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redhoodssweetheart · 3 years

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Flowers in My Lungs Part Two

Genre: Hanahaki AU

Pairing: Clark Kent x Gender Neutral!Reader

Requested: Yes (REQUESTS ARE CLOSED, this was for my 1.5K follower celebration)

Word Count: 1.5K

Warnings: Talks of death, flowers growing in the lungs, angst, unrequited love

Description: It’s been six months since the last of the flowers disappeared from your lungs. In that time you’ve written a book based on your experiences and are now on a book tour. Your first stop? Metropolis. How will seeing Clark go?

A/N: The ending is purposefully left open. I didn’t know if people would want a happy, sad, or a neutral ending. I can write a third and final part if people would like to see one or the other, or you can decide for yourself what happens between the Reader and Clark. Also the request was for a fem!Reader, but the first part was Gender Neutral. I don’t use female pronouns or even they/them in here.

It had been six months since the last of the flowers disappeared from your lungs. It had taken a lot of hardwork and determination, but with the help of therapists and doctors alike you had managed to beat the Hanahaki disease and get better. You had even turned your pain into a book that quickly became a New York Times bestseller. While it was listed under fiction you had based it off your own story, although it had a happy end compared to yours.

Now you were being interviewed on a morning television show that the Daily Planet hosted. It was the first time you had been back to Metropolis since healing and you were a little nervous. Everyone knew that you were in town talking about your new book and that meant that Clark knew as well.

You wondered if he would try to talk to you. Were you ready for that?

“Good morning everyone and please welcome Y/N Y/L/N, the author of the wildly popular novel Flowers in My Lungs!” Kerry turned to face you, a smile plastered on her face, “Thank you for coming on the show.”

You smiled back, though your stomach was turning uneasily. This was the first interview you had done since your book released and you knew everyone was dying to find out the juicy details behind it. “Thank you for having me,” you responded.

“I know you’ve said that this was based on your own battle with Hanahaki, and your main character is somewhat based off of you, but what about Jack? Who is he based on?” Kerry asked, hunger in her eyes as she thought you would unload the truth right there and she would get the biggest scoop before any other reporters.

You tried not to squirm as you felt every gaze in the room on you as you thought of how to best answer this question. “I’d rather not say who it is,” you told her. “I don’t want to put them on blast like that. It wasn’t their fault that I wound up getting Hanahaki disease. Blaming me or them does no good, you can’t help your feelings and I don’t want anyone to go and send hate to this person.”

“Could you at least tell us a little about your relationship with them? Was it like your characters in your book?”

“We were really good friends, and I happened to fall in love with him. After a while I started to cough up the flower petals and I knew what was happening.” You took in a deep breath trying to compose yourself. “I hate that it happened and I haven’t seen or talked to him since it all went down.”

“Do you think you’ll ever talk to him again?” She asked.

“I hope so,” you said truthfully. “I do miss him.”

You had to go to commercial and when your eyes scanned the room you saw Clark standing at the back, hidden in the shadows. He smiled when he noticed you looking and you gave him one back before looking away before Kerry noticed the two of you. The commercial break ended and thankfully the next set of questions were more about your writing style and other inspirations for how your story played out plus what the disease was like while you were trying to heal from it.

After the interview you headed up to the main offices of the Daily Planet where you knew you’d find Clark at his desk. He was sitting there typing away as you approached and didn’t look up until you said, “Hey stranger.”

“Hey,” Clark stood, surprised to see you. He clearly hadn’t thought you’d come up to see him.

“Long time no see,” you leaned against his desk, your arms crossed over your chest so that he couldn’t see how badly your hands were shaking. He was still as handsome as ever, and you had to remind yourself that you were in a better place now. Those old feelings weren’t going to come rushing back just because you were in the same room as him. “How’ve you been?”

“Good,” he said, nodding his head slightly. “I’m glad you’re doing better… I worried about you when you were away.”

You gave him a small smile, “I worried about you too, Clark.”

