Chapter Text
Hiding the flowers as if they were a common cold wasn’t difficult for any patient, as if the illness itself taught you how to do it. And if it was that easy for an ordinary citizen with a broken heart, then for Tim Drake, Red Robin, it was even easier. By now it was natural—during patrols he vomited them into trash cans, and at the manor he made sure to do it out of sight of any family member.
His case was both alarming and miraculous at the same time. The flower disease usually lasted between six and eight months, never more or less, and the outcome was always death. He had to admit that ever since he vomited the first petal two years ago, he never expected to survive a full two years.
And as if there weren’t more things to add to his strange illness, the carrier usually knew who the other end of the disease was—the cause, the unrequited love. But Tim Drake didn’t have the faintest idea.
Because of this ignorance, he had turned to the internet in search of a solution—or not really a solution, since he hadn’t found anything—but at the very least he wanted to know he wasn’t the only one. It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? Knowing he wasn’t the only one wouldn’t cure him, but it was that insatiable human need to know you’re not suffering alone.
Of course, there was nothing.
“I have the flower disease but I don’t know who I’m in love with” he Googles. It sounds stupid, but in his head it felt like an intelligent question.
Just like the day before, there is no fellow sufferer. And just like the day before, his next question is the same:
“Can I live two years with the flower disease?” He Googles again, and the answer has been the same for two years: from a medical perspective it’s impossible, but from a personal one—the one who’s been vomiting flowers for years—it says… shit, how is he still alive?
The frustration lasts long enough for him to choke on flower petals. His legs follow the same path they unconsciously know by heart; it’s a daily routine. He sits on his bed until the retching starts, then runs or walks (depending on the day) to the bathroom, vomits, flushes, and goes on with his life. The feeling of disgust is always there and will never leave—his throat raw after an episode. He can’t keep going like this.
However, after years of a toxic routine, something finally breaks and a light of hope goes out—but it doesn’t matter, because Tim never knew it was on. His situation has changed, and the disease has finally followed the natural loop of things.
He vomits a whole damn bud.
There are roots wrapped around his heart, and he’s always known they were there. He’s never gone to a doctor, but it’s the kind of intuition that tells him about arms encircling his organs—arms that should kill him but don’t. They don’t want to make him suffer, but they have no other choice, and they blame Tim. His flowers don’t want to hurt him, which makes him wonder: who is? Who is making him suffer? Who is he crying over without knowing it?
His illness is abnormal, and he knows it. It could be some kind of chronic condition that will keep circling like this for the rest of his life. Maybe it’s extremely rare, and the few people who suffer from it don’t even know how to use the internet to tell their story.
However, after spitting out an entire bud, he realizes once again that his theories were wrong—because this means he’s entered the final stages. And although his spirit tells him he should uncover the truth, he discovers he doesn’t want to, and won’t, because it no longer matters.
He’s patrolling the streets of Gotham when he feels the roots expand, suffocating his jaw. A strong pressure builds in his throat, and desperation crashes over him like a disastrous wave. The retching comes as a survival instinct—that part of his body that still refuses to accept death as a natural human event. Perhaps the only part of Tim that still wants to fight this.
On the other hand, as much as Tim Drake wants to give in to the lack of oxygen, Red Robin can’t be seen in the middle of the street vomiting a handful of petals. It would be another blow to Batman, and he doesn’t want to be responsible.
He climbs to the highest building his grappling hook can latch onto and presses the button to escape the dark street. He barely manages to land without breaking something before his knees hit the ground and the retching begins.
First there are petals—there always are, like an appetizer. Second, there’s blood, and instead of fear, there’s only a sigh of acceptance. He always knew this would happen sooner or later if he didn’t discover who he was in love with. Though, to be honest, even if he did know, he might not be loved back. He might not be cured.
He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t afraid, but he’d also be lying if he said he was completely terrified. Being in his position isn’t easy. He’s spent two years spitting flowers over an unknown love, and not only that—he should’ve died over a year ago, because no human has ever survived this long. Living knowing you’re going to die is suffocating, but knowing you’re the only one in the world makes it worse.
He’s afraid, but he’s prepared.
All his acceptance of death happens in a long twenty seconds while he shoves his own fingers down his throat, trying to survive. Something thick is lodged there and refuses to budge. It’s hard to grab because of its slimy texture slipping through his fingers, but with the desperate effort of someone who wants to breathe a little longer, he grips it tightly and rips it out with a dry cough that burns his throat. His eyes water from the terror of suffocating to death, and his heart pounds so loudly he can hear it in his ears.
