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nyxi-styx · 5 years ago

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No Air

Fandom: Sanders Sides Ship: M/M, Prinxiety, AKA: Virgil/Roman Words: 2,300 Rating: E for everyone Warnings: hanahaki, body horror? maybe?, blood, difficulty breathing, angst but like... softly. Gently. Tags: unrequited love, but not really, fluff, happy ending, very Princely Roman but also like insecure Roman, Logan and Patton are fatherly and heckin’ concerned Characters: Virgil Sanders, Roman Sanders, Logan Sanders, Patton Sanders, and very briefly, Thomas Sanders A/N: This is my first ever (and maybe only but idk) Sanders Sides fanfic. I hope you all enjoy it. I usually don’t like the hanahaki trope but thanks to a fic by @xpouii, I had an idea that I just needed to get out. So it goes without saying that this was entirely new territory to me both in the hanahaki aspect and the Sanders Sides aspect. Please enjoy! :)

The moment they’d sunk back into the mindscape after discussing the hidden dark sides of Disney films with Thomas, Virgil’s chest felt tight. This wasn’t the typical fearful, anxious tightness he was accustomed to. No, now he was wheezing. Like he couldn’t take in enough air. He sat down on his bed and took a few slow, calculated breaths. It helped some, but it didn’t go away entirely. What was wrong with him? The odd condition seemed to continue to plague Virgil with increasing intensity over the next several months. Each time Thomas summoned him, he kept his words few and his answers brief to avoid gasping in front of him and alerting him to his condition. It wasn’t possible for him to develop severe asthma… right? No. And it wasn’t some standard respiratory illness. Thomas was fine. He felt like he was going crazy. Maybe that was the lack of oxygen to his brain. It seemed that every time Virgil interacted with Roman directly it became harder to breathe. Figures. Of course that pompous idiot is going to be the death of me. The next time Thomas had gathered the four of them for a video, Roman had actually complimented him in front of everyone. Virgil coughed violently and felt something in his mouth. His eyes widened as he closed his lips firmly. It wasn’t bile. It wasn’t saliva. What was it? It filled his mouth and throat, drying both out entirely. Unfortunately, he’d drawn the attention of the other four. “Virge? You okay, buddy,” Thomas asked gently. Virgil nodded and gave a thumbs up gesture before turning his back to the group. He spit whatever was in his mouth into his hand, seeing for the first time that it was a cluster of vibrant red flower petals. He gave a panicked wheeze and immediately sank back into the mindscape away from everyone else. What the hell?! I have to be going crazy. This doesn’t just happen! Flower petals?!

Out of concern, Patton had followed Virgil into the mindscape. “You sure you’re okay there, kiddo?” The father figure reached out and touched Virgil’s shoulder, causing the other to abruptly jerk away from him. It took a moment for Virgil to be able to form the words, the illness making his mouth dry. “Yes,” he snapped at last. “I… I said I’m fine!” Startled, but no less concerned, Patton relented and backed off, returning to Thomas and the others where he was still needed. The flower petals dissolved in Virgil’s hand and he curled up on his bed, pulling his hoodie up as a comfort measure as he continued to struggle to breathe. __

Roman complimented him again and, as if the coughing and flower petals weren’t bad enough, there came a sharp pain. Like hundreds of little needles poking his lungs from the inside out. Virgil was convinced he was going to die. And this was a miserable way to go. How could he even die? He was part of Thomas. Thomas was alive and well… and so were the others. But here he was… miserable every day. The pain and discomfort he was undergoing was clearly visible to everyone else despite his best efforts to hide it. They never pushed his boundaries, however, allowing him space to approach them if he desired.

“Logan, I’m concerned about Virgil,” Patton confided, catching up with the other in the mindscape when neither Roman nor Virgil could hear them.

“Of course you are,” Logan confirmed. “We all are. There is clearly something troubling at hand and either due to his nature or whatever the issue is, he’s hiding his discomfort away from the rest of us. The problem is that without him being willing to open up- unless we are able to see the symptoms for ourselves- we have no way of knowing what it is or how to help him.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Patton fretted, wringing his hands. “I don’t like it. Can we go check on him? Please. I… I know it may be a long shot. But. He needs our help.” Together, they phased through into Virgil’s room, both expecting to hear a snarky and sharp-tongued “Don’t either of you know how to knock?” but instead they heard more aggressive coughing and arrived just in time to watch Virgil stare in horror at the blood-soaked flower petals in his cupped hands.

“Oh my goodness gracious,” Patton exclaimed, causing Virgil to look up at him with wide, terrified eyes. “Oh, kiddo,” he tutted sadly. “I think you’ve got yourself a love sickness. Unrequited love sickness.”

“Wh-what?”

“Specifically, Hanahaki disease,” Logan explained. “It’s a disease caused by unrequited love and pining. Typically, it begins when the patient realizes their affections for another and believes it to be unrequited or one-sided. As it goes unaddressed and untreated, it naturally progresses and worsens. Luckily, you’re not in the final stages yet, though you are in a dire situation. There is hope. The color and/or type of petal can be an indicator of the object of your affections: either their favorite flower or their favorite color. May I?” He approached Virgil tentatively and picked up one of the flower petals, wiping away the blood to confirm that the petal itself was red and not merely stained that way from the blood. “Given that there is blood, I’d guess your lungs and heart may be filled with thorns. These are definitely rose petals, though I think the color alone tells us everything we need to know. I don’t suppose you’ve spoken to Roman about this at all?”

Virgil ignored Patton’s soft, wistful gasp and aggressively shook his head. “No,” he wheezed. “No and please… don’t…” He paused to cough. “...don’t tell him. I… I think it’s a… mistake.” He coughed again, letting petals fall to the floor, rosebuds tumbling after them. “We.... don’t get along. It’s… it can’t be.” “You know sometimes when we like someone, we don’t know how to express that. So… we cover up our emotions by… calling them nicknames or… teasing them. It’s not the nicest or healthiest way to express fondness, but it’s very normal,” Patton explained calmly. “So what your… well, anxiety… might be telling you is the two of you not getting along and Roman not liking you, might really just be a normal case of… playground pigtail-pulling.”

“Apt, Patton. Thank you,” Logan complimented. “We can’t force you to do anything, Virgil, and we certainly don’t want to make you emotionally uncomfortable on top of your physical pain and discomfort, but I do believe you should think it over before it’s too late. If Roman returns your feelings, you can be cured. The other options are to die- you can’t- or suffer for the rest of time. And Thomas will notice something is wrong. You can’t perform your basic function and protect him if you’re entirely incapacitated. We will leave you with that and allow you your privacy.” “You know where we are if you need us, Virgil,” Patton assured him. “And… well, we care about you, darn it! So please… do what’s best for yourself.”

No. No, it just couldn’t be the truth. They had to be mistaken. He didn’t love Roman. And even if he did, Roman most certainly didn’t love him back. There would be no cure for this. He would just have to get used to the feeling of sharp thorns digging into his heart and pressing against the insides of his lungs. He curled up and turned The Nightmare Before Christmas on his TV. It was always a comfort. He pulled his hood up, wheezing as he stifled another cough and tried to just focus on the movie. As always, the movie was comforting… until Sally was wandering the town and the lyrics ‘and does he notice/my feelings for him/when will he see/how much he means to me/I think it’s not to be’ caused poor Virgil’s heart to thump painfully against the vine of thorns in his chest. He wheezed again in panic and coughed up more rosebuds, petals and blood. He’d heard this song scores of times. Why now did it seem so significant?

‘And will we ever/end up together/no I think not/it’s never to become/for I am not the one…’ Virgil’s chest tightened again and he couldn’t stop the tears that slipped down his cheeks, carrying black eye shadow with them. Fuck. They were right. Of course, they’re right. He really was in love with Roman. Against his better judgement, against the odds of everything they’d been through together… his heart belonged to the over-the-top, dramatic, pompous… wonderful, bright, creative, uncertain, dazzling… prince.

