Chapter Text
Hanahaki disease (花吐き病) . In which the victim of an unrequited (one-sided) love begins to vomit or cough up the petals and flowers of a flower. The plant grows in their lungs and can and will grow large enough to make the process of breathing impossible if it is left untreated.
There are three ways that Hanahaki can be cured. Firstly, surgical. Through the removal of the plants' roots, this operation subsequently removes the patient's capacity for romantic love. It may also erase the patient's feelings for and memories of the enamoured.
Secondly, reciprocation. The victim will stop suffering the disease if and when their enamoured begins to requite the same feelings for them in return. These feelings cannot be feelings of friendship, but true genuine love.
Third, death. The most tragic ending. If left untreated, the plant will cause a blockage in the lungs and cut off the ability to breathe. They will die a slow, painful death.
But nothing about any decision made will be easy. Surgery always has its risks, and it is possible for the victim to die on the table, or just days after the surgery if the illness is left untreated for so long. The disease causes severe degradation to one’s body, leaving them in a weakened state.
Forcing someone to love you in return is a difficult task, and something that cannot be forced. If the ‘love’ spouts as a by-product or coercion, it will not work as a cure. Unless the feelings spout from a place of genuinity, the victim will continue to suffer.
Death is awful, no matter how it is shaped or portrayed. It is also final, and leaves room for change. Maybe things may have been different, had they lived slightly longer.
Isn’t it strange how just one conversation can seemingly change everything? A few simple words exchanged, a half assed effort to get to know someone, and suddenly the world flips on its axis and the trajectory of the world is ever so slightly altered, a blip in the timeline.
For Lando, that was meeting Oscar. For Oscar, that was meeting Lando.
The two boys happening to meet and become friends was a multitude of strikes of fate. Having both moved to the same small-town England on the very same flight was the first. They’d first met while waiting to collect their bags from baggage claims, exchanging smiles when they saw they both had on Marvel merch- Lando an iron man hoodie, Oscar a spiderman shirt.
The second was being in all the same classes with assigned seats and lockers right next to each other. The pair were thick as thieves in the blink of an eye, a known fact by everyone in their year. Where there was Oscar- there was Lando.
The only thing to have ever brought disturbance to their tight knit friendship was that there had been a handful of people who had questioned the two boys on if they were dating. It always seemed to trigger something within Lando. In his eyes, he wasn’t able to spend time with his best friend without people having to make it weird. Oppositely, Oscar always handled the assumptions with poise and politeness.
Just that was something that Lando envied about Oscar, in a deep down, twisted and bitter way. He was simply jealous of how unaffected he was by everything. Lando was the furthest from the calm and uncaring persona Oscar carried in public, often reactive and hotheaded.
At the least his reactions often got a laugh out of the younger boy, joking around and teasing Lando each time he would get overly offended by the question, "I'm offended you're so upset by the concept of us dating!” It often brought Lando back to being level headed again, realising how unnecessarily dramatic he could be.
Yet, he wasn’t even offended it was Oscar. In terms of boys, Oscar was about as good as it got, pale skin littered with perfectly scattered beauty spots, charmingly crooked bunny teeth, a swoop of chocolate brown hair that never had a strand out of place (even though Oscar swore to the ends of the earth that he hadn't ever used a comb). A natural charm and genuinity, he oozed positivity.
So despite his awareness of Oscar’s attractiveness, he definitely wasn’t gay. There wasn’t a single reality where he could possibly ever want to date or kiss him. He could appreciate when a guy was attractive- like Ryan Gosling or Brad Pitt- but that didn't mean he would ever want to kiss them or anything. He felt that even less towards females.
He didn’t like the bright waxy spread of lipstick, or the bush of black curls that framed their eyes in movies. It seemed all phoney, a facade to draw in the attention of men. Maybe he’d feel different one day, but he’d thought that in his early years of elementary school when he’d been told that girls wouldn’t have cooties for much longer. That soon, he’d begin seeing girls that made butterflies swarm his stomach.
He was still waiting for that feeling,
If not just for his dry humour and natural ability to get a laugh out of Lando, it was probably Oscar’s talent and ambition that drew the older boy towards being his friend. His sport, unlike the majority of the boys in their school who played soccer or cricket, Oscar karted. It had even been the reason he’d moved to the U.K. so he could drive in Formula 4.
Now in Formula 3, he was at school less and travelling almost twice the amount. School became somehow even lonelier. It seemed each day that he would drag himself to class, sit there and take the most baseline notes, then beg his parents to let him come home earlier. Once his absences from school began looking a 1:1 ratio of when he actually was there, his parents put their foot down and he wasn’t allowed to miss another day.
