#Genuinely that made my blood run cold for a sec when I realised

[cripplecryptid]

I just realised i forgot my fucking earplugs 😭😭😭😭 a cold chill just went up my spine 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

[aethelar]

If there are meanings to the various plants Graves hacks and coughs out of his lungs, he doesn’t care to know them. He knows enough, obviously, to recognise them as a sign of unrequited love and to know that they are not, by themselves, fatal, but otherwise, ergh. He’s not going to pore over books dissecting the language of flowers to divine the true meaning behind what he spits into his kitchen sink. This one’s red and crumpled in a soggy mess, does that mean his heart’s in pain from his passionate yearning - no, it means the fucking twig it’s attached to scraped his throat and came out bloody, and it’ll be a hell of a lot more than just crumpled by the time he’s finished setting fire to it.

It’s disgusting. Everything about it is disgusting. The stringy stems catching on his teeth, the way he coughs and it comes out lumpy with just-opening buds, the taste of fucking pollen that he can’t scrape off his tongue, it’s disgusting. And! That’s before you even factor in that, apparently, Graves’ feelings are literally choking him he knew the damn things were dangerous who in the seven hells ever thought they were a good idea. Being slowly throttled by your emotions wasn’t romantic in the great oil paintings and love stories of the past and it isn’t romantic now. It’s a pain. A disgusting, foul-tasting, inconvenient - a fucking foot long branch, are you serious, all thin and delicate and dotted with tiny white flowers but that doesn’t change the fact that Graves had to deepthroat a fucking branch and then somehow hide the evidence once he hacked coughed and choked the damn thing out.

So no. He is not enjoying Newt Scamander’s extended stay at MACUSA to help sort out the beast laws. Fuck off.

“Oh, Mr Graves!” Newt says, with his stupid floofy hair and his stupid lopsided smile. “I made you coffee.”

“It’s just Graves,” Graves grumbles for the eighth time, dropping his coat over the back of his chair with a barely-hidden sigh of relief. It’s a bitching coat, but it’s also not December anymore, and as he rolls up his sleeves and debates undoing another button at his collar he thinks, ruefully, that it might be time to move into more seasonally appropriate jackets.

No, he decides. Some berk impersonated him all through winter. He didn’t get the chance to wear his bitching coat when the weather was cold, so he’ll wear it now to make up for it. He looks good in black and he’s willing to suffer for fashion, it’ll be fine.

The coffee, when he takes it, is a perfect temperature. It always is. Given that Graves is forty minutes late today (fucking tree in his fucking lungs), this is something of a surprise, and he can’t help the quizzical eyebrow he raises at Newt.

“Magic,” Newt says, fluttering his fingers like an idiot and capping it off with a quirked grin. A stupid quirked grin. With the stupid dimples that come with it. And - the man has freckles, the fuck is Graves meant to do.

“Ta,” he says, slightly strangled, and downs the coffee in one. If he has to chew to swallow the fecking bouquet that appeared in his mouth in reaction to Newt’s everything, that’s no business of anyone else’s, and he refuses to let anything show on his face that might suggest the coffee was less than perfect. Newt’s got a lot better at making coffee in the past few months. It hasn’t tried to climb out the mug in weeks, Graves doesn’t want to discourage this sort of progress.

Nor, later, does he want to discourage the way Newt leans forward, speaking too fast and caring too much as he lays out the things they’ve achieved and the plans he wants to put in action, or the way Newt flicks his gaze back to Graves for support then launches into a passionate response to some complete moron’s doubting skepticism.

He does that a lot. Look to Graves for support. Grindelwald left his mark, and though his aurors know it wasn’t him, the easy trust they had in him is... not gone. If it was gone, then so would Graves be, it would hurt too much to stay. But it’s not so easy anymore for them to remember that Graves has their backs and will keep them safe.

Or maybe the easy trust in his intentions is still there, but the glaring evidence that he couldn’t keep himself safe makes it irrelevent. Either way.

Newt, though, Newt never had a relationship with him for Grindelwald to twist and turn sour, and Newt never falters in surprise when the new Graves snaps and hurts and bites down the things he wants to say and struggles to hold onto the person he used to be and - not that Graves does, not all the time, he’s fine, honestly genuinely he’s fine, he’s just. Finer. When Newt is around and doesn’t expect anything from him that he doesn’t remember how to give.

What Newt expects is for Graves to believe in what he’s trying to do. What Newt expects is for Graves to point out the impracticalities and the legal obstacles and work with him to help him through them. What Newt expects is for Graves to down whatever foul concoction Newt is passing off as coffee and tilt his head and listen when Newt speaks too fast and admit that maybe, maybe Newt doesn’t care too much, maybe the system was wrong and Graves was wrong and Graves could stand to care a little more.

Newt only expects it because that’s what Graves does. It’s different.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he says, and goes to vomit out a fucking florist in the mens’ room.