He hesitated for a moment and then asked, “Do you want to have dinner tonight, like old times? If not that’s okay, but I’d really like to have a chance to talk with you.”

You nodded your head and said, “That sounds great. How about tonight at six?”

“That sounds fine, I’ll order in that way we don’t have to deal with anyone bugging you,” he said. He knew that your book had blown up and any interactions would be scrutinized and that someone would assume that he could be the one that caused you to have Hanahaki disease. They would be right, but he knew that you didn’t want to bring any trouble to his door.

You could have blasted him and told the world that Clark Kent was the man that gave you the disease, that you had fallen in love with your best friend, but he didn’t love you back. It had been heartbreaking, but people were entitled to their feelings. He had only ever seen you as a friend and you didn’t fault him for that.

When the day ended you headed to Clark’s, you would be leaving in a few days to make it to your next stop on the book tour. You were nervous for the rest of your travels so you were glad that you could have one night of peace with a friend. Was it weird that you still considered him a friend even though you hadn’t spoken in ages?

You had known one another for a long time that you didn’t think you would ever stop considering him a friend even if things never went back to how they were. He was still important to you.

Knocking on his door he quickly came to greet you, already you could smell a delicious aroma and knew that he had chosen your favorite place. You sighed happily as you stepped into his apartment, “Just as I remember it.”

He smiled sheepishly, “Is that a good thing?”

You patted his arm, “It’s comforting, don’t be so nervous Clark. We’ve had dinner together hundreds of times.”

“I know, but… things are different now,” he said, his sheepish smile dropping to a look of regret. “I just don’t want to upset you.”

“Clark if you’re afraid flowers are just going to start sprouting in my lungs again don’t. I’m fine,” you reassured him. “Now let's eat!”

Once the awkwardness faded away the two of you picked up like old times and you had a wonderful evening with him. You told him stories of people you had met in your counseling group and how wild they were as you all tried to find reasons to smile despite the pain the flowers caused. He was relieved to hear that you had support by your side as you went through therapy and treatments to help.

Halfway through desert he began coughing and at first everything was fine until you noticed a petal land on the table. Your eyes widened as you realized what this meant. Clark had Hanahaki disease. “I didn’t want you to know,” he said, his eyes not meeting yours as he crushed the petal in his hand.

“Who?” Your voice was soft.

“Lois,” he leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling. “It just started.”

Your heart broke for him, “At least it just started, the pain won’t be unbearable yet. It’ll be easier to reverse.”

“How?” He looked at you then, turning his head so that his gaze met yours. “I work with her, Y/N/N. I see her on a near constant basis. You were able to walk away, you didn’t have to see me all the time. She is a constant reminder of what’s happening inside me.”

You wracked your brain trying to find an answer or solution to Clark’s problem. “Come with me,” you said suddenly, startling him.

“What?”

“On my tour, you can follow me and write a story about me. No holds barred. No question too big or small. You’re the only person I would trust enough to do this with. You could get away from Metropolis and Lois and heal. If it’s still in the early stages it’s easier to reverse.” He still looked unsure. “Please just think about it. I leave in a few days, text me and let me know what you decide regardless if you come or not.”

He studied you and asked, “Are you sure?”

Rolling your eyes you smirked, “I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t sure.”

“I’ll think about it,” he promised.

Dinner ended shortly after that and you gave him a hug before you left. All the way to your hotel you wondered if Clark would take you up on your offer, and you wondered what would happen from here.

#Clark Kent x Reader #Clark Kent x Reader angst #Clark Kent #Clark Kent fanfic #Clark Kent fanfiction #Clark Kent angst #Requested

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chogisad · 7 years

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Petals Under Our Skin | Sehun AU

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

“Sehun’s throat is sore and he thinks he can feel it; growing and grabbing at his organs, reminding him of how bad he is at love.”