Virgil drew his legs up to his chest and put his forehead on his knees, letting the tears fall freely. He felt hopeless. He was going to be stuck this way forever. Once again, he coughed violently. This time, however, he had to manually remove the large obstruction protruding from his mouth. A full rose blossom. This must have been what Logan said was ‘the final stages’. His breaths became shallower. He constantly felt like he was suffocating, breathing through layers of fabric. And mostly, that was true, thought there was nothing over his face. His own feelings were suffocating him, manifesting in painful roses.

Moving became agony within another day, so Virgil elected to lie down and suffer in relative peace. Each breath was labor and the carpet quickly became littered with discarded rose blossoms and buds that he plucked from his mouth with shaking hands and allowed to tumble to the floor. Eventually, he gave up pulling them away. Another always replaced it within moments.

Patton had been stewing ever since they left Virgil after finding out about his condition. He could no longer sit idly by while someone he cared about was suffering. Virgil could be upset all he wanted, but it was the right thing to do. He had to tell Roman. He was certain the prince returned Virgil’s affections anyway. Determined, he set off to tell Roman, taking a very reluctant Logan along with him to explain. “Roman! You need to save Virgil. He’s got the honey-hockey disease and you’re the only one who can cure him!” “Um, that’s Hanahaki, Patton,” Logan corrected gently, only to be met with a confused look from Roman. He sighed, cleared his throat, drew a deep breath, and explained yet again.

“So, what you’re saying is that our grumpy, frumpy little rain cloud is cursed and can only be saved by the kiss of true love from a prince?!” Roman’s face lit up exuberantly at the idea. He was made for this. “A worthy quest. It will be done!”

“Well, not- not really,” Logan de-escalated while Patton shouted, “Exactly!” Logan sighed again, adjusting his glasses with a light air of annoyance. “Your overall idea is not incorrect, Roman, however, it has to be true and genuine romantic love. Unfortunately, friendship is not enough to save him.”

“Worry not,” Roman assured them. “I will save him! With true love’s first kiss!” Valiantly, he strode away from Patton and Logan to go and rescue Virgil; however, as soon as they were out of sight, his knightly facade faded and his insecurity had a vice grip around his stomach. Why? He knew already that Virgil loved him. That much was obvious from the illness Logan and Patton told him of. What if he rejects me anyway? What if he would rather suffer? What if he doesn’t believe me?! He took a moment to himself. He had to put all of that aside. It wasn’t about him. This was bigger than him. Virgil needed his help, consequences be damned.

Roman took a deep breath and pushed on, entering Virgil’s room to find him lying on his back, a large rose blossom grotesquely blooming from his forced open mouth. What a pitiful state to find him in: barely breathing at all, cheeks streaked black from tears redistributing his makeup. The prince approached carefully, reaching deep to find his nerve again. “Virgil,” he called quietly before crouching beside him. As soon as Virgil opened his eyes and made eye contact with Roman, he looked away again, clearly embarrassed at his current state and the fact that Patton had obviously told Roman what was happening.

Undeterred, Roman took Virgil’s hand gently between both of his own. “Oh… my darling raindrop. Such a silly thing to go and get ill over. Of course… of course, I love you too. You are charming in your own strange way. You bring a smile to my face more often than you believe and we make a harmonious and powerful team when needed.” Virgil looked at Roman again, his eyes full of unspoken emotion. Roman smiled at him and softly sang, “For it is plain/as anyone can see... We’re simply meant to be.” He held out the notes on the last two words with a flourish- he couldn’t help himself- and reached up with his free hand, delicately pulling the rose from Virgil’s mouth. He tossed it to the floor and used his thumb to wipe away a trail of blood on the other’s chin. He leaned in and caught Virgil’s lips with his own, softly but earnestly. He kissed him with all of the longing and hidden affection of months past, feeling like he had a lot to make up for. It was his own fault, clearly, that Virgil ended up in such a poorly state to begin with.

The moment Roman pulled away, smiling bright as the sun, Virgil could breathe openly and clearly for the first time in months. The pain of the thorns vanished, no more petals, no more flowers. Only love.

#prinxiety #hanahaki #fluff #fanfic #virgil sanders #roman sanders #sanders sides #mild angst #logan sanders #patton sanders #cw: blood

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sparxwrites · 6 years ago

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An old fandom friend @stardustandseas asked for some Caleb whump recs, so here!! Have forty eight of my personal favourites (alongside some quality angst-fic because that’s in the general spirit of whump, too). Feel free to reblog this post and add your own faves / plug your own writing! And I’m sure more excellent hurt!Caleb and sad!Caleb will be written in the future, so I may reblog this and add to it at some point.

If one of your fics is listed here and you’d like your tumblr url added to the credits, drop me a message and I’ll try to do so.

(Please check the tags/warnings on the fic itself. I’ve tried to tag for spoilers as best I can - I’m counting spoilers as Caleb backstory stuff and recent [as of August 2018] campaign developments. I’ve not tagged triggers on these, but several involve graphic descriptions of violence, sexual assault, and other similar upsetting things – such is the nature of whump.)

“Betrothed” by MeBeShe (@matt-the-blind-cinnamon-roll) [Caleb/Molly; 70k WIP]

After nearly a decade of war, Archmage Caleb Widogast has brokered a peace with the Xhorasian empire. It comes at the cost of his hand in marriage. They send the Nonagon, leader of their bloodhunters, to marry him. He wasn't expecting a beautiful tiefling. He wasn't expecting Mollymauk Tealeaf.

[A truly delicious mix of slow-burn relationship, sexual tension and pining, and ongoing physical health issues and angst on Caleb’s side. It’s both soothing and emotionally satisfying, it’s currently my “save to read before going to bed” fic, and I love it so much.]

“the mist upon the hill” by BucketofWater (@ereborslionheart) [Caleb/Molly; 80k WIP]

Caleb is a mottled canvas of thin, white lacerations so many that Nott can hardly begin to count them all, she wouldn’t even know where to begin.

Or, the soulmate au where some soulmates share injuries and Caleb is very tired and very sore.

[My other current “save to read before going to bed” fic. It’s got everything – slow-burn, soulmates, angst, Caleb trying to hide his injuries, miscommunication… I also adore this one and honestly, the whump is just so satisfying.]

“Traveling Hearts” by CatKing_Catkin (@pangurbanthewhite) [Caleb/Molly; maybe spoilers?; 117k

A figure from Lucien's past shows up to collect on an old arrangement. When Molly doesn't want to talk business, the stranger takes him and the Mighty Nein for himself instead.

Caleb is only just able to get Jester to safety in time. But when the rest of his friends fall victim to their captor's vampiric thrall, that leaves him trapped and alone against the twisted attentions and easy cruelty of a wizard more powerful than he's ever dreamed of being.

Jester struggles to understand her enemies and make a plan of attack. Her friends are counting on her to save them, even if some of them don't know it anymore, and so she is determined to be the light in the darkness for them and all the people of Tanner's Crossing.

With a little bit of magic and a little bit of research and a whole lot of determination as they fight their own battles, Caleb and Jester might just save their friends before they lose themselves in the bargain.

[I’m… genuinely unsure if anything I could say about this fic would do it justice. Please, please read it if you haven’t already, because I adore everything about it and it’s delightful and stressful and upsetting and plotty and incredibly whumpy aahhh. I’d probably put it in the top ten fics I’ve ever read, which is high praise indeed.]

“The Trauma Cafe” by MeBeShe (@matt-the-blind-cinnamon-roll) [Caleb/Molly; major spoilers; 114k WIP]

There's a cafe that specializes in rehabilitating people with trauma. That cafe was home to Mollymauk Tealeaf. Now it's home to cult survivor Caleb Widogast.