“I thought you dipshits were meant to be in my lungs,” he complains, wincing as the bile burns his throat. He’s on his knees, one hand braced against the wall, and even when he stops retching he takes a moment before he tries to stand. He gets as far as an unsteady crouch before light-headedness threatens to overbalance him and he has to hold onto the cistern to stay upright.

“Breathe,” he growls, frustration and pain in his voice as he fights the urge to grip his chest. It feels tight, like heartburn, like thorns growing around his ribs, and it’s a struggle to get enough oxygen around the forest growing inside him. “Fucking - breathe, moron.”

“Graves?” a voice asks through the door. It’s Newt. Of course it’s Newt. None of Graves’ aurors would track him down if they were worried about him. It’s not like they did before, why break a habit.

“Give me a sec,” he says, and tries to keep his footsteps even as he staggers to the sink and washes his hands. In the mirror, there’s blood smeared at the corner of his mouth, and he gets rid of it with an angry swipe of his wrist. “I’m fine. Sorry. Bad timing.”

“No, it’s ok,” Newt says, still waiting outside the door. “You don’t need to apologise.” He pauses, then, hesitantly, “It’s ok if you’re not fine too, you know.”

Graves stops. Hands on the edge of the sink, shoulders hunched, head hanging low. The tap is still running. He can feel a tickle at the back of his throat but he’s exhausted and his ribs hurt and he closes his eyes and ignores it. “I know,” he says, coming out thickly around the flower on his tongue.

In the most romantic of the stories, the hero holds out, refusing to admit his feelings until he’s all but dying from the disease. The flowers aren’t fatal by themselves, but lungs aren’t meant to hold a garden. Then he swoons, or faints, or collapses dramatically in his true loves’ arms; they realise the truth and music swells in the background, and with tears in their eyes as they understand that only their love can save the hero, they kiss him.

Curtain falls. Lights dim. Flowers bloom. End story.

What, Graves would like to know, is romantic about telling someone their choices are to love you or see you die. It hardly seems fair. More like a thinly veiled threat, and he will not make a murderer out of Newt.

He opens his mouth and drops the flower - single, large, white - onto his palm, then crumples it in his fist and throws it in the bin. “I know,” he says again, once his mouth is empty and he can talk. It comes out tireder than he means it to and he shakes himself, squaring his shoulders before he opens the door.

Newt frowns at him in poorly-hidden concern, but doesn’t press it. “They called a break,” he says instead. “Do you want a coffee?”

“Yeah,” Graves says, allowing himself a faint, resigned smile. “I’ll make you a tea.”

And. That’s ok. It’ll have to be ok. The flowers are resistant to any spells or potions he tries to control them with so he works on his feelings instead, if they’re the source of the problem. He’s not sure how effective it is, but if he tells himself that he doesn’t love Newt, then maybe he won’t. Or - if he tells himself that if he loved Newt, then surely he’d respect the fact that Newt apparently doesn’t love him in return, and therefore as a sign of Graves’ love he should stop loving Newt -

He tells himself a lot of things. The plant life falls more to flowers and less to trees, which is a bonus, but it doesn’t stop coming. Graves is short of breath more days than not, and he’s losing weight from both the lack of appetite and the amount of time he spends throwing up. That’s ok too. He rearranges his schedule to put himself on less field duty and give himself more paperwork, and if that gives himself more time working in the office with Newt, then that’s just another bonus in life.

The fact that he has to give up his coat is not, but even with cooling charms it’s too heavy and it leaves him flushed and dizzy and lightheaded from the heat. Newt’s coffee progresses from mostly-liquid to mostly-drinkable and Graves likes to think he’s managed the correct balance of tannin and sugar in Newt’s tea, and life goes on. Quiet days, working on the beast laws in companionable silence, sitting to the side in meetings so Newt can take centre stage and shine. Tilting his head with a fond smile and watching the way he waves his hands as he talks too fast and cares too much about the latest creatures in his case. His freckles. The way his excited grins gives him dimples. The increasing worry in the way he frets over Graves and makes sure Graves knows he’s there and just waiting to be allowed to help.

Graves doesn’t allow him. Hanahaki is insideous. Love me or kill me is a horrible thing to say to someone. Maybe if the damn flowers weren’t there he’d’ve done something, but. The damn flowers are there. They come thicker, and faster; he wakes up wheezing in the night and he holds the bannister when he goes up stairs, he stops bothering to eat because everything tastes of pollen and he’s pretty sure Newt’s hiding nutrient potions in his coffee, he’s nearly there with the beast laws and he drags himself through because his fucking feelings are going to kill him but at least he can tie off his loose ends before he goes -

“Graves,” Newt says, leaning towards him with panic in his eyes. His voice echoes. Graves’ chest burns, thorns and trees and clamping vines; he’s coughing but he can’t - “Graves. Graves,” and fuckdamnit, Graves clamps his mouth shut and refuses to let this be a fucking romance because it’s not romantic to spit weeds in your kitchen sink and wipe the blood off your chin it’s disgusting -

He hacks, coughs, chokes; he heaves and dry heaves; dizzying white spots overtake his vision and his lungs give in; the last thing he sees is Newt.

