he enters the flower shop. Stands of pre-arranged bouquets are kept in the front for customers to browse through. The floors squeaky clean; Shiro must’ve mopped before opening for the morning.

Keith looks at the rows and rows of flowers stuffed in each aisle. So many flowers with different petals, colors, and meanings. There’s roses, tulips, peonies, and carnations. Daisies, hyacinths, begonias, and snapdragons. They present before him like an awaiting crowd expecting a performer. Keith is their entertainer.

He wonders what they’d taste like coming up his throat.

Each flower has a different shape and softness. Something colossal like a sunflower wouldn’t even make it up his throat—it’d grow through his body and kill him by first bloom. Roses would cause a painful death, with brittle thorns sharp enough to pierce his organs and get snagged in his airway on the way up. A dahlia would let him live, but it’s far too bulbous. Honestly, Keith’s been lucky with the flowers that have chosen him so far. He feels oddly grateful looking at the array of deathly options before him.

“Keith,” Shiro calls out. He’s behind the counter—when did he get there? “How long are you going to stand there for?”

“Sorry,” he says. Keith shrugs off his jacket and throws it in an empty crate hidden from the customer’s view. He already has his apron on.

Shiro ignores his apology. “Did you go to the doctor’s?”

“I spoke to them.”

Keith did. On the phone for a brief two minutes before he panic-hung up. Shiro doesn’t need to know that.

“What did they say?”

“To keep an eye out for if it happens again.” The doctor did say that. Honestly, they sounded less informed than he was. They kept urging him to visit a specialist and do scans in hopes that someone more knowledgeable might help better. It’s understandable, but the nearest specialist for this stupid, fucking disease is located forty miles away and Keith sold his motorcycle ages ago, leaving him with no way to get there. The call ended up being a waste of time.

“Okay. Are you keeping an eye out?”
“Yes, Shiro.”

“Has it happened again?”

Keith rolls his eyes. “Oh my god. No, Shiro.”

He backs off a bit. “Just asking. Adam sounded worried when he told me about it.”

“My bad.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Shiro says, “I’m honestly proud of you for taking off from work because you’re sick. Thought you’d trudge through it.”

“Yeah, well.” Keith shrugs. “I can’t be getting everyone else sick.”

Skipping work hadn’t been a choice—his body physically couldn’t leave the bed the day after he coughed up the first few petals. It was as if a nail had been hammered into the center of his chest in the middle of the night. Keith stayed pinned to the bed all day. He could hardly lift his head. He couldn’t eat, drink water, or go to the bathroom. He was alive but stationary, living like a vegetable until his body agreed to peel itself off the mattress.

“Take a break if you need to, okay?” Shiro says.

“Okay.”

Shiro disappears into the office. His lack of presence shouldn’t make a difference, but it leaves Keith alone with all the flowers. Really, why do they have so many? They can’t be selling all of them before they wilt.

It gets worse when customers come in.

Keith’s cough hasn’t acted up all morning, but he doesn’t trust it not to kickstart at any moment. He knows it’s waiting to catch him when his guard is down. Keith makes sure not to breathe too deeply or think too much about Lance. He hardly dares to open his mouth, afraid that unsealing his lips will allow everything to spill out.

Keith gets restless as the hours pass. He sits at the register, catching up on assignments that he has missed. The problem sets aren’t enough of a distraction. Keith needs to do something. He needs to move around. He paces around the office when Shiro goes out for his lunch break. Even that doesn’t help. Briefly, Keith contemplates walking up and down the aisles, before shooting the idea down immediately. He doesn’t want to get any closer to the flowers than he has to.

He knows that it’s not himself that’s causing this. The flowers are fidgeting inside of him. They curl their petals in and out and sway their leaves from side to side. They must be preparing to shoot up again.

Keith weighed himself last night. He felt heavy and leaden, like he could sink to the ground at any time. He stood at the same weight as always, even when he knew it was reading incorrectly. Keith is heavier—the flower has added to his total body mass. It gets larger and its roots unravel deeper. He knows it must add to his total body weight. Despite that, the scale refused to budge the number upwards no matter how many times Keith reset it. It must be faulty.

Another flower must be coming out soon. It’s been too long.

What will it be? What else represents his affections for Lance? Will it be the evening primrose of silent love with its fragile and simple structure or will he spit out a raunchy, red orchid that mocks his private desires? Will Keith live past this episode?