[Another of the big campaign two fics that I suspect is something of a fandom classic by now. It’s less whump and more angst, past whump, and recovery, but I do suspect there might be some whump in the next few chapters. We’ll see. You absolutely have to read it, though, as with the above three.]

“The Mighty Fieber” by hufflepirate (@hufflepirate) [Gen; (major?) spoilers; 13k]

When Caleb gets very sick, the rest of the Nein take care of him. The fever draws some of Caleb's issues to the front, but if Beau can figure out how to use punching for medicinal purposes, she can figure out how to talk about feelings. Maybe. Caleb isn't used to being cared about, but sometimes if it's masked enough, he can navigate it anyway.

[Hey you know how good the “comes down with a fever and people don’t notice at first, and then they do and are really scared by how ill the person is” trope is? This fic is basically Entirely That.]

“starwalker” by ashinan (@ashinan) [Gen; 8k]

Those whose souls are claimed by the Fey are to be feared. Briderall learns this lesson the night Caleb is taken.

[There’s only a little whump in this, but it’s high quality whump, and the rest of the fic is so fucking good honestly. I adore terrifying unknowable eldritch creatures that dote on humans so...]

“Oversharing” by Verity_Kindle [Caleb/Fjord; 7k]

When a spell goes wrong, the group tries to deal with the fallout. Fjord’s biggest concern is for Caleb’s well-being, while Caleb’s is...complicated.

Otherwise titled, Why Magic and Secrets Don’t Mix: The Autobiography of Caleb Widogast.

[Old and now jossed, but I still love it - accidental / uncontrollable telepathy is such a good fic conceit, and this one has it in spades. Somewhat au since this was written with the first few eps of the new campaign, iirc, but I adore it nonetheless.]

“More Than This” by CatKing_Catkin (@pangurbanthewhite) [Gen; spoilers; 22k]

The Empire got a lot more unfriendly towards “unauthorized” mages, after the attack. Molly hadn’t even been aware that “unauthorized” mages were a thing beforehand, but suddenly they were. That was just the way things worked in the Empire, now more than ever, and it was one more thing The Mighty Nein had to roll with.

(Or, post Episode 12, the Mighty Nein get in trouble with the law by virtue of being a group containing a goblin, two tieflings, and a couple of mages. Caleb pulls off some heroics to let them get away, and by the time they find him again he's been hit with the Feeblemind spell as punishment. Rather fumbling attempts at coping ensue while the rest of the group tries to fix things.)

[I honestly can’t remember a Huge amount about this, but I remember it being angsty and kind and gentle, and I remember loving it. It’s also written by CatKing, and I love All their stuff, so that’s a point in its favour. Plus, feeblemind has such good angst and h/c potential tbh.]

“This is Not an Asphyxiation Kink” by Catzgirl (@fenesvir) [Caleb/Fjord; 3.5k]

Caleb is hiding some secrets from the gang, and they come back to haunt him at the very worst of times. Fjord is there to catch him.

[Hey remember when we were all convinced that Caleb had been waterboarded / drowned at some point, and was terrified of water? That was a good time tbh.]

and, from the same series, “The Leaving of Caleb Widogast” [Caleb/Fjord; 31k]

When there's no way out, Caleb makes his own.

[This is… honestly, very fucking good, and gripped me the whole way through. A beautiful mix of Caleb’s PoV and the panic of the others trying to find him, engaging all the way through to the climax.]

“the sea, take us back” by vannral (@vannral) [Caleb/Fjord; 9k]

The sea says: You are not welcome here. This place is not for you.

Caleb Widogast fights with everything he has to get back what was once ripped from him.

[A fun twist on the “Caleb is a werewolf” theory that everyone had at one point. Or, well. Not so fun for Caleb, but fun for the whump fans. Very intense and dramatic, very satisfying ending.]

“confession / absolution” by duckbunny (@duckbunny) [Caleb/Molly; spoilers; 8k]

Molly risks a glance over his shoulder – Caleb is a private kind of man, he won’t want to be stared at – and sees eyes so wide that Molly might have been ten foot of venom and claws. “No,” he says, slowly, “I don’t think you want to be alone. What’s up?"

[More emotional h/c and angst than whump, technically, but a favourite so I’m including it anyways. Also has some really nice smut as an added bonus, which is always fun.]

“[untitled]” by words-writ-in-starlight (@words-writ-in-starlight) [Caleb/Molly; 3k]

viciousmaukeries asked: Molly/Caleb, both of them injured, waking up beside each other. hell, maybe there's even a cave-in somewhere in there?

[Both Caleb and Molly whump, my favourite combination!]

“Suggestion” by pok3d3x (@tamiyos-pokedex) [Gen; maybe spoilers?; 6k]

In a world where mind altering magic is cheap, it's unwise to drink alone. The Mighty Nein step in to protect Caleb a little late.

[Caleb gets magic-roofied, and the team closes ranks to protect him and deal with the emotional fallout. Very intense and at times upsetting, but a delightful, emotional read.]

“Everything’s Coming Up Flowers” by thismagichour (@calebwidogasts) [Caleb/Fjord; 5k]

The Hanahaki Disease is an illness born from unrequited love, where the victim coughs up flower petals until the love is requited, or death.

Caleb loves Fjord, to the point that it's literally killing him.

[I’m always a slut for the Hanahaki disease trope, which is a cross between soulmates and whump in the best way. Also, this list is uhh… super Widomauk-heavy, so it’s nice to have a wee bit of variation.]

“till the last flower” by vannral (@vannral) [Caleb/Fjord; 8k]

The Hanahaki Disease is an illness born from one-sided love, where the patient coughs up flower petals. The infection can be removed through surgery, but the feelings disappear along with the petals.

Caleb Widogast is heartbroken and very tired.

[Hey look, I did say I’m a slut for this trope…]

“swallow up the flame like me” by words-writ-in-starlight (@words-writ-in-starlight) [Gen; major spoilers; 8k]

It has been nine days since Fjord, Jester, and Yasha disappeared in silence and left nothing behind them but blood and scuffed grass. When the rest of the Mighty Nein manages to capture someone who might have information, Caleb decides it's time to take things into his own hands and convinces Beau to let him.

[Not… technically whump but it’s such a nice, angsty, awful emotional portrait that I can’t help but include it…]

“a country far away as health” by LoosePilgrim [Gen; major spoilers; 2.6k]

In the fall of a certain year, in the north of a certain kingdom, a man took a body to a box and laid the body inside. He walked away from the body, and the body stayed there for many years.

When the body had been a boy (a man; a boy) it had had a good memory.

The body in the box had a good memory too. Here is what the body remembers:

[Kinda experimental and very weird - ymmv on whether it counts as whump, technically speaking - but, as with all the other kid-of-whump things on here, I love it, so. It’s staying.]

“be gone” by mnemememory [Gen; maybe spoilers?; 3k]

Beau has had this conversation before, in a different place, with a different man.

(or; beau walks out of a cupboard, and can't seem to find her way back)

[I’m… legit unsure if this should be on here, but it’s gorgeously written, and grindingly dark and unhappy, so I think it’s earned its place.]

“Disguise Self” by Agrotera (@agrotera-ilisos) [Caleb/Molly; maybe spoilers?; 10k]

“Even huddled beneath a cold, driving rain, Zadash was a brilliant city. It wasn’t substantially larger than the other cities Molly had visited when he was with the circus, nor was it especially more beautiful. The people certainly weren’t kinder. It stank of mud and horse dung, and the rain only helped to make the smell all the more oppressive. But there were little carts that lined the main avenues, and the proprietors of those little carts would sell you a bladder of still-hot mulled wine and an armful of cardamom and pistachio pastries for two silver coins and a smile.