Sehun hates seasonal allergies. Before he's brushed his teeth, his body reminds him that it despises nature. He sneezes toothpaste onto the mirror, starts building pyramids from dirty tissues, and the dorm echoes with his sniffling. On the day Sehun coughs up his first petal, he wants to blame his allergies. It floats, gentle and white, atop his coffee, and Sehun can only blink. He clears his throat, runs his tongue over his teeth, and stares, trying to stop the world from spinning. "You okay?" Jongin asks and Sehun nods, still looking around the room, hoping to find a stray rose to take responsibility. The kitchen counters are bare, the table only playing host to the round terrarium Kyungsoo made a few weeks ago. "I-I think I'm coming down with something?" He voices a fading question. Jongin's brow furrows with familiar concern, searching for the telltale signs of illness before he motions toward the cupboards. Their eyes meet, and Sehun's heart stutters--fearful. "We have Vitamin C supplements. Take a couple." Sehun is in a daze but he nods. His hands tremble slightly as he pours a full mug of coffee down the drain, as he watches the petal get stuck in the strainer. "Too much sugar?" Jongin asks behind him and Sehun can't find his voice. He wonders if he should pinch himself, maybe attempt to control the details of what must be a lucid dream. "Jongin-" Sehun clears his throat. "D-do the petals often kill people?" He doesn't need to explain any further. Jongin knows what he's referring to; the curse of unrequited love. "No." Jongin replies. "People usually get the operation. It sucks, but not everyone is willing to die for love, you know?" And Sehun thinks he must be going crazy. But he picks up the coffee stained petal, feels it's smooth skin between the pads of his fingers and thinks of the boy who smells like spring and forests. He thinks of late night conversations and sharing meals, thinks of the warmth of his body, and how none of this was supposed to happen. "Of course." Sehun replies, still unbelieving. He braces himself against the kitchen sink. His thoughts race-- petals, operation, emptiness, not everyone is willing to die for love, roses-- and Jongin waits, curious to the turn in conversation. "Why do you ask?" Sehun holds his breath. He could say it; I'm in love with him, Jongin! So stupidly in love that my own body is gonna choke it out of me! He could shout a name into the wind, share this burden with someone else, but Sehun is afraid. He swallows the truth cloying the inside of his mouth because he isn't ready to face this, not yet. He changes the subject. Jongin fills the silence with idle talk of dance practice and Sehun nods along. He pretends he cares, too lost to register anything but his own misfortune. So Sehun tells himself he imagined the whole ordeal. He throws the petal away amongst food wrappers and old yogurt containers and moves forward-- it was a trick of the mind, based in exhaustion, due to a lack of sleep. And then Sehun wakes to a rose petal on his pillow, a rose petal on the white tile of the shower, a petal next to his trousers. In a matter of days, he finds himself cowering in the darkness of his room. He crafts excuses of stomach aches and a pounding in his temple. The others worry; they try to pump him full of medicine that is essentially useless. He retreats and shoves petal after petal in pockets and in the back of drawers. He's buying for time now. So Sehun stays away from him. Somewhere in his heart, Sehun still believes he can beat this, still believes he can teach himself to stop loving him in that way. Like the petals, he tucks away memories of walks along Han River, of the car rides and plane rides where they'd spend hours whispering secrets as they crossed borders. The nights that follow, as he lays in bed, cold and alone and coughing into his pillow, Sehun prohibits himself from giving in to the boy on the other side of the locked door asking if he wants tea. He pretends he's asleep, pretends he can't hear the concern, the need to make him better. Sehun will suffer through the withdrawals if it means he can survive for just a little bit longer. Sehun knows no one can help him. Google showcases 20 million search results. The internet and the world can explain the faults of his body better than he can. He doesn't want to read about the operation. He doesn't want to think of the emptiness that follows. He finds the origin of Hanahaki Disease in a book of Japanese myths. The volume is old and tearing, yearning to outlast the consequences of time, and Sehun turns the fringed pages with care. 