Keith grips the counter top. He hates this place. He hates how it's getting to him, although he doubts he’d fare any better elsewhere. The store flowers murmur amongst each other and place deriding claims on who gets to hurt Keith first. They watch his pain with amusement. They know what might hurt him the most—they’ve watched him flirt with Lance and make him bouquets in this very store time and time again. The one inside knows the most. It knows what he thinks. It feeds off of how he feels.

Keith doesn’t want to go through coughing up a flower again. His heart races at the thought of that amount of hurt. His body overheats instantly. He feels like a prisoner awaiting his impending execution. He is—that’s what Keith is doing, isn’t it? He’s just waiting around to die. The flowers dangle him over the dark abyss again and again, showing him how easy it’d be for him to fall in. They taunt him with suffocation, dizziness, and fever. They test the constraints of his body before it can snap to no longer exist.

He fumbles for his phone. He has to end this once and for all.

Lance

I need to tell you something

Keith doesn’t care how it sounds. He doesn’t care that it’s selfish of him to dump his feelings on Lance before keeling over and dying. It’d traumatize the poor boy. But Keith’s death in general would traumatize him, so what does it matter if he makes things worse while he’s alive?

?

wsp

His hands shake. How does he even say it? Does a confession count if its done over text? How will he know if it works? Will the flowers simply crumble and vanish? Will it leave any permanent destruction in his lungs? It’s unfathomable how unaware Keith is of the mechanisms of his own body. 

He’s torn between whether or not he should ask Lance to come to the shop when a customer walks up to the register.

“Just this, please.” They place an intricate bouquet on the table between them and Keith.

A pastel array of larkspurs peer up at him.

Keith snaps his head up to meet the customer’s eyes. Do they know? How did—it can’t be a coincidence that the same flower stem Keith achingly pulled out of his mouth a few days ago is stalking him outside of his own body. Sure, the color is off. The one Keith coughed up was a dark blue. Lance’s color. These don’t match, but that doesn’t change what they are.

Had the flower called out to the customer? Is it trying to remind him to stay wary?

Keith rings them up. He can’t even speak as he hands the customer their receipt. Even after they’re gone, after the larkspurs have been moved off the table, Keith can’t stop staring at the spot which they laid on. He can’t stop shaking.

The register—it smells like larkspur. Reeks of it. Keith hasn’t ever had a strong nose and in a flower shop, all scents mesh together. But this specific bouquet had left an odor. None of the other flowers bought before had, but the larkspur does. It didn’t even touch the counter. It was covered by waxy kraft paper. But Keith can smell it. He’s so sure. A fresh aroma wafts around, the same one Keith couldn’t rid his mouth of even hours after spitting out the petals.

He grabs a cleaning wipe without thinking about it. His messages with Lance remain forgotten. This stifling smell possesses his mind.

It’s the flowers. It’s always the flowers. They’re trying to draw him away from a cure by tossing these minor yet persistent issues in front of him. They want to watch Keith chase his own tail and waste his time as the clock ticks down.

Keith scrubs at the table so hard it hurts his fingers. He covers the whole length of the counter, the cashier, and the cabinets beneath him. He goes for a second wipe when Shiro comes by.

“What happened?” Shiro inquires.

“Spill,” he lies.

Shiro accepts it. He leaves. Keith grits his teeth and scrubs on. His phone stays untouched.

It’s closing time when the coughs show up again. Just like the first time, they start off simple. Tiny puffs of air expel from his mouth and nose. Keith tries to resist it, but that only serves to make it worse. His throat itches in anticipation and he drinks water to soothe it. All his actions are in vain. Drinking water won’t alleviate any of Keith’s suffering. There’s nothing he can do to stop what’s coming. He’s been tied to the tracks and can only watch as the train's headlights become brighter and closer.

Keith breathes raggedly. He doesn’t want to die. It all boils down to that, doesn’t it? He doesn’t want to collapse on the store’s floor with petals falling out of his mouth and a plant lodged in his throat. It’s an awful image; Keith pictures Shiro or Coran opening up the store in the morning and seeing his limp body through the glass door. Lance would come over to visit during his break and have his heart shatter from the news of losing a friend. He’d have to text all of their friends. Poor Hunk would cry. Pidge would get mad. He imagines all of them standing at his funeral, dressed in black. He imagines them putting bouquets by his grave.

How ironic.

Even in death, Keith will be followed by these flowers.

He grabs a mop from the corner and starts sweeping the floor. Dying or not, he still has work to do.