All things considered—the gnolls, the fool bandits, the gods-be-twice-fucked weather—Molly couldn’t complain.”

It's their first night in Zadash, and Molly needs to get away. Caleb, unsure of Molly's motives, follows him.

[Less whump and more a character portrait with hints of past whump and trauma, with a copious helping of smut, but I love it, it’s on here, deal with it etc. etc. Honestly, I spent the whole time reading this sighing dreamily with delight at the perfect mix of sexy and Concerning, so like. You know it’s gotta be good.]

“A puzzled love of the light” by ottertrashpalace [Caleb/Molly; spoilers; 16k WIP]

Molly, possibly the most flamboyant queer individual ever to exist, wound up saving the life of a homophobic Christian picketer. It's not the weirdest thing that's ever happened to him, but suffice to say that it has long-ranging consequences he did not expect.

[Ymmv on the fic’s conceit (I personally enjoy it tbh), but it’s an enjoyable read with plenty of angst and emotional catharsis, and hints of more to come later...]

“a lighter in his pocket / a matchbook in his socks” by ScreechTheMighty (@screechthemighty) [Gen; major spoilers; 11k]

‘and a block full of charred skeletons / closeted, begging to get out’

The ghosts of your past catch up to you eventually. Sometimes, they bring more than just the memories with them.

[Again, unsure if this… technically counts as whump, but there’s enough miserable, stressed, panicking Caleb that I’m going to count it, honestly.]

“the echo valley” by vandenburg (@momlymauk) [Caleb/Molly; spoilers; 5k]

Sick from the incessant raining on their way to Shady Creek Run after a job well-done in the Labenda Swamp, Caleb receives some comfort – from Kiri.

[Sickfic!! Sickfic!! Sickfic!!! Also, Kiri being adorable, as an added bonus.]

“Snow Rise” by AiraKay [Gen; 1k]

Injured and alone, Caleb Widogast takes a moment to contemplate the falling snow and his place in the world.

[Somewhere between character study and whump, but very lovely.]

“Check the Cards” by Catzgirl (@fenesvir) [Caleb/Molly; 3k]

Molly ignores his foresight and everyone suffers for it.

[More from Molly’s PoV as Caleb gets injured, but it’s still a nice fic - very well-written and I love the way the author weaves Molly’s tarot cards into the narrative.]

“sunset” by aviators (@farfel) [Caleb/Molly; 3.5k]

Caleb brings a trembling hand up, cupping Molly’s cheek and pressing his thumb to his lips, wetting them with his own blood. “Hush, Mollymauk.”

“No. No,” Molly gasps out, hand meeting Caleb’s and grasping around it until both their knuckles turn white. “You’ve never known me to stop speaking my mind when I’m set on it. I’m not about to stop now, even for you.”

[Dreamy sighs about this fic tbh. Lovely Caleb whump, lovely Molly angst, long and difficult recovery, character introspection… hhh.]

“Scorched Bonds” by Akiko_Natsuko [Caleb/Molly; maybe spoilers?; 8k WIP]

“No!” It comes out as a strangled shout, his chest heaving and breaths coming in frantic pants. Too close, he had come so close to surrendering to the charm and if he had…the flames are roaring in his chest now, reminding him of what he can do, what those whispered words could have made him do.'

When a fight goes wrong and magic ensnares the rest of the Nein, Caleb is left alone, facing his friends… his family… and he's forced to make a choice.

[A lovely mix of whump and angst, with the “having to fight your friends” trope, and some aftercare as an added bonus.]

“Little Monster” by Lesetoilesfous (@lesetoilesfous) [Gen; 21k]

Nott hasn't been in prison for very long when she gets a cellmate, a human called Caleb.

This story follows the development of an unlikely friendship, and the way it saves two people who'd long since decided to give up on the world.

Or: prison is not the first place Nott imagined she'd find a family, but she isn't complaining.

[A Nott and Caleb meeting fic, with assorted whump and angst and getting out of prison shenanigans. Good, clean straight-up torture for both of them tbh.]

“My Friend Filthy” by 99BottlesOfBeerOnTheWall [Gen; maybe spoilers?; 21k]

Nott is a goblin with no friends, and nowhere to go. Caleb is a human with no family, and no hope left. They don’t expect each other, but Caleb is empty, and Nott needs something to care for. So they work with the broken pieces.

Together is better.

[Another, slightly longer variation on the above theme - I just love All the ‘Caleb’s in jail and miserable and barely a human’ fics. This one plays especially hard on the ‘barely a human’ bit, which is delightful.]

“twisting the kaleidoscope behind both my eyes” by confines (@wholeneinyards) [Gen; maybe mild spoilers?; 5k]

Nott and Caleb meet in jail. They escape together and then they survive together.

[A nice whumpy, angsty backstory elaboration piece.]

“The Courage and The Fall” by mollymauks [Caleb/Molly; 4k]

Prompt: “Shivering long after everyone else has stopped.” After ending up fighting a battle submerged in a frozen lake, the Mighty Nein strip off in their camp to dry out and warm up. All but one. Content warning: this fic deals quite a lot with scars, if that’s not your cup of tea, maybe avoid.

Teaser: “I’m going to stop you freezing to death, you idiot,” he said simply, hand still extended. Caleb still didn’t move. “Trust me,” Molly murmured, his words only for the darkness and the wizard staring up at him, the firelight glinting on his pale eyes making them look strangely opaque and ghostly. “I should think I’d proved myself quite adept at keeping you alive after all this time.”

Caleb stared at him for another long, thundering heartbeat, then he let a soft laugh huff past his lips. He reached up and grabbed Molly’s forearm, letting him pull him to his feet.

[What kind of whump rec list would this be if I didn’t have a “cuddling for warmth” fic on here…? A terrible one, that’s what.]

“Süss” by drekkeri (@tragedyboycentral) [Caleb/Molly; 3k]

Caleb was pretty sure he was dead. It was the only logical explanation.

He was drenched in sweat, trembling, and the mere act of thinking for more than two seconds took more effort than he could manage. As he tried to get out of bed he grabbed onto the wall, holding his head as he saw spots of back.

Yeah, he was definitely dead.

[A lovely fic involving diabetic!Caleb’s blood sugar dropping too low and his friends having to work out what’s wrong and help him. Whumpy, plenty of the ‘panicked confused friends’ trope, and with a happy, fluffy ending.]

“A Lovely Man” by Justanotherfangirl [Caleb/Molly; 1.5k]

Caleb gets injured, and Molly can’t keep his feelings for him a secret any longer.

[Whump, love confessions, bleeding out…? What more could you want from a fic.]

“Me for You” by MeBeShe (@matt-the-blind-cinnamon-roll) [Caleb/Molly; 5k]

Caleb gets badly wounded when a mission goes awry. Molly uses his Bloodhunter powers to heal him, despite Caleb's protesting.

[Another excellent whumpy character study thing, short and sweet but delightful, fluffy schmoop for an ending.]

“Another Part of Surviving” by notsoappropro [Caleb/various; 1.5k]

He doesn’t anticipate it, the first time. He’s head to toe in filth, having slept under trees and in city alleyways for an uncountable number of days on Nott and his neverending escape. The grime under Caleb's fingernails is aggressively visible in a clean store he clearly cannot afford to be in as he counts his silver. He only has four, it’s all they have between the two of them, and it’s many coins short for the medicine they need.

[A kinkmeme fill technically, but angsty enough to be included here, just about. A series of vignettes on the times Caleb is forced to prostitute himself.]

“Hot and Cold” by Emberforge [Gen; 3k]

It was all going well, until it wasn't.

[Caleb gets poisoned, and the team deal with it; mild whump, plenty of aftercare and worrying. Short and sweet.]