'Love blooms just as quickly as it wilts.' Sehun reads the story of a prince who became sick with unrequited love. His longing became corporeal, growing and spreading within his body. Thorns and roses; they suffocated him from the inside and the prince died atop a pile of petals his body couldn't contain anymore. Sehun knows he shouldn't, but he rips the entire page out of the book and folds it into his pocket. His throat is sore and he thinks he can feel it; growing, grabbing at his organs, reminding him of how bad he is at love. Sehun wants to rip his chest open there and then. But just as much as it hurts, he knows how god damn beautiful it feels. If it wasn't for the petals, his waking hours would be euphoric, a lucid pleasure with stuttering heart and rose-tinted cheeks. It's stupid how much warmer the sun is on his skin, how his laugh reminds Sehun of ocean waves, of brighter days. His lungs contract, over and over again, and Sehun always shuts his eyes, always pictures the same soft smile. On some mornings, this love feels like it's worth dying for. And then Chanyeol finds his petals. Sehun tries to deny it, but Chanyeol is a furious storm, tearing open drawers, lifting bed sheets, and Sehun can only watch in shameful silence as the carpet litters with white. "How long?" Chanyeol's voice strains. His eyes dance with anger, and Sehun can see the way his hands shake, can feel a familiar fear radiating off of him. "A couple of weeks," Sehun whispers. He stares at his shoes. He crushes a petal under one of his soles. "Is it-" "Don't." Sehun warns. "It doesn't matter who it is." Chanyeol stares at him; disbelieving, afraid, pitying, and Sehun wants to run. He wants to scream, to shake Chanyeol and tell him he didn't want this either. "You can't tell anyone," Sehun whispers, his eyes pleading. Chanyeol opens and closes his mouth, wants to object and drive Sehun to the hospital right there and then. "When are you getting the operation?" Chanyeol asks, crumpling three petals between his fist. The silence stretches between them. Chanyeol waits, his mind whirring away combinations of schedules and excuses, of people for a need-to-know basis. With cold dread, Chanyeol almost drowns in the silence. He realizes Sehun doesn't have an answer. "Sehun?" Chanyeol's voice is quiet, trembling, and Sehun is suddenly standing at an edge, at the cusp friendship, yearning for someone to push him into the precipice. In that moment, Sehun shoulders Chanyeol's pain as well, shoulders guilt and shame and the thought that no one will forgive him if he chooses to die. "In a month," Sehun lies. It's easier this way. Three words are faster than trying to explain why the operation wasn't an option, why he was going to wait until a flower choked the love out of him. "In a month..." he repeats to himself and Chanyeol nods before they're both picking up petals, shoving Sehun's white ocean into black plastic bags. Chanyeol agrees to be his cover. They concoct a story of a weeks-long trip to Paris. They buy plane tickets they'll never use, pack suitcases they'll leave in Chanyeols car while they're at the hospital. This secret stays between them; it'll be buried with whatever other feelings they rip from Sehun's body. A week before it's all supposed to be over, Sehun runs out of excuses. He can't talk his way out of a birthday dinner, and they all pile into one of Seoul's most expensive restaurants. Sehun takes deep breaths, orders too many glasses of water, and Chanyeol's gaze never leaves him. 'Please take me home.' He texts Chanyeol, and the latter tries his hardest to get them out. The coughing starts as Sehun stands up to leave. It's a light clearing of the throat and Chanyeol rushes to his side. In a matter of seconds however, his lungs are contracting and Sehun's entire body spasms. He falls, grabbing for something to stable his frame, and the room becomes shattered glass and chaos as he pulls the tablecloth to the floor with him. The others are frozen in horror as Chanyeol cradles Sehun's head, who's body convulses with the effort of holding on to the petals. He can't do it, and they watch as the floor becomes a white, flowery ocean. Junmyeon steps forward, questions and anger on his lips but it all fades as the coughing quiets. Chanyeol can feel that they waited too long, and nobody speaks. "C-call an ambulance," Chanyeol's voice breaks. Sehun's entire being is exhausted. A single tear makes its way down his cheek, and he wishes he had the strength to apologize, to explain. Sehun looks up at Junmyeon with resigned eyes and a sad smile. His voice is a feeble whisper, but everyone in the room hears him. "White roses." He coughs. "Th-they're your favorite." Junmyeon is the only one to ride in the ambulance with Sehun. "Stop- stop," He orders, batting Sehun's hands away as he tries to remove the mask that will force air into his lungs. Junmyeon intertwines their fingers and watches as the mask's plastic fogs with each labored breath. "I-I'm sorry," Sehun tries. It's too little, too late, but Junmyeon shakes his head. "You don't have to apologize. Focus on breathing." At the hospital, they think he's sleeping. Someone lays something soft at his side, and he wishes he was actually unconscious. "I brought him a bear," Chanyeol says, hesitant. "I thought flowers were too ironic." The silence is tense. Friendship strains under feelings of betrayal and Sehun knows it's his fault. This love will slash more than his insides apart. It pits them against each other in a blaming game, and the air is cold with their resentment. "I had a right to know," Junmyeon grits out. Sehun can hear the anger in his voice, the hurt. "He didn't want you to know." Chanyeol sighs, his words tired. Sehun knows he owes him so much and he’s relieved he isn’t fighting this thing alone anymore.