Having Oscar away so often and being left alone gave Lando a whole lot of time for self reflection. He reflected on firstly his relationship with him, with Oscar, and lastly and most of all, with other people, or his lack of any. He had other friends to be fair- Carlos and Daniel who he played soccer with, and George in his business class.
The problem lay in the fact that none of them were Oscar, and no one was even close.
Arguably one of the best aspects of the two’s friendship was that unlike every other one of their other friends, neither of them had ever had a girlfriend, or even made out with a girl at a party which seemed a recurring action for everyone else. For Lando, it was a lack of interest, and while that was a factor for Oscar, in reality he just didn’t have the time for it.
Being so busy with constant training, racing, travel, family life, and school left him too exhausted by the end of it to even attempt to date. It put Oscar and Lando on a similar inexperienced playing field, even though Lando was relatively sure Oscar at least had had a crush before.
But he’s not getting any younger, and time seems to be slipping further from his grip and speeding up infinitely. At 17, his relationship with sexuality steadily becomes more of constant sour taste on his tongue. It surrounds each of his waking moments, a dull buzz in the forefront of his mind. Wondering when, wondering who, wondering how. So many questions, so little experience, so much disgust towards the thought.
He wants to be normal, he wants to look at a girl and feel as if his heart is about to thrum out of his chest, but his brain just goes silent each time. Not the silence that comes with your world pulling to a halt, being so enamoured with someone, but the silence of when the beat of your heart seems quieter and slow, a realisation that absolutely nothing is there. It can’t be forced, and it can’t be faked.
It was a lonely situation, feeling like such an outcast for being that way. He found his sole solace in Oscar, the one person close to him he could rely on that made him feel like maybe there wasn’t something completely wrong with him. Life was more than girls who wore perfumes that buried itselfs into the fabric of your shirt and lingered like a bad headache, more than giving into shallow wants in desperate hours, more than signing yourself up for constant arguments and demanded attention.
For Oscar, life was racing. It was karting, speeding, adrenaline, pushing the limits, defying odds. It was pure passion.
For Lando, life was Oscar.
So maybe both of their times would come, or maybe they’d follow through with their lives on their individual journeys, never stopping to look back at a life of monogamy or lust. Maybe they’d both be content, or maybe Lando would forever feel this way- empty and different from everyone around. Maybe he’d find a passion that enthralled him just as much as Oscar was with racing. He’d finally find an escape from the mental torture of relationships, and he could find a way to be his own person, not a tag along of his best friend.
Mindfuck. It’s pure mindfuck.
Lando stops sleeping, his eyes still get just as heavy, but there’s a stimulant burrowed deep within his senses, not allowing rest, not allowing a break. He stays up till the early hours of each morning, his bones aching from whatever desperate attempted position he tried to fall asleep in the night prior. Melatonin doesn’t work, sleeping pills don’t either, so he takes nothing, not wanting to add an addiction on top of all this.
Maybe he should talk about this with someone. Get his feels out into the open air. Maybe it wouldn’t help, he’d likely just continue to feel the same. Yet, if someone can sympathise with his feelings, maybe the isolation wouldn’t be quite as bad.
He caves and speaks to the person he holds closest to himself beyond Oscar. His brother Max. There’s a few years between the two, and definitely a gap in maturity. Max is all the things Lando isn’t. Polished, polite, smart, passionate, outgoing. Lando is rough around the edges, hollow on the inside, bitter in every aspect. But, that bitterness doesn’t reflect up to Max or Oscar, who just see Lando, not for all the things wrong with him, but for his humorous and determined inner core.
It’s now or never if he wants to speak to his brother on the topic as he’s currently home visiting from university. They share a room, just like old times, just like all the early years of Lando’s life when he’d modelled himself to be like his big brother, follow in his footsteps. Where that had all changed wasn’t clear, the determination to be better, to be ‘perfect’ had faded away as he realised it to be an impossible dream. Now, he simply didn’t try at all.
Their single beds are closely separated by a chest of drawers, yet, the distance seems far greater. “Max, when did you first have a crush on a girl?” His deep and sleepless voice cuts through the thick silence filling the room. There’s a moment where he debated whether the question actually managed to reach Max through the plush material of his duvet.
That is until there’s a rustle of fabric and a squeak of the bed frame. “Mmm,” A groan straight from his throat, “I reckon I was about seven or eight,” His voice is tired and groggy, clearly having previously been mid-sleep unlike the younger boy. “Why's that?”