He wakes up.

He wakes up, and his chest feels... unfamiliar. It’s been full of plants for so long, he’s forgotten what it’s like to breathe. He pushes himself up, achingly, slow, holy fuck had he really lost that much muscle that even this is a fucking trial, but there’s an exhausted resignation behind his anger.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Newt asks from the uncomfortable metal chair next to Graves’ uncomfortable metal hospital bed. “You nearly died.”

He looks pale. Drawn. Lack of sleep, Graves identifies, though the worry’s been dragging on him for a while.

“I didn’t want you to feel obligated,” he says, stiffly. 

“Obligated?” Newt repeats. “To what, help you? I offered enough times, I thought it was obvious I wanted to. Besides,” and here he starts to get heated, running his hands through his hair in agitation, “You were dying. How did you let it get so bad? Why didn’t you - this has been going on for months, I thought you just didn’t want me to help you. I didn’t realise you were happy doing nothing!”

“Who the fuck else was meant to help? I can’t control it.”

“Who - what? Wait.” He squints. “Graves,” he says slowly. “What did you think was happening?”

Graves hunches his shoulders. The urge to say nothing and try and deflect is ridiculously strong, but he’s not actually five anymore, so. He doesn’t. “I had a damn garden in my ribcage,” he says. “Picking flowers out my teeth like the heroine of a trashy novel.” He fought it as long as he could, and then he couldn’t fight it and Newt was there. Newt saw. And when Graves woke up, Newt was still there, and the flowers weren’t. He hunches his shoulders and hates the tiny part of him that’s glad Newt was a decent human being and didn’t let him die, because there’s nothing romantic in dying to love. It’s shit. Love me or kill me is shit. The whole thing is shit. He didn’t mean to drag Newt into it.

“Hanahaki,” Newt identifies, and fucker, he looks surprised. “You thought it was hanahaki. Graves. It wasn’t hanahaki.”

“I think as the one living through the fecking thing -”

“Graves,” Newt repeats, more insistently. “It was an infection of a parasitic plant you inhaled as a spore that was growing in the lining of your lungs. It wasn’t hanahaki.” And, when Graves just glowers at him dubiously, “Hanahaki is unrequited love. If it was hanahaki...” he hesitates, then braces himself and continues, overly casual and awkward with it. “If it was hanakahi, it would’ve stopped. Um. Months ago. So it wasn’t and you don’t have to worry and if it ever happens again please go to a doctor instead of hiding it?”

Go to a doctor, what’s a doctor meant to do? There’s no spell for a broken - wait. What.

The only way to stop hanahaki is for the other person to love you back.

What.

“Months ago?” Graves croaks out. Newt nods, his awkwardness now highlighted with a blush across his freckled cheeks and the bridge of his nose. “Months. You. Months?”

“I made you coffee,” Newt points out, as though that was supposed to be a defence for the fact that, apparently, Graves’ love hasn’t been unrequited for damn months -

“Do you want to be requited,” he blurts out, because why not, why ever the fuck - this is exactly why he never confessed his feelings, fuck it, do you want to be requited what in the seven hells is he saying. “I mean, if, uh, if you wanted to, um, we could. If. You want?”

Newt ducks his head. Probably to hide his laughter. Why. Why does Graves do these things to himself.

“Yeah,” Newt says, too softly for someone bemoaning the idiot that’s fallen in love them. He looks up through the ridiculous floof his his hair and he’s still blushing, but he’s also smiling, tentative and hopeful and very much not being pressured into anything by a stupid romantic disease. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

“Oh,” Graves manages around the entirely different sort of lightness in his chest. “That’s. Good.”

It’s also an insane kind of whiplash to deal with, and one that might take a while to sink in. He’s learnt both that Newt loves him and that his lungs, apparently, have been infested with spores for the past god knows how long. If Grindelwald did this there will be hell.

He just - spores? Fucking. Disgusting. Spores were meant to produce mushrooms, weren’t they, which might be no less horrifying in theory but at least they’d’ve been easier to bring up than branches.

God, imagine if it were cactuses.

Actually no. Don’t imagine that. What the fuck. Back to Newt loving him, that’s a much better thing to focus on, it’s a delightful thing, it’s, holy shit. It’s.

“You love me,” he says, with that sort of wondering disbelief that comes when something sounds too good to be true. “You’re not just saying it because flowers?”

“You drank the coffee I made you,” Newt says instead of answering. “No one ever drinks the coffee I make them. I can’t make coffee. I can’t believe you drank it.” And, when Graves just looks confused (whiplash, plus he nearly died) he just smiles again and says, “Yes, Graves. I love you and I’m not just saying it because flowers.”

“Oh.” That’s. That’s good. That’s. Yeah. “I think I love you too.”

(thank fuck it wasn’t cactuses)