"That's not fair and you should've-" "Would it make a difference?" Chanyeol snaps. Another silence envelops them. The machine monitoring Sehun's heart spikes, but neither of them notice. Sehun can imagine Chanyeol's spiteful stare, can imagine Junmyeon's helplessness tearing him apart. "He's my best friend." Junmyeon whispers, and Sehun wishes he had more morphine to numb this pain. "Would you have loved him like he needed you to?" Sehun doesn't want to hear the answer. "Of course." And just like that, Sehun wants all of this to be over. Before the operation, Sehun is drifting into unconsciousness. The others visit for hours, promising presents and trips as soon as he's on his feet again. None of them can hold his gaze for too long, aware that Sehun will be a different person when it's time to wake. A shadow steps in front of his bed. Already, Sehun's thoughts are blurring together, a mess of memories and guilt. His stubborn love fights the morphine, clings to the moments that put him on this hospital bed in the first place. His eyes flutter, two tired butterflies, and he wonders how long he has before the flower grips his battered heart. Junmyeon is crying. Sehun tries to move his hand, but Junmyeon beats him to it. His skin is warm, and his thumb rubs comforting strides against Sehun's knuckles. "I just needed more time," he murmurs, wiping away the apologetic tears on his cheeks. Sehun tries to shake his head, but his body fails him. His heart is longing for survival, and his faulty mind-- with all its affection and afflictions-- can't hold out against the drugs courting him to sleep. Sehun wants to stay awake though. He wants to tell Junmyeon this isn't his fault, that he wants him to fall in love with someone he chooses. Sehun does not want to be loved out of responsibility, out of pity. He'd rather tear the most beautiful thing he's ever felt out of his own body, than force Junmyeon to love him in order to save him. He'd rather give up this love, than hold Junmyeon's heart as a hostage, as a sacrifice, as something he had no right to. His line of vision darkens, and as he drifts into unconsciousness, Sehun thinks of only one night. They climbed to the roof of their building and lied side by side, searching the skies for nonexistent stars. Sehun had fallen asleep to Junmyeon's quiet breathing. In the darkness, Sehun had thought I love you for the first time; it was innocent and scared, unknowingly a fatal confession. He keeps those words in the back of his mind, holds onto them for as long as possible, until the operation rips them out of his body. Love is an act of selflessness. Sehun wakes to a room full of balloons and stuffed animals. Junmyeon is asleep in the chair next to him, his body slumped at an awkward angle. Sehun is too bleary to make much sense of anything, to register the empty echo of his own heart. It reaches for a feeling that doesn’t exist anymore; it only grasps at empty air. The room shifts out of focus, the sedatives kick in, but he thinks he sees Junmyeon's fist curled around the petals of a violet. Sehun gives in to unconsciousness with the sleepy thought that violets are his favorite flower.

MASTERLIST

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