#as close as ill ever get to the hanahaki trope

[baratrongirl]

B - A pairing–platonic, romantic or sexual–that you initially didn’t consider, but someone changed your mind.

K - What character has your favorite development arc/the best development arc?

W - A trope which you are virtually certain to hate in any fandom.

B - I don't have a lot for Ace Attorney because most of its ships are very obvious. I did however discover a fondness for the very rarepair Maya Fey/Simon Blackquill after reading a fic about them. She is a spirit medium who is going to become the leader of her village, and is also obsessed with the TV series The Steel Samurai. He is a raging weeaboo and/or British man with Japanese ancestry who wields a spirit katana and wants to be a samurai. They are even the same age! They are absolutely perfect together!

K - Urgh, see, this is the thing that Ace Attorney is very bad at. The games are good at showing 50-75% of a character development arc and then giving up. Like, AA4 is all about Klavier Gavin receiving trauma after trauma, and you'd expect him to need some time to process everything that's happened to him - yet he pops up in AA5 as if nothing has happened at all. Phoenix Wright and Miles Edgeworth both have development, but even then you don't see the trauma being processed. In fact, the way Phoenix flips back to his old self in AA5 ignores all of the changes that happened to him in AA4, and seems false.

I actually think one of the best development arcs I've ever seen in a game/game series is Martin Septim in TES IV: Oblivion. He goes from being the priest of a town attacked by Daedra (TES version of demons) to the Emperor of Tamriel, willing to give his life to stop the Daedric invasion. Each time you return to Cloud Ruler Temple on the main quest, he's a little more resigned to his fate. He goes from giving an awkward speech to the Blades where he says, "I know you all want me to be Emperor, but this is very new to me" to leading a major battle dressed in the Emperor's heavy armor. When did he learn to fight in heavy armor? Before that, he's only worn priest's robes. A lot is happening to him behind the player's back, and it gives him life.

W - I agree with you about hating soulmates and Hanahaki Disease, unless those tropes are subverted. I am quite fond of the idea of "soulmates" which simply means that the person will be very important to you - not necessarily your one and only partner, but perhaps your best friend forever. And I find it interesting when people write Hanahaki Disease as a chronic illness which affects people who love too easily and deeply. I've often felt that I'm a person who does that, and it's brought me emotional pain. Why not have physical pain to go with it?

The tropes I REALLY hate though are "Pair the Spares" and "Everyone is Gay".

Ace Attorney has a juggernaut F/F ship of FranMaya which is Miles Edgeworth's adoptive/foster sister Franziska Von Karma paired with Phoenix Wright's best friend Maya Fey. But there are plenty of other options for both of those women, both F/F and M/F. I feel they get paired together despite their wildly different personalities and interests simply because Phoenix and Miles do, and I really dislike that. I don't even hate the ship! But I LOATHE the idea that they are together BECAUSE of their brother/best friend's relationship.

When the trope is subverted, and FranMaya get together years before WrightWorth, then I like the ship much more. Though I still feel that both characters have plenty of other interesting ships available to them.

"Everyone is Gay" bothers me when it's literally everyone being GAY as in exclusively same-sex relationships. Especially as three characters are about as close to canon bisexual as it's possible to be! Others have strongly headcanoned sexualities which are part of fanon (e.g. Miles Edgeworth being homoromantic demisexual and Kristoph Gavin being aromantic homosexual). But other characters are more flexible, e.g. I've seen Ema Skye written as lesbian, bi, straight, asexual, aromantic and acearo!

By all means, make everyone queer. But recognise that a trans woman might date a man, that a lot of bisexuals end up in relationships with people of different gender, that heteroromantic asexuals are still queer, and that acearo people likely don't want partners at all. And all of that is okay.