It’s the first complete bud he’s vomited in two years, and the prognosis, of course, isn’t good.
It’s not the first—and it won’t be the last.
He barely manages to recover when more retching attacks him again, along with that bitter taste. He covers his mouth with both hands, shaking his head, trying not to vomit more. He can’t keep vomiting; it’s not something the mind can withstand twice in one day.
He gives in easily when he feels it rising in his throat again, forcing his fingers back in with a desperate need to survive—but this time it’s not enough. The tragic realization comes quickly: his fingertips don’t reach, and there’s even less oxygen.
His body twists in solitude as his skin turns slightly blue with growing desperation, clouding his thoughts. He feels useless—Batman trained him not to panic at death’s door, to survive one more night as always—but he fails that training. He can’t do it. He doesn’t want to die like this, and that’s more terrifying than the roots tearing through his organs.
Suddenly, the pain eases as if it had all been a bad dream, and any moment now he’ll wake up sweating in his bed. It wouldn’t be the first nightmare in two years about being killed by a handful of flowers. However, when he finally catches his breath, he realizes it wasn’t a dream.
He’s breathing again when he feels something tense wrap around his body, like an invisible embrace, while the flower carefully slides out of his throat without causing any discomfort. And even though he tries, he can’t stop the vomit that follows after so many emotions in so few seconds.
“I heard your heart racing twice and thought maybe you needed help.”
Kon is standing beside him, his expression unreadable, reflecting desperation and anguish. He wants to help, but his body betrays him. He stays frozen, letting his TTK act on his best friend’s body because he almost watched him die—and that’s not an image he could endure.
“And… you were suffocating. What happened, Rob? Was it Poison Ivy?” There’s a fury he tries to hide as he looks at the flower he pulled directly from Tim’s body. “Since when have you been vomiting flowers?”
“It’s fine, Kon, it’s nothing.” He didn’t want to hide anything from him, but he never expected him to find out. Of all the people who could’ve found him alone on a Gotham rooftop vomiting flowers, Kon wasn’t on the list—not even remotely.
“Nothing? What do you mean, nothing?” He’s tense and incredulous. Tim isn’t sure which of them thinks they’re dreaming. “If it weren’t for me, you’d be dead!”
Someone, anyone (except the flowers) please spare Red Robin from Superboy’s concern.
“I was about to rip it out myself. I wasn’t going to die.” He lies—not only to the worried boy in front of him, but to himself, because he wasn’t even close to grabbing it.
“That would’ve killed you. It had roots—I had to cut them so you wouldn’t cough up your left lung.” Superboy sounds tense and impatient, clearly not recovered from the shock of seeing him suffocate. And it’s for reasons like this that Tim never wanted anyone to know.
He can’t think; the new information stuns him. The branching was dangerous, and assuming the disease only decided today to end its vacation, it shouldn’t have progressed so fast. But of course, there’s no reliable scientific information to back any of this up—any doctor would call him a liar. Still, if what Kon says is true, how much time did he have left? Not knowing is unsettling. He could fall asleep peacefully tonight and wake up with a flower piercing his heart. Not exactly an encouraging outlook.
“I didn’t know. I didn’t think it would progress so fast.”
Fast. Of course, it’s an adjective with many meanings depending on how—and who—uses it.
“Haven’t you been checked?”
He doesn’t answer, but that’s answer enough.
“Does Batman know?” Kon insists, his composure finally cracking.
“I haven’t had any tests done, and no one knows. I’d rather keep it that way.”
He can read the horror on Kon’s face. He knows Kon thinks he’s an idiot for that decision—and that’s enough to know he’s also using his X-ray vision to examine him more closely, as if waiting or asking permission would give Tim enough time to die in front of him.
Against all odds, Kon’s expression worsens, as if Tim only had weeks—or hours—left. He truly hopes Kon is exaggerating, because God, Kon being dramatic about human health, is the only hope he has right now.
“Who is it?” Kon asks, as if it matters—but it’s the one question Tim refuses to answer. It’s not negotiable.
“It’s the least important thing.”
“Tim.” There are no masks between them now, no costumes—not when Kon looks at him so seriously and uses his real name, knowing how much Tim hates it. They’re not superheroes protecting who they’re supposed to protect. This is Superboy, Kon-El, genuinely worried about Tim Drake, his best friend. “It’s very advanced. You would’ve died if I hadn’t arrived.”
“Kon, I’ve been like this for two years. The first was a miracle, the second has been torture. Don’t make it harder.”