Sweeping the floor is a laborious task. Keith grips the mop handle with clenched fingers and pulls it from side to side with slow arms. His shoulders are sore, like he’s rowing a giant boat rather than moving around a slender stick. The mop moves like it’s travelling through thick, sludgy water. Keith hunches over the rod. The floor swims. Tiles blur together. They overlap and fold like the rippling waves of a lake. Keith has the strangest notion to reach out and skim its surface. It looks so liquid—he knows it’s not, but how can he be wrong when it’s right in front of him? How can Keith see so blindly?

His vision is hazy. It slants and turns lopsided, only to straighten once Keith blinks. The blinks are long as well; each time he opens his eyes, it feels like waking up. Keith is confused why he isn’t in bed. He doesn’t understand where he’s standing. This is his workplace and he’s in his apron, but how did he get here? The last time he was here was when he was mopping the floors during closing time, but there’s a blank between then and now.

A mop is in his hands. Where did that come from?

Has Keith fallen asleep at the store?

He blinks. The ground gets closer.

He blinks again. Keith can see the defining grooves between the floor tiles with pristine clarity. They’re shiny and squeaky clean. When did…didn’t he clean the floor forever ago? How are they still wet?

A clatter echoes distantly. It sounds like it came from outside the store.

The store?

Why is Keith at the store? 

He looks around. He’s crouched on the floor, low to the ground. The mop lays a few feet away. His fingers are curled around air, like they were once holding something, but there’s no weight settled between them.

What is happening to Keith? Panic rises in the middle of his disorientation. It splits through the mess of his mind like a deep crack running through his body. How long has he been on the floor? He looks out the window. The sky still carries remnants of sunlight. He hasn’t—Keith isn’t—

He doesn’t know.

He sits on the floor and takes a deep inhale, only to find that he’s unable to. As a matter of fact, Keith’s having trouble breathing in general. Why?

It hits him all at once.

The flowers.

Lance.

The coughing. The petals in his mouth.

The heaviness in his chest and the lethargy that won’t let him go. The expensive surgery costs. The doomed confession he has no choice but to give. The concern in his brother’s eyes. The watchful flowers.

Keith wheezes. “No—no—”

How does he escape this? How does he find a way out?

Keith looks around him like the answer is posted on the wall. All he’s met with are the sinister stares of the flowers. They’re all turned and leaned in towards the aisle, towards him. They’re approaching him. They—

Keith scrambles backwards. He pulls himself to his feet with a great amount of effort.

He needs to get out of here. It’s going to happen again. He needs to find Lance, needs to beg him to—he doesn’t even know what. Lance can either save him or he can die. There’s nothing else to be done.

Keith just doesn’t want to cough up a flower again.

Twice was enough. 

Why does living have to be so painful? Why couldn’t there be any easier option? Dying seems like the better of two options. Regretfully, he wishes the second time had killed him so that he didn’t  have to continue enduring this. Maybe if the flowers kill him this time, it’ll be saving him from further pain. 

No—enough with that. He doesn’t want any of this at all! He doesn’t want to die now and he doesn’t want to wait a few months to die! Keith wants to live. He wants to get a proper job, away from these flowers. He wants to be able to shower his friends with nice gifts. He wants a dog, his very own, that'll love him and spend time with him. Miserably enough, Keith wants a boyfriend—specifically, Lance, but he’s okay compromising that. He’s okay as long as he lives. 

Unfortunately, there seems to be no universe where Lance doesn’t like him back and he survives it. That is the very thing that allows the flowers to consume him.

Damn the flower—Keith can feel it pushing at the top of his chest. When he presses his palm flat against his sternum, he can feel it buzz and vibrate. It’s hard to believe that just on the other side of his flesh and bone, there’s living flora within him. Keith wonders if it’s reaching out to join the rest of the world. It just wants fresh air and sunlight. Killing Keith is only a process of life for it. Either Keith lives or the plant does.

Keith coughs as he makes his way to the counter. He knows the flower is coming. It’s pushing upwards. It’s so slow—doesn’t it want to come out? Why is it taking its sweet time? If it’s got to hurt Keith, it might as well get over with it quickly. Keith knows there’s no swift way to feel this pain; he’ll be crumpled on the ground with minimal capabilities for hours afterwards. He gags gutterly. Oh god. He can feel it. It’s in his throat.

Minutes pass and nothing comes out. Keith continues to cough sporadically. Tiny wheezes build up into a violent hurricane storming into his mouth, only to cool down and subside once more. This rollercoaster loops again and again, easing Keith through slow and wavy bumps before shooting him into the sky and tossing him upside down. He’s nauseous more than he’s short of breath—or perhaps he’s nauseous because he’s short of breath. He hunches over and braces his head against the smooth countertop. He presses it down hard, as if a counterforce will negate the journey of the wispy petals.