[victorcross]

VN REVIEW! Hydrangea

I downloaded it and then saw it got put on steam and immediately downloaded the steam version I need those sweet sweet achievements

summary: "Your sweetheart fell ill with a mysterious illness. Thankfully, you changed your mind about breaking up with them. Now, you're even closer to them. Too close." (from the official page. it's a good summary I like it soz)

available on steam and itch.io for free. also an android version for the phone fans

4 different endings, customizable name/pronouns for you AND your sweetheart! AND VOICE ACTING

do read the content warnings and take them seriously but otherwise I highly recommend playing hydrangea for yourself!!

review below!! spoilersspoilersspoilersspoilers

first of all before I delve into anything I need to make this not confusing as possible. so you are able to choose between a feminine or masculine sweetheart, you can also choose their pronouns! you're also friends with their sibling, which will take on the appearance of who you didn't choose

in the default settings, you are named ember, the fem one is named yua and masc is named yuu. for this I'm going to call the sweetheart yua (she/her) and your friend/their twin yuu (he/him) for simplicity + it's like mildly supported by the trailer

SO the actual game. this is labelled as a yandere story, though I'd say it's not exactly that it's more just standard abuse without the yandere elements like obsessiveness, stalking, etc. I KNOW the yandere trope is also a form of abuse but I do differentiate regular abuse from yandereness as stupid as it sounds. regardless it doesn't undermine the story at all!!! it's just not a yandere story in my opinion!!!

anyways your beloved yua is stuck in the hospital with the fabled hanahaki disease. not that they ever name it in-game but that is what it is, it's rare and they're aware it's caused by unreciprocated love but it IS treatable by other means.

I've never been a fan of the concept personally, though I've never been able to name why before this story has settled it for me. in a good way. hydrangea is about abuse and cycles, and I feel hanahaki disease is the perfect vessel for those topics given the way it works. it's just not romantic or healthy to have someone's life in your hands in that way, where your "love", something you can't force is the only thing that can keep them alive. (and as this game points out, it really isn't the only thing that can keep them alive even!)

at times, the story kinda feels like a PSA especially with the way yuu starts to like spell out the signs of abuse but generally I can feel a sense of love and understanding from the way it's written. yua, as an abuser, feels scarily realistic and and reminds me extremely closely of an ex I had that treated me incredibly similarly, and I found ember extremely similar to the person I was under their abuse. it was honestly eerie and mildly upsetting how similar it was but it IS in the content warnings for a reason....

I loved the way the endings progressed. to be honest I did get a little frustrated trying to get the first ending (I got ending 2 first) and it seemed like there was literally only one choice that made the difference but after that I was chilling. I really love the true ending

I almost forgot but there are like secretish messages you get in the game that add to yua's characterization that I find really insightful. like she's not made out to be this inevitably and inherently evil person, she's very human and there's clear reason as to why she is the way she is. I can also empathize and relate somewhat to her and her feelings as someone who also had an abusive mother. the writing does a very beautiful job of recognizing that she, and any abuser, is still human and has their good sides/moments like anyone else, but that doesn't lessen the harm they cause

(as a side note I noticed there's like some minor glitches that happen with the elements on display and I think a few swapped voice lines? but nothing game breaking or that ruined it for me so it's fine)

ALSO I ALMOST FORGOT TO MENTION THE ART DIRECTION IS VERY BEAUTIFUL that's all overall I really enjoyed and admired this game!!! as sad as it was yes. 10/10

[kobunnie]

Ever thought of giving your moots a specific fanfic trope ?

no but ill do that now then 😩☝️

so these are just moots off the top of my head! sorry if you wanna be added </3 just let me know

@flushphoria enemies to lovers

@dinoluv SOMETHING with a coffee shop or flower shop

@sugurus-princess mutual pining

@sunarinluvr and there was only one bed

@pockydays the amnesia trope

@mattsunbae FAKE RELATIONSHIP

@infxrity pretending to be in love with your friend to get close to you

@mysterystarz soulmates

@suisuki unrequited love / hanahaki

@kozuelle arranged marriage

@xiaozuha the like accidental meeting but wasnt actually accidental because they set it up

[nyxi-styx]

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.

[luxrayz64]

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

[classywastelandbread-blog]

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.

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.