“What Friends Are For” by Justanotherfangirl [Gen; maybe spoilers?; 8k]

It’s been a long time since Caleb had any friends, since he had deserved to have any friends. But with the Mighty Nein, he found himself caring almost in spite of himself. And the Mighty Nein might just care about him too.

[A lovely collection of drabbles exploring Caleb’s relationship with the other members of the Nein, through the medium of whump and comfort/care.]

“Here with You” by Akiko_Natsuko [Caleb/Molly; 1.7k]

It was a terrible plan from the start, but it was the only one they had. Fortunately Molly and Caleb were together, and that might just be enough in the face of a situation that brings the past pressing in on them.

[Less physical whump and more delicious descriptions of panic and misery, which imho count as whump / give me the same whump feels as physical whump does. Also, Caleb locked in a cell!]

“Dominate Person is Never Really A Good Time” by sterphfy [Gen; 4.5k]

The title kind of sums it up. Some angst, some implied Molly/Caleb, but painfully little physical contact. probably done, but may write a companion later.

[More fun with mind control and hurting friends! I’m predictable in the tropes I like.]

“bruises and comfort” by vannral (@vannral) [Caleb/Fjord; 643]

After a random battle, Caleb's less than fine and Fjord's there, helping.

[Pretty much exactly what it says on the tin - Caleb’s hurt, Fjord looks after him and comfort him. Short, satisfying, sweet.]

“Hidden and New” by Avorna [Caleb/Nott; 3k]

Fighting a horde illithid is well above their job description.

In the midst of battle, Caleb is caught by a desperate illithid and it decides to play with his more well kept memories.

[On here primarily for the first half, where Caleb nearly gets his brain eaten, and gets thoughts and memories he wants to keep secret broadcast to the MN - which is always a good time.]

“Storm After the Calm” by UzbekistanRules [Gen; major spoilers; 1.5k]

Caleb deserves nothing. Or... so he thinks.

[More self-loathing and emotional h/c than whump, but some nice mentions of past whump and tbh panic attacks probably count as whump? The aftercare in this is also very lovely.]

“What Was, What Is” by lostsometime [Gen; mild spoilers; 1k]

Caleb would have been able to stop himself from causing collateral damage with his spells, once. He can't now.

[Again, more angst than whump; again, I like it enough to include it here, and also panic attacks / dissociation totally do count as whump in some circumstances tbh.]

“Fever Dream” by Chaya (@fieldbears) [Gen; major spoilers; 245]

Someone asked for either Caleb or Molly to be delirious with fever. This is probably the least creatively titled thing I have put up in a while, but at least there's plenty of angst?

[Honourable mention, as it’s a very short little drabble - but what there is of it is delicious, so I couldn’t leave it off.]

“Feeblemind” by Chaya (@fieldbears) [Caleb/Molly; spoilers; 13k WIP]

There are some ugly spells out there. Sometimes you just have to do your best to get through it.

[Fun times with the feeblemind spell, and then the emotional fallout from that for the whole group. Bonus Molly angst too, which is always nice! May or may not have been abandoned, but what’s there is somewhat complete in and of itself, so...]

“Under His Gaze” by EllenofX [Gen; maybe spoilers?; 4k WIP]

Caleb is a smart man. It is a fact that he is more cautious of now, with how far astray it once led him, but one that is undeniable. So, when a stranger wakes them in the dead of night, it does not take him long to figure out that he and his companions are being toyed with. That they have been toyed with for quite a while, now.

[Another ‘is it abandoned?’ fic - essentially a variation on the theme of ‘Travelling Hearts’ recced above. First chapter seems pretty whumpy though, so fingers crossed it continues!]

“Our Early Days Are Always With Us” by sandssavvy (@sandssavvy) [Gen; major spoilers; 8k WIP]

Sometimes the past won't let you rest.

After a run in with Trent, Caleb isn't sure he will ever find rest again.

[Again, unsure if this has been abandoned?? It’s not terribly whumpy as-is, mostly angst, but if it’s not on permanent hiatus then it should get whumpy…]

Lastly (and shamelessly), I’m gonna plug my own writing here. The only whumpy fic I’ve written for Caleb is “lesser of two evils” [Gen; 2.4k]:

Caleb’s running a fever by the time the rest of the Mighty Nein find him.

He was expecting that much – he’s done this before, after all, knows that it’s a bad idea and will not go well in the long run. However, bleeding out in the middle of a forest is also not a good idea, and will also not go well in the long run. The difference is that bleeding out in the middle of a forest will go exceptionally poorly in the short run, so it’s a lesser-of-two evils sort of thing. He’s well-versed in Faustian bargains, made both unwittingly and otherwise. It’s fine.

(In which Caleb gets separated from the rest of the group, and then injured, and then some rather ill-advised DIY field medicine involving fire. The rest of the Mighty Nein are left to pick up the pieces when they find him.)

However, I’ve got other whumpy tidbits and headcanons under my general #critrole 2.0 tag (though my blog / that tag frequently contain nsfw or triggering material, as a heads-up).

#critfic #caleb widogast #whump #stardustandseas #critrole 2.0 #fic rec #this is legit 48 fics i'm not kidding #it's taken me the majority of friday sat in a coffee shop and my sunday evening to do lmfao #donation of time to the Glorious Cause of caleb being hurt and / or miserable #(tho tbh canon blesses us with plenty of that already like. the boy's a projectile weapon magnet)

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luxrayz64 · 6 years ago

Note

hmmm for the salty ship ask: 3, 6, 7, and 9 for the bnha fandom (which I'm not even in, but I enjoy watching from afar with a smoothie sometimes)

most amatonormative ship trope:

am I allowed to list more than one? bc the concept of hanahaki disease is p damn overdramatic and soulmates are. questionable in that whole "you are incomplete w/out this random stranger" way. but fucking hanahaki disease, ur not gonna get a terminal illness from rejection calm down (altho I do like the aesthetic of it, but I wish it had a different cause)

What ship makes the most logical sense to me and how many people actually ship them: probably kiribaku or maybe tododeku? I mean they both have valid reasons for being shipped, and they both had emotional moments between them,, they're also the most popular ships in the fandom. and yet I honestly can't read kiribaku as anything but platonic just yet haha bakugou is not far enough into his development for a romantic relationship kirishima is literally the first real friend he's ever had let them chill

Which ship discourse is the funniest?:

tbh there's nothing funnier to me on this earth than people who ship clearly abusive ships trying to explain that no, bakudeku isn't abusive, bakugou just bullied him relentlessly for ten years and told him to jump off the school roof but it's not abusive they've grown!!! ok my dude.(usuk from hetalia rlly takes the cake tho just bc they're obviously brothers yet it was the most popular ship for a time and half of its fans refuse to see that and the other half doesn't care that incest is inherently bad) (also whatever the fuck is going down in voltron at any given moment) and maybe that's not the funniest kind of ship discourse but fucking hetalia rlly made me a bit immune to Bad ships. after watching people fight over whether incest is actually bad for two years at some point u've just gotta sit back and watch it all go down yknow?

If you could choose one ship to be obliterated from the earth, which one would it be?

HOO BOY there's a lot

But for the bnha fandom specifically, definitely bakudeku. it's just. it's not good. they fucking hate each other can I add two people properly hating each other who get shipped together to the most amatonormative ship trope one and again, bakugou relentlessly bullied deku for ten years straight, and even at UA bakugou came 👌 this close to actually killing deku on the second day.

but uhhh yeah

#im gonna stop there before the bakudekus come for me #bc fucking christ they're aggressive #but yeah the fact that u actually asked? gets me in my gotdamn uwus

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classywastelandbread-blog · 7 years ago

Text

Eden Sank to Grief

I should be doing other things but instead I jotted this down today. I’m sorry if there are any errors.

Featuring: DC being depressing, Hanahaki, and a brief cameo from one of my NaNoWriMo characters.