The clock ticks on. The click of each second reaches him faintly, like his ears are a million miles away, connected to his brain with a flimsy string that carries minute vibrations. All of Keith’s organs and functions become secondary to his lungs. His eyes—they see blurry and spotty. His hands—they’re numb and cold. His stomach—Keith cannot comprehend any central pain separate from that which pulses in his chest. His body wraps around the flower like a suitcase or a vessel. It exists to provide, to cushion, and to hold. It’s no longer Keith’s own.

Keith chokes. Is it stuck? Has the flower decided to create its home in his throat?

That won’t do—that’ll kill him.

He pictures petals expanding and stretching his windpipes till they burst.

No, no, no.

A feral frenzy overcomes Keith. He flings open the counter drawers. The flower will either stay inside of him or evict out. Keith will either remain in dormant fear and dread or excruciating pain. There can’t be both.

Where is it….

Keith rummages through the drawers with blind hands. He throws tools here and there. Where—

He plucks out a pair of tweezers.

Their sharp ends glint in the light. They’re sharp from lack of use; Keith hardly needs a tweezer when preparing bouquets, but Shiro keeps them in stock anyways. He’s glad for it right now. It’ll come in handy.

With trepidation in his nerves, Keith tilts his head back, opens his mouth wide, and plunges the tweezers down his throat.

He gags immediately. His first attempt to extract the flower was too harsh. Too aggressive. Keith tries again with caution.

He pinches the tweezer lightly as it explores the back of his mouth. Snip! Snip! Metal clinks against metal as Keith is unsuccessful in catching a petal in its sharp jaws. Snip! Where is it?

Keith swears he can feel petals tickling the base of his tongue. Something is there, something velvety and sleek. He’s not wrong. He wouldn’t be in so much pain if nothing was there.

Where is it? Where is it? Keith roams the tweezers as deep as it can go. There’s not much room for it and his throat constricts uncomfortably around the foreign object. Then again, his throat has been nothing but a conduit for foreign life passing through for the past week and a half. Its comfort is null.

He coughs. The tweezers jolt against his throat.

Keith retracts them immediately. “Fuc—” Spit dribbles down his lips. “Fuck.”

 He could cry. He is crying, he realizes belatedly. Tears plop from his chin and seep into the thick cotton of his apron. Keith hadn’t even noticed.

Once the coughing fit passes, Keith attempts a second try at manually prying the flower out of him. He musters as many shuddering deep breaths as he can without becoming lightheaded and brings the tweezers to his lips again.

The flower is still lodged there. He’s sure that if he wedges the tweezer in a little deeper, he’ll catch it good. Maybe he can’t pinch it—maybe he has to skewer it and drag its body out like a hunted prize.

Suddenly, his phone rings.

Keith drops the tweezers. It trills on the floor before laying still. His back pocket continues to buzz with the vibrations from his phone. Who is calling him—Shiro? What does he want?

Keith doesn’t know how to explain to him that he’s still at the store, trying to conjure up a last-ditch attempt to stop himself from suffocating á la flowers. 

What is he doing? What has his life come to?

Keith sighs.

He slowly kneels to pick up the tweezers. It—

Wait.

What—

Keith becomes distinctly aware of the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

How—

How is he breathing?

If there’s a whole flower stuck in his throat or even a feeble petal, that leaves no space in his trachea for air to pass too. Keith knows this, from simple general knowledge, but also from his past experiences where even the tiniest bout of petals caused him to keel over and wither. For him to stay standing, conduct makeshift emergency operations, and breathe—it makes no sense.

Impossible.

Keith can feel the swell in his throat. He can feel the roundness of the flower’s base and its accompanying silken petals curled up around it. It’s there. He’s sure it’s there. 

Keith is sure.

Right.

The buzzing of his phone dies down, only to start up again. Keith ignores the tweezers to pull it out of his pocket.

Lance is calling him.

He’s a wreck. Tear tracks have yet to dry on his face and his voice must be hoarse. He’s lost perception of his own body—who knows how fit he is to partake in a conversation? Still, Keith picks up the phone.

“Helloooooooo,” he hears through the grainy speaker. When Keith says nothing, Lance speaks up again. “Hello?”

“Hi.” Oh, Jesus Christ. He sounds like shit.

Keith sounds like he’s been poking around his throat with tweezers. He hopes Lance doesn’t pick up on it.

“You texted earlier. Ominous as hell, by the way,” Lance says, “I need to tell you something. And then you say nothing. Who even does that? Like, who—”

“Lance.”

Keith is so tired.

So, so tired.