He hadn’t really thought ahead to what his answers would be as the conversation progressed. Maybe he thought Max would whip out some motivational speech, tell him just exactly why he shouldn’t be ashamed of his feelings, or lack off, so it’s all improv now, speaking from the heart. His eyes focus on the dim outline of his fingers, twiddling them as a distraction to allow him to get out of his own head for long enough to answer. “I still haven’t had one,” He hacks up a cough, the type used to get something unstuck from his throat. “And.. yeah, I just feel weird, I’m pretty much the only guy my age who hasn’t liked someone yet,”
There’s a pause that lasts long enough for Lando to wonder if Max deemed the conversation as seriously boring and unimportant that he’d dozed off, until “You know that's alright, yeah?” His low voice reassures. “There’s no need to rush or force it,” That feels good to hear, verbatim for what he was hoping Max would say. Say that it’s okay, say he’s not weird. “Maybe you just haven’t met the right girl yet.” Then, a somehow even longer pause drawls out into his adding comment, “Or boy,”
A dirty feeling floods his body, a sensation comparable to nails on a chalkboard. His face crumples, his eyebrows twisting into the ugliest expression he’s sure he’s ever made. “I'm not gay,” It comes out harsher than anticipated, but it’s not just feelings of anger that power behind it, but all those feelings of doubt and confusion that make the comment strikes something vulnerable within him.
It’s harsh enough to pull back the awkward and palpable tension that had been previously resting between them. “I didn’t say you were,” He sighs at his brother’s defensiveness, “I'm just trying to be understanding of your situation .” He’s clearly trying to be careful with his words so as to not set off another explosive reaction from Lando.
“Right, sorry” The noise that comes out of his voice is unfamiliar to his ears, hardly even there, just a mumbled acceptance. He knows he needs to be less reactive, and needs to learn to take his time trying to be more collected. He’s been made to feel like too much his whole life from everyone except Oscar and Max, so now there’s only one.
The idea of disappointing his brother, his role model is a worse pain then any injury he’s had, any upset moment he’s endured. Where he’s trapped in between a heavy, weighted blanket and the top of his mattress feels like an oven, all the heat radiating off his irate body is trapped to cling to his skin. He pulls his shirt off and bundles it up, shoving it right down next to his left knee.
Without knowing if Max is still awake, he explains himself in an attempt to clear any awkwardness. “It’s just,” His lungs seem to completely empty themselves with his next exhale, “It's just that people at school are already always asking if im gay. Everyone thinks Oscar and I are together.” He tilts his head to his side, seeing a pair of brown eyes looking straight back at him under the dimly lit room. So he is still awake.
A lack of response from Max makes Lando regret even bringing it up in the first place. He’s never been one to judge, always sickeningly understanding. He knew Max wouldn’t have a poor reaction to this, but he did fear what would come out of his mouth. What if it did make him feel like there was seriously something wrong with himself.
“Does that offend you that it's Oscar people assume specifically?”
That isn’t one of the rare things he’d ever thought too far into in one of his many nights of hatred contemplation. Staring wistfully at the fuzzy outline of his brother’s face, he wallows in the question for a while. Maybe it isn’t the insinuation that he’s gay that bothers him. Maybe he wouldn’t have care that much if people asked if he was dating Alex or George. Maybe it‘s different because it’s Oscar.
But why is it different because it’s Oscar?
Someone who was clearly comfortable in his sexuality, someone who didn't care if people thought he was gay, unlike almost any other guy who would have taken great offence to it. That’s probably why it bugs him so much.
Because Oscar never denies it, he lets people think him and Lando were together. He’s not scared, but Lando is. Scared of letting people perceive him.
A cough bubbles in his throat, his eyes burning as he tries to hold it in. It’s not anything too out of the ordinary as ever since Oscar had left to go to Monza for the better half of a week for a grand prix, Lando’s chest has constantly felt tight and constricted. He was usually able to compress the need to cough, as each time he allows it, it only hurts far worse, painful spluttering that winds him to exhaustion.
He blames Oscar for that too. The fucker has probably given Lando a cold he’d picked up from the constant travel he did. He forgets about Max’s lingering question until their eyes meet in the dark again, “Maybe,” It’s slightly muffled from the covers that have crept up to cover half his face. It’s nice, not as warm anymore and it helps to mute the buzzing of the fan and the dull noise of traffic outside. “I think it's strange that… I don’t know, I guess I just wish he would think it's weird like I do. He just allows it, he lets people think we’re a couple”
“I think you’ll figure all of this out pretty soon Lando, everything is going to click one day.” It leaves them in a lighter silence than before the talk. Now, not only is Max able to, Lando is too, after what feels like endless restless nights stuck deep in careful consideration. His nose buries into the crook of his elbow as his forearm sprawls across his face. A single cough hits against his bicep, the exhaustion from it pulling