EDIT: finally thought of a somewhat-suitable title.

It started, the way all large things started, by something very small.

A tickle in his throat, a slight hitch in his breath; nothing a short cough couldn’t fix. But Hanzo didn’t think much of it – the fog off the sea had been particularly heavy lately and a cold was traveling like wildfire through the agents. He coughed once, accepted a mug of hot tea and a glass of orange juice from McCree with a nod of thanks, and thought – for the tiniest fraction of a second – about getting vitamin C supplements so he wouldn’t get sick.But he didn’t want to deal with Dr. Ziegler so he didn’t.

McCree smiled at him at breakfast and nudged him with an elbow during a particularly bad joke that Reinhardt told. Hanzo laughed because McCree was beaming at him with that grin of his that was as bright as the sun and something – a something that was becoming very familiar to Hanzo – fluttered like a living thing in his throat.

The next day he woke with a tickle in his throat and he drank twice as much water as he normally did though he couldn’t quite tell if it was because he didn’t want to get sick or because he imagined he saw McCree’s eyes fall and linger on the bob of his throat as he drank. He still coughed occasionally but they were mostly dry coughs and he teased the cowboy that it was because of the lingering smell of dust and smoke on him.

His dry cough lingered for a few days before turning wet. Genji joked that his brother had finally succumbed to the plague afflicting the rest of the agents that were able to get sick.

Genji, of course, was not on that list.

Dr. Ziegler ordered him into her office and with great reluctance, he went. She checked him over briskly and announced that he only seemed to have a minor cold – he should drink plenty of fluids that weren’t alcohol – water, Agent Hanzo, I’m talking about water – and to get a lot of sleep.

When he confided this to McCree, he was offered one of those odd smiles of the gunslinger’s – alone with Hanzo he often smiled as if his face had been frozen into that odd half-frown he wore as he chewed on the end of his cigarillos. Hanzo turned his head away to cough and McCree offered one end of his stupid blanket and Hanzo wasn’t so proud – or such a fool – to turn away.

“It’s gettin’ cold out,” McCree said mildly as he kicked his legs into the open air beneath them. “Bein’ sick an’ all, maybe you should be goin’ inside? Getting’ some o’ that rest Ange prescribed?”

Hanzo felt another cough building in his throat and swallowed quickly to push it back down. “Just a little longer,” he said. He didn’t tell McCree that it wasn’t the cold or his illness that he was talking about; that he was really speaking of the warm weight of McCree’s arm around his shoulders, of the cedar scent that clung so close to McCree and the neutral smell of detergent still clinging to the gunslinger’s serape.

“Okay,” McCree said agreeably. “Fine by me.”

The cough didn’t get better; it seemed to get worse. Dr. Ziegler gave him a disgusting cough syrup that he had to drink twice a day.

He realized what was wrong late one night after spending the evening drinking with McCree. The cowboy was a melancholy drunk, but he always seemed rather melancholy around Hanzo. He smiled and talked less and his eyes seemed less vibrant. When Hanzo had asked about it between their usual teasing jabs, McCree had only offered him that odd smile he seemed to reserve for Hanzo and said, “Well that’s ‘cos I’m comfortable ‘round ya. Like I can just be, y’know?”

The something fluttered in his throat more insistently like a wild bird trying to escape its cage. The ever-present tickle in his throat rose but he only allowed himself to cough twice – no more, he didn’t want to interrupt the time he had with McCree by coughing – and turned to look at McCree again.

McCree’s face seemed, as he had noticed before, halfway frozen into a scowl but his eyes seemed more relaxed and the corners of his mouth weren’t as pulled down or up as Hanzo had witnessed before. He seemed relaxed, Hanzo realized. Relaxed with him, an ex-yakuza princeling that had attempted to kill his own brother. With an alcoholic and a killer, a former assassin-for-hire with enough blood on his hands to drown a person.

The silver moonlight highlighted the bends in his twice-broken nose from a bad night and a bruiser in a bar brawl. Say that ten times fast, Shimada-san, McCree had once told him as he fingered the bridge of his nose. He had offered a smile that looked like he had only been going through the motions: the corners of his lips pulled back and up, his teeth peeking out like a person reluctantly smiling for the camera.

“It’s gettin’ late,” McCree said, eyeing the bottle in front of him. “An’ I know y’ need your rest.” He nudged Hanzo gently. “This ain’t the fluids Ange was talkin’ ‘bout ya drinkin’.”

Hanzo laughed, drunk no matter how much he wanted to deny it. Even McCree smiled that odd smile of his and the flutter rose in his throat. It hurt to close his throat against another cough and he nearly choked on it when it came up anyway. Two coughs – no more, even though he and McCree were getting ready to leave – and he groaned, washing down the phlegm and the bitter taste that had come up with another sip of sake.

“Yeah,” McCree said as he heaved himself to his feet. “Time fer bed, Han.” He paused, cocking his head to the side not unlike the dog Hanzo sometimes called him. “Sorry…is that okay?”

Perhaps a little dumbly (okay, a lot dumbly) Hanzo stared up at McCree. Backlit against the full moon behind him he looked like a cowboy out of a trashy romance novel, his face hidden by shadow with his gloved hand extended to help Hanzo up.

Hanzo accepted the help and released his hand before he could fall into McCree’s chest. “Perhaps for you,” Hanzo’s drunken lips said before he could stop them. “I could make an exception.”

“Mighty kind o’ you,” McCree said with all the solemnity it deserved. “An’ what about Hanners?”

Unable to help himself, Hanzo smiled and then laughed again. It was silly – absolutely ridiculous – and yet it sounded right somehow in the gunslinger’s whiskey voice. “Definitely only for you,” Hanzo said and bumped into McCree’s shoulders as they walked back to the living quarters of the base.

“I shall savor it, then,” McCree said as solemnly as he had earlier. His peculiar smile was back but Hanzo had long since gotten used to it and relished the thought that (at least according to McCree) he was the only one to see it.

But McCree didn’t lie if he could help it and he had said this to Hanzo sober, with all the seriousness of a lover’s secret confession.

Ever the gentleman, McCree walked Hanzo back to his room and waited for him to fumble with the keypad. When Hanzo turned back around, he found that McCree had taken off his thick glove. The gunslinger tapped his nose with a finger that smelled like leather. “Goodnight, Hanners.”

That peculiar smile was back and Hanzo basked in it for a moment. He could feel something clawing up his throat. “Goodnight, Jesse McCree,” he said.

McCree cocked his head to the side like a curious dog. “I could get used to hearin’ that.”

“Only for you,” Hanzo’s drunk lips said. He blushed but didn’t take it back.

Taking a step back, McCree nodded. “I look forward to it,” he said mildly. With a last lingering look, he walked down the hall to his room and Hanzo closed and locked the door.

When he was sure that McCree was no longer in earshot, Hanzo allowed himself to cough.

And cough.

It was the most annoying kind of cough, Hanzo mused to himself as he groped for a paper towel, a tissue, anything. He could feel it, somewhere just above his collarbones, and the coughing was beginning to hurt – had been hurting as he tore up his throat. For the love of him though, he couldn’t get the stubborn thing out.

His coughing upset his stomach and he ran to the attached bathroom and bracing his hands on the toilet seat, heaved up some of the alcohol he had just consumed. The bile burned his sore throat and he coughed even more when some of it managed to get caught in his nostrils.

For a long moment he lay there, leaning against the toilet while he caught his breath. The air burned his throat even more but until he could blow his nose, breathing through his nose was intolerable and would most likely throw him into another coughing fit.

It was as he was pushing himself to his feet and reaching to flush the toilet that he noticed the petal in the water. As if mocking him it bobbed and scoffing at his own folly, Hanzo watched it swirl down the drain. He blew his nose and washed his face and mouth.