His interruption is quickly heeded. “What?”

“Would you…” How does Keith even say this? “Do you ever think about dating?”

“Dating?”

“Like…love?” Keith is struggling.

“Love?”

“Yeah.”

Lance is silent. And then: “Sure, I do. Why?”

“I don’t—” He’s a coward. “I don’t know…”

Fresh tears well up in his eyes like rising tides. Keith is going to do it. He’ll bare his feelings to Lance. It’s not a tough choice to confess or die. Keith could sing of his love for Lance for days on end. He’s so sweet and funny. He’s beautiful. He’s such a bright spot in Keith’s days. It’s more than what he does for Keith, sure he brings him food and compliments him and whatnot, but Keith loves spending time with him more than anything. Loves talking to him. Loves his jokes. Loves the way his touch lingers.

God, this is going to go down as the worst confession in all of history.

There’s nothing in it except for Keith’s selfish desires. Days of daydreaming of romance doing a sweet thing for a sweet boy because that’s what he deserves—they have all gone to waste. Every bouquet he’s spent breaks pouring over have accomplished nothing but haunting him through this dizzying illness. Keith is sure that if his confession falls through, he’ll get to experience the rest of his bouquets visiting his lungs as well.

“I…”

Keith might as well rip off the bandaid.

“I’m…”

He can’t say it.

He can’t. This must be why the fatal Hanahaki disease has chosen him. For all Keith pines and ponders, he’s full of shit. Even when his life is on the line, he struggles to act. The flowers could just look at him and understand that he’s so spineless that he’d let them sprawl through his body and erupt out his mouth like he’s nothing more than a decorative vase.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Lance soothes, “Take your time.”

Time—that’s laughable. Keith doesn’t have much time left.

He hears a muffled honk and the scrape of tires against asphalt on the other side of the line. “Are you driving?”

“Yeah. I’m almost there though. Don’t worry about it—keep talking.”

“Okay.” Keith swallows. Shit. Lance expects him to talk. What is he supposed to say? He regrets reaching out. He’s going to die so shamefully. He’s going to hurt Lance so much.

Hasn’t Keith learned by now? He cannot love gracefully. The feelings in his heart are birds shackled to the cage that is his body. They wish to fly out and be free, but Keith can only drag them down through mud and dirt. Everytime someone comes near him, they get tangled in the chains of his despair.

Keith tries again.

“I’m not good with my words.” Tears trickle down his face. “Not really. And I wanted to say this differently. I really did, I promise. You deserve a lot. You—you deserve more. And I mean, I hope you like being friends with me, but—I, uh—” His sentences start tripping over each other as he speaks faster. He’s panicking. “I like being friends with you too. I’m not saying—I’m—you’re great. Really great. I just need—”

This is a mess. Keith isn’t making any sense; he’s talking in circles.

“Keith,” Lance says, “Take a deep breath.”

“Okay.”

“Did you do it?”

Keith takes a second to compose himself to the best of his capabilities. He wipes his tears with his sleeves and takes a shaky inhale. Car headlights flash across the store windows. It’s nighttime already? “Yeah.”

“Cool,” Lance announces, “Because I’m at the shop.”

That catches Keith off guard. “What?”

“Come out. I’m here.”

“You—you drove here?” Keith sputters. “Why?”

“Because you’re having a breakdown and you need to tell me something and there’s no way I’m leaving you alone for this.”

“How did you know I’m not at home?” Keith asks, incredulous.

“I didn’t,” Lance confesses, “I swung by there first. Then I called you.”

Keith’s heart beats out of his chest. He’s in no state to be seen right now and—oh god, if Lance comes into the store, he’ll know. He’ll see the disarray and he’ll figure out how gross Keith is. He’s already been witness to one of his outrageous coughing fits; Keith was lucky he got off the hook with that one. What’s Lance going to think now?

He clutches at his hair. It doesn’t even matter. He’s worrying about all the wrong things. Lance is going to find out anyway because Keith is going to tell him. He will tell him. Right now. In person.

Keith unties his apron and tosses it onto a nearby chair. He trudges to the door with slow and heavy feet.

Indeed, Lance’s car is parked right in front of the store. He looks up from his phone and waves at Keith through the windshield. “Hey,” he says on the phone, “fancy seeing you here.”

Keith could cry just looking at him. He doesn’t. “Hi,” he says quietly.

“Happy to see me?”

“I suppose.” Keith laughs wetly.

He walks around to the passenger seat door and opens it. “Hey.” Seeing Lance’s smile gives him confidence—Lance isn’t immediately repulsed upon looking at his face. Keith gives him a wavering grin back.