He brushed his teeth and wondered and scoffed to himself again.

Hanahaki.

He knew the word, of course – everyone did. It was a popular trope in trashy romance novels and daylight soap operas. Coughing up flowers for unrequited love. There were three options, three possible ways to…stop it: cut it out, let it kill you, or confess.

Cutting it out was the easy thing. It wasn’t common, but not as uncommon as one may think; truly about as common as voluntary sterilization surgery. In a way that’s exactly what it was but instead of preventing reproduction, it prevented feeling. As if cutting out the roots and stem and flowers removed the portion of a person’s soul that allowed them to feel.

Hanzo had known an Empty One growing up in the Shimada Clan. She was his guard, one of if not the best fighters they had to offer until her untimely death. As a young child he hadn’t understood why they called her The Empty One (as if she were the only one the Shimada-gumi had employed, voluntary or otherwise) so he called her Emmy, thinking that the loan word had somehow been her name. She was kind and polite enough but she didn’t smile or laugh and her voice was as hollow as an echo in an empty cave.

The second was self-explanatory, but Hanahaki deaths were still surprisingly rare. Most people chose the third option, chose to confess, rather than die. Few chose death because living, even in constant agony or without feeling, was preferable to the slow strangling death of the clenching roots of Hanahaki filling their lungs.

As for the last, in a way that was as debilitating as cutting out the Hanahaki. There was a reason that it had manifested after all. Many postulated that it was psychosomatic – that in a way the deadly roots and flowers formed out of a perceived rejection – but most still believed, even in the depths of their animal hind-brains that it was some kind of divine punishment, a deadly manifestation of their destiny.

It was the most popular option: for those that needed to pay for it, the surgery was expensive and required high-tech equipment and specialists used to doing such delicate work and few truly wanted to die by Hanahaki.

On the other hand, Hanahaki-related suicides were rather high.

Still, even the mere act of confession brought about its own kind of consequence. Like cutting out the roots, there was something damaged about those who had Hanahaki wither in their lungs – and wither it did in all of the cases Hanzo had heard of. They wheezed, perpetually asthmatic in some form, and their interpersonal relationships suffered.

In many ways they were nearly as unfeeling as the Empty Ones.

Hanzo didn’t believe in happily-ever-afters, especially for men like him. He most certainly didn’t believe in love at first sight, either or the kind of love that would inspire Hanahaki.

He probably wouldn’t even believe in Hanahaki if it hadn’t been for Emmy and even then he could probably chalk that up to an overactive imagination as a child.

Except that he could, even after over a decade since her death, remember the blank look in her eyes and the neutral set in her face that had never changed. “I do not feel, young master,” she had reminded him more than once. “No emotion, no pain; nothing.”

But…Hanahaki. It was simply a far-fetched idea.

But where did that petal come from? The logical side of him asked.

Shaking his head to himself, he got ready for bed.

The next morning, the cough was worse. He had to turn away and cough into his napkin when Jesse leaned over to pour him a cup of orange juice as he always did. This time he could feel something crawling up his throat as he coughed. It was sticky, clinging to the tissues and hiding among the mucous.

He worked his mouth and tongue and felt something resting there. McCree wordlessly handed him a glass of water and trying to ignore the tickle in his throat heralding more coughs, Hanzo swallowed half of it quickly, washing the…intrusion away. Rolling his tongue around his mouth, he made sure that there was nothing in his mouth before speaking. “Thank you,” he said to Jesse.

“Anytime,” McCree murmured back as he sat down to eat.

Hanzo choked on a cough and took another long sip of water. He caught sight of McCree looking at him, his bristly brows pinched with something like worry. Pushing himself to his feet, he somehow managed to excuse himself and ducked into the nearest communal bathroom.

Locked safely inside a stall, he shoved a wad of toilet paper beneath his lips and released the sticky wad that had been hacked up.

Petals.

It was an explosion of color – bright hues of yellow and bronze and orange – though all of the petals were folded over and clung to the paper with the mucous that brought it up. For a long moment he simply sat and stared.

Hanahaki.

A few still clung stubbornly to his palate and tongue and with shaking fingers he picked them off, wiping his fingers off on the napkin that was slowly deflating as it got wet.

He was scared, of course – who wouldn’t be, faced with a choice like this?

Confess and risk emotional maiming – and the ruin of a relationship; cut it out and be unable to feel – and ruin his new relationship with his brother; or let it kill him – and be a coward, and let down his team.

And let down McCree.

He sank to his knees and puked again in a way he hadn’t in a long time. More petals fell from his lips, drooped down to the water in the bowl on thick strings of saliva and bile. He puked until there was nothing else, not even bile, for him to bring up and pretended that the tears in his eyes were from something other than fear.

Shaking, he picked out the petals he could still feel clinging to the sides and top of his mouth and threw them into the bowl with the rest where they floated and spun as if mocking him. He wiped the dampness from his mouth with the back of his hand and watched as the petals swirled down the drain and disappeared.

When he opened the door to the stall, he found McCree standing by the sink, his hat held against his chest. His face was still pinched with worry and his whiskey-colored eyes, as sharp as a falcon’s, drifted over Hanzo as seriously as he would casing a room. Hanzo knew that he picked up on his damp, red eyes and the messy way his lashes clumped.

“Are…you okay?” he asked in a strangely halting way. His other hand came up and both toyed with the belt around his hat. Once upon a time it had been a simple sash: a faded ribbon that had once been blue, had once been one of the wrappings around the bow Hanzo used as an adolescent. He still had it, he had once told Hanzo, only it was too tattered now for everyday use; too precious to risk.

“No,” Hanzo decided. “I am not.”

McCree nodded a little robotically. He licked his lips and held his mouth halfway open as he decided what to say. In another life, Hanzo had teased him about it – close your mouth cowboy, or do you want to be catching flies? – but now it was another twist of the knife in his chest.

The feeling in his throat – the Hanahaki, he knew now – rose like a wave, like a crescendo, and stopped his breathing for a terrifying moment.

“Should…mebbe…you should see Ange?” McCree asked haltingly. His eyes, cold as stone and burning as a mouthful of that swill the cowboy called alcohol, roved over his face as intently as he would when sniffing out lies on a foreign operative.

Hanzo swallowed another round of coughs, moving to the sink. He washed his shaking hands, then splashed water on his face, then rinsed out his mouth and prayed that no petals would escape his throat to bob in the water.

He didn’t want McCree to see it, he realized. It was a terrifying thought, a terrible thought but it was relieving all the same; it opened his path before him. I don’t want him to see me suffer like this.

“Yeah,” he said to his reflection. At the edge of the mirror, he could see McCree watching him with that same hard stare he gave a particularly vexing enemy. He let his eyes roam McCree openly, uncaring that his friend saw. At this point this may be the last time he gets to see him like this, with...emotions, with...feeling even if they were going to strangle him. “I will.”

Dr. Ziegler was displeased, having heard of that morning’s coughing fit. Hanzo made sure to make it up to her by bringing breakfast in. She ate while they talked and Hanzo couldn’t find it in him to be upset that she was so rude.

“I’m sorry,” Dr. Ziegler said contritely more than once.

Hanzo couldn’t find anything to say so he said nothing.

“It must be important if you’re coming to me of your own free will,” she joked but maybe she saw something in Hanzo’s eyes because her tone fell flat.

Very carefully Hanzo placed the packet on her desk. McCree had walked him back to his room, unaware of the agony he was causing. “Be well,” McCree had said awkwardly as Hanzo moved to enter. “Please?”

Hanzo regretted not answering, of not saying anything back, but he had a mouthful of petals that would have given everything away and the worry on McCree’s face would have changed to pity. Instead he nodded and closed the door.