“Come in, come in,” Lance says in person. He hangs up the phone. His voice sounds so crisp when he’s not hearing it over a phone call.

Keith slides into the car. He fidgets with the seatbelt before ultimately letting go of it.

Now that they’re in person, Keith has to talk again.

To be honest, Keith just wants to talk normally with him. Not just to evade his imminent confession, but to talk for the sake of talking. He wants to ask Lance about his day and all the little things he did throughout it. He wants to hear about his classes. His clubs. The annoying traffic holding up his commute.

“How was your day?” he asks.

Lance makes a so-so motion with his hand. “Alright. Long.”

“And you still came out to see me?”

“Obviously,” Lance says.

“You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

Keith doesn’t know what to say to that. It makes his nerves tighten and fizzle. His emotions are volatile; Lance’s sweet words soar them through the sky, only for them to swoop and plummet at the reminder of what he’s here to do.

“Thank you,” Keith says quietly.

He doesn’t know what specifically he’s thanking Lance for—there’s so much he carries a deep gratitude for. Lance gave his friendship a chance even after months of withstanding Keith’s choleric attitude. At first, he chalked up the switch up to Lance’s incontrovertible, gregarious nature, but he soon realized Lance was seeking him out as equally as he was—Keith has to thank him for that too, for that reciprocation. Keith has spent many friendships unable to ascertain the scope of its one-sidedness. With Lance, it has never been like that. Lance, who is boisterous in all his truths and sanguine in the face of adversity. Even now, as he sees Keith’s woes painted blatantly across his face, he remains with a gentle, understanding smile. His character has always been admirable from all angles. Love could never escape him.

“I have to tell you something,” Keith confesses.

Lance nods. “I’m all ears.”

“I’m…you’re my friend. You’re a really good friend and I’ve always, always appreciated you. You’re super cool and nice. You’re there for me—just like right now.”

The more Keith speaks, the easier the words pour out. It’s not as difficult to confess when he’s away from the rows of bouquets in the store.

At the same time, he’s aware he’s getting closer and closer to confirming his potential demise. Should Lance reject him, Keith will have confirmed his own death sentence. He’ll have to step out of the warmth of Lance’s car and succumb to the whims of the watchful flowers of the shop. He’ll become consumed wholly.

It’s a bit like gambling.

If it works out, he lives. If not…

“I’ve been scared to say this. You know I’m not the best with my words or with people. I used to suck horrendously when it came to people. I’m better now—but that’s not the point.” Keith is rambling. He never does that. It’s like every thought he’s had about Lance for the past years is bursting out of his mind. The dam has broken.

If Keith is confessing, he’ll say everything. He won’t take the coward’s route.

The disease will not take this from him.

“You’re so beautiful and sincere. You’re funny—really fucking funny. I’ve always found you to be that way, even if I used to deny it. You—you-you’re smart. Really fucking smart and you don’t even know it. I miss having class with you because you’d try so hard for every single thing and,” he pauses to breathe, “It was oddly motivating. Like, being around you is so, it’s so—”

Throughout his entire tirade, Lance has not interrupted even once. He stares at Keith with wide eyes.

“And you actually visit me. Like, like you care for me or something. You’re such a good friend. You check up on everyone—even Coran. You’re always reaching out and making people feel cared for. You’re—I can’t say you’re perfect—you still annoy me, but I guess I’m crazy because I like that too? It’s a good thing. You annoy me. I want you to annoy me. I miss it when you don’t. Isn’t that so weird?”

“A little bit,” Lance agrees, “But continue.”

That asshole. How could Keith have been scared of confessing? Lance is evidently enjoying this.

“Fuck off.” Keith rolls his eyes. “You’re handsome. Really handsome. I’m not sure if you even notice, but I stare at you a lot. It’s because you’re pretty.”

“I thought you wanted to fight, or something.” Lance is grinning. He’s grinning? Holy shit, Keith might not die. And holy shit—

Adrenaline fuels him. “I used to want to fight you, but I also found you handsome back then too. It used to piss me off how good looking you are. And, you know what? I—damn it. I’m embarrassing myself too much, now. I’m done.” Keith looks Lance dead in the eyes. “I like you. No, that’s wrong. I love you.”

Keith waits with baited breath.

He waits.

And waits.

And waits. 

“Keith,” Lance finally speaks up, “I…”

Keith might die of a heart attack. Lance might kill him before the flowers do. He clings to every word coming out of Lance’s mouth. He is the judge who decides his verdict. Keith’s duty is done; he has pleaded his case. Now, his life is out of his hands. There is nothing more he can do but wait.

“I can’t believe you beat me to a confession, dude. Not fair!”

Lance punches Keith in the shoulder.

Keith barely feels it because he’s too busy processing Lance’s words.

Because he…

He…

Keith beat him to a confession.

He swallows thickly. “What?”

“Yeah dude,” Lance complains, “I was gonna do it sometime soon. Maybe within the month? Depending on my guts. Augh, I’m so mad, I’m—wait. No, I’m not. Who am I kidding? This is great news!”

So much is ongoing. It takes a tumultuous amount of effort to keep track of it all. His mind is a whirlwind filled with questions for Lance, for his body, and for the route of his life that he desperately wants to rerail. Have the flowers in his lungs disintegrated? Keith reaches his for his throat to feel the lump he was so convinced was there half an hour ago, but he gets sidetracked by what Lance said. He wanted to confess—he likes Keith back? What was he going to confess? Keith has to know for sure.

He can’t get his hopes up yet.

It may be selfish of him, but he has to hear it.

“You…like me?” Keith asks with caution.

“Like you?” Lance reels back. “Dude, I’ve been in love with you since we’ve met.”

“You-you—”

“Bet you didn’t see that coming, huh?”

Keith doesn’t even know what to say. He feels so much, so, so much. His chest is full to the brim and for the first time in a while, it’s not because of the flowers growing inside of him. He’s bursting at the seams with overflooded emotions. His blood is pumping and his heart is beating and he’s breathing. He’s breathing well. Regularly. So regularly that he hadn’t even noticed it. All the ticks and shifts in his breathing cycle that Keith had grown used to over the past week and a half have all disappeared.

Keith thumps his chest a few times. There’s nothing. No pain.

He coughs. His throat is sore, but his coughs aren’t dragging anything out of his body.

His body is light. Should Keith step out of the car, he might just float up into outer space.

Nothing alien exists within him.

Nothing at all.

Keith is free.

He bursts into tears.

“Hey—woah! Woah there. Uh,” Lance blabbers, “Keith? Dude—I mean, babe? Keith?”

Keith surges forward and throws his arms around him. The center console pushes against his stomach awkwardly, but he doesn’t care. He buries his face against the soft fabric of Lance’s hoodie.

“I just need a minute,” he whispers.

He’s too relieved to be embarrassed by his sorry state. Tears of joy? That’s nothing compared to the pitiful existence he had been living as mere moments ago.

“Take your time,” Lance says. He strokes his hands up and down Keith’s back.

Lance holds him for a very long time. His shoulders must be stiff by now. Hugging isn’t out of their nature, but to touch each other for this long? Keith must be dreaming.

When the last of his tears empties out of his desiccated eyes, Keith withdraws. Delightfully, he notices that Lance’s hands haven’t left him, even with the gap between them. His fingers roam the plains of his back and the mounds of his shoulders like they are native to his skin; to peel them off would be a devastating displacement.

Keith doesn’t let go of him either. He keeps his palms on his chest, right above Lance’s beating heart.

“I have more to tell you,” Keith admits. “I didn’t want to tell you before. I was scared to tell you before.”

It’s humiliating to admit. Keith’s fears seem weightless now. His confession had grandly assuaged the turmoils rolling in his brain. They spin about now, but it is simply the tail ends of departing storms that dally around. His mind is clear, for the most part.

Lance nods. “What’s up?”

“I had Hanahaki disease.”

“Like…” Lance trails off. “The one from the movies? With the flowers and shit?”

“Yeah.”

Lance pales.

“Keith,” he sighs. His tone is coated in thick disappointment. It oozes chagrin.

He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what Lance will say—that’s the real question. An initial elaboration might’ve been better. Keith’s affinity for laconic speech works against him time and time again.

It descries upon him that fate might tie him to the rare—very, very rare—case in which Keith survives the disease, yet lives alone. It is not a complete impossibility for two people to love so deeply that a disease intertwines them and yet, something that surmounts their affection is quick to reduce it to rubble. Lance may love him, but love is susceptible to transformation. His feelings are all but stagnant. For Keith to aver about his disease—he’s asking for too much acceptance from Lance. It’s an overimposition. It’s a burden on him—perhaps not anymore, but Lance’s confession itself was a helping hand he unknowingly extended.

“That’s a lot, dude.”

Keith bows his head down. “I know.”

He doesn’t think Lance is going to leave him over this. He knows. Lance’s love isn’t such a shallow pool of water that he’d dip his toes in and decide he’d rather bathe elsewhere.