The mouthful of petals went to the sink and he coughed up even more until he puked – again, annoyingly, even though there was nothing else in his stomach to bring up. Just foamy bile and even more petals. He rinsed what was in the sink and dried them on a paper towel to take as evidence – not that Dr. Ziegler couldn’t run a scan, but there was something about seeing the colors that did something to him, wound him up and broke him down all at once.

Dr. Ziegler shoved the last few pieces of her meal in her mouth, ran to wash her hands and put her plate on the side, and returned with sterile gloves on her hands.

Suddenly scared, Hanzo stopped her before she could touch the packet. “How far does your confidentiality go?”

The look she gave him told him exactly what she thought about his question. Still she said with a little trace of bite, “As far as you would like me to go.”

“They can and will know that I visited you,” Hanzo said after a moment. “But nothing more.”

She nodded once and when he made no other move to stop her, opened the little packet. He watched her eyes widen and she sighed. “Oh, Hanzo.” Her eyes flashed up to him. “How long? Who is it?”

Hanzo thought of McCree’s warm smiles and how his arm felt around his shoulders. Of his whiskey eyes and the half hearted smile that only he got to see.

He opened his mouth to speak and stopped.

He thought of late nights drinking, smoking, just sitting with Jesse up somewhere high. He thought of movie nights where they hid together in a corner and how they always sat together at breakfast. He thought of McCree’s odd half-there smile and the tired creases of his eyes and the dusting of freckles across his dark skin. He thought of whiskey eyes and long lashes, of the smell of cedar and leather and the distant memory of two people in a past life sharing a secret kiss beneath the boughs of the sakura trees in bloom.

Dr. Ziegler leaped to her feet when he began coughing again.

“Are you afraid?” Lúcio asked.

Hanzo lolled his head to the side, careful of the mask on his face.

“Yeah,” Lúcio said with a nervous laugh. “Maybe that’s the wrong question to ask at the wrong time.”

“Maybe,” Hanzo said distantly, his voice rough from days of coughing. The Hanahaki got worse exponentially and Dr. Ziegler called in favors to do the surgery before it became inoperable. “I don’t feel much of anything anymore.”

Lúcio laughed a little hollowly. “That’s the drugs talking.”

“I’m scared,” Hanzo found himself admitting to Lúcio. “And I’m angry that my last...my last emotion will be fear and anger.”

He was surprised when Lúcio leaned forward suddenly and squeezed Hanzo’s wrist. “Hey,” he said. “No need for that. Let’s think of something nicer.”

“I’m afraid of thinking...of coughing again,” Hanzo admitted and it wasn’t a part of the drugs. He knew that Lúcio would keep this talk confidential, wouldn’t hold it against him. “I’m afraid to...I’m afraid to think of him and have my last thoughts and feelings of him be something I’m afraid of.”

Lúcio scooted his rolling stool closer, boldly, and Hanzo flinched when he wiped away a tear he didn’t know he had shed. “Hey,” he said softly. “You know, you don’t have to tell me who it is - not now, not ever - but I’m all ears.” He laughed, a little hollowly. “You’re not alone, you know?”

For a long moment Hanzo stared.

“You’re on a team,” Lúcio reminded him gently with a look that was far more serious than what Hanzo was used to seeing on his young face. “And teammates help each other - friends help each other. We’ll be there for you through thick and thin. Sure we’ll all fight and butt heads, we’ll argue and make messes and some nights we’ll stay up late and wonder...we’ll think of the mistakes we made or the mistakes we will make or the injuries and the deaths and the blood…” Lúcio swallowed hard and squeezed Hanzo’s wrist comfortingly.

“I’m sad,” Hanzo croaked. “That I...I will be hollow. And I am just realizing...”

Another tear cut a hot track down his face and Lúcio smiled sadly. “It’s a shame,” he agreed. “But it won’t make us love you any less.” He scooted closer and wiped the tear away. Looking over Hanzo’s chest where he couldn’t see and checked Hanzo’s vitals. He wasn’t an anesthetist by any stretch of the word, he had explained to Hanzo with a crooked smile during the briefing for his procedure, but he could read a monitor, thank you very much. “Now,” he said. “You don’t want your last emotion to be sad, to be angry, and you are sedated just enough that we’ll put you under soon. What do you want to talk about?”

Hanzo blinked dopily, hating how loose and weak he felt. Now that Lúcio mentioned it, he felt as if he was about to float away. His head lolled and the mask slipped a little; with gentle hands, Lúcio adjusted it and squeezed his limp fingers.

“What if I cough?” he asked.

Lúcio smiled sadly and squeezed his fingers again. “Your muscles are relaxed enough that the Hanahaki won’t be acting up and soon we’ll be putting in your IV. Don’t worry; we’ve got you.”

The smile that Hanzo gave him was eerie, far too loose with the drugs in his system but Lúcio still savored it because it was probably the last one he would ever give. “I have a family,” he said, his voice lighter than it should have been as his eyes began to droop. Unnoticed by the former assassin, Angela had slipped in and was beginning to increase his dosage to put him under. “I have a brother and a team that cares about me. What do I have to repay them? I will just be empty.” Hanzo smiled again, this time wider. His eyes fluttered. “And I am...I am in love with Jesse McCree.”

When Hanzo woke up, his head spun. “Be still,” someone said next to him. A metallic hand gently pressed on his shoulder. “I will get you some water.”

He opened his eyes as Zenyatta returned and with the monk’s help, managed to take a long drink.

“How are you feeling?” Zenyatta asked.

Hanzo paused to think and...there was nothing. There was no fear, no pain, anger, guilt, or...there was no love but there was also no guilt for its lack. Instead he said, “I am not, is that not the point?”

He wondered if Zenyatta would smile if he could. Would it be sad? Was he happy? It was hard to tell.

It was hard for Hanzo to grasp why he should care.

“Are you up for a few visitors?” Zenyatta asked and Hanzo couldn’t divine from his even tone his thoughts.

Hanzo paused to consider. He felt no shame, no remorse; if he felt anything, it was a sensation like the first few seconds of freefall. Was that how the rest of his life would be? “That would be acceptable.” He looked around. “Where is Dr. Ziegler?”

Halfway to the door, Zenyatta paused as if weighing his words. “She is working on a personal project.” When he received Hanzo’s nod, he opened the door and the team spilled in.

Genji led the charge. Voices overlapped, there was yelling, crying, everyone talking at once. They asked a hundred questions and Genji tried to lecture him but Hanzo only felt…

Nothing.

He watched his team and clung to those last few moments of grainy memory he had of speaking with Lúcio. Genji kept yelling - he’d never forgive Hanzo, he swore, how could he just go and cut out his heart like that?

In the very back of the pack, nearly hidden by everyone else stood a cowboy - the one that started it all and yet Hanzo knew that even if he could feel anything anymore, annoyance would be the furthest thing from his mind with this man. The fluorescent lights of the medical room illuminated his face because his hat was pressed to his heart. In one hand was a dusty blue ribbon, tattered and worn and frayed at the edges.

McCree stared back at him with a terrifyingly blank look on his face - a look like the one he wore during Deadeye. Seeing Hanzo looking at him, he offered that sort of half smile that Hanzo knew in the depths of the empty void that once held his heart was only for him.

He waited to feel something - the hummingbird beat of his heart in his throat, the rush of warmth that washed over him like a wave, like a shot of whiskey. It was so ingrained now, to see McCree - to see Jesse - and feel that warmth.

But he looked at Jesse, at the way the fluorescent lights turned his auburn hair into a hundred shades of gold and orange and bronze, at the odd shadows in his twice-broken nose, at a hundred things that had driven him to deadly love...and felt nothing.

I may do a Part 2 from McCree’s point of view but I haven’t decided yet.

#hanahaki #mchanzo #unrequited love #dc being depressing again #don't mind me #nothing gold #DC writes

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