Keith wouldn’t be surprised, given the course of many events in his life, if this blooming thing between them is just as ephemeral as everything else he has lost.

“Are you okay?” Lance asks.

“Maybe. I’m not—”

“Is that why you looked like shit last week?” he interjects. “Er—sorry. You weren’t ugly or anything, you’re never ugly, you just…” Lance clears his throat. “Sorry. You can talk.”

“It’s okay.” Keith chuckles. “I felt like shit too. It’s only been a bit since I got the disease and I think it’s gone now. So it’s okay. I’m doing fine now.”

“Yeah but you probably weren’t an hour ago.”

“That’s in the past, it’s not—”

“You—” Lance points a finger at him. “need a spa day. And a doctor’s check up.”

“O…kay?” 

Keith’s not quite sure what he’s agreeing to. He knows Lance has his own niche of self care knowledge and hobbies. He’s never indulged himself in it, but if Lance is to offer, who is he to deny himself?

Keith’s gut churns at the mention of a doctor’s appointment. He doesn’t want to go, only for scans to show lingering signs of anomalies. The truth is that the disease is so under-researched that each case could bring newfound insight to the table. He doesn’t know that, even if he’s alive, whether it did irreversible damage that he can’t yet feel.

He’ll go to the doctor, though. It’s not as expensive with the stakes lowered. And even though he’s terrified, nothing is as scary as it had been before.

Keith spills everything to Lance late at night when they’re at his apartment.

Lance drove him home and insisted on accompanying him inside. He made a beeline for the fridge when they first arrived. Now, he lounges upon Keith’s bed with a bag of his chips while Keith cleans up the tornado that swept through his room. It’s exhausting to speak, clean, and move around all at once, but every time Keith stops for a break, he gets restless. His body is filled to the brim with energy and disbelief. He can’t believe it. He can’t believe he’s not going to die. Keeith had been so sure that he would. He can’t believe that Lance likes him back. Doesn’t—

He swears Lance has been dating around.

And the bouquet.

His bouquet. 

“Oh yeah,” Keith says as he stuffs dirty laundry into a bin. “How come you took my bouquet?”

“Your bouquet?” Lance raises his eyebrow. “Oh! You haven’t been over in a minute, have you? It’s sitting on my kitchen counter right now. Great centerpiece.”

Oh.

It didn’t even occur to Keith that Lance might want it for himself.

“I thought you took it for a date,” he blurts out.

“A date!” Lance cries. His mouth hangs open in shock with a chip held midway to it. “Wait, is that what you were asking me about? Last week?”

“Maybe…” Keith scratches the back of his head.

“Aw, Keith!” Lance flings himself over the bed. “Come here. No, no. Come here.” He crawls over to where Keith stands and latches a hand around his forearm. He drags Keith onto the bed.

“Guh,” Keith says.

“Hey cutie,” Lance says, “What’s a guy like you doing around here?”

“I live here.”

He manoeuvres himself so that he’s peering up at Lance. It gets him a serene smile in return, which softens the ambience of his room despite its incessantly flickering, industrial lighting. Keith relishes the way their bodies are touching in so many spots: Lance’s thigh against the back of his head, his feet crossed under his back, and their hands intertwined. Has his bed always been so comfortable?

“I’m going to hold you here forever,” Lance says, and wraps his arms around Keith’s torso. “This is a prison now. You can’t escape.”

Well, Keith’s not complaining about that. “How terrible,” he drones.

“You jest now, but wait till you get sick of me. I’m gonna—”

“I could never get sick of you, Lance,” Keith sighs, “I love you.”

“Oh um, well. That’s—” Lance chokes. “Rad, dude.”

Keith grins. “Rad?”

“Shut up!” Lance pushes him away. 

“What happened to not escaping the prison?”

“Oh fuck, you’re right. Hey, get back here—” He lunges for Keith and draws him close once more. Lance, ever such a pinnacle of balance, falls on top of Keith during his tomfoolery. He lays on top of Keith, chest to chest, and the pressure doesn’t even hurt. Keith feels over the moon. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt so light.

“Hi,” Lance says.

“Hi.”

“I’m so glad you didn’t die of the evil flower disease.”

“Me too.” Yes. Keith is so glad. So fucking glad.

He pictures his future unfolding in front of him. Going on dates with Lance, getting into grad school, finding a job at a less strenuous place, and getting an apartment. Getting a dog and walking it around the park, hand in hand with Lance. Buying a motorcycle and keeping it for real. Hanging out with his friends.

Keith sees the future ahead of him, and it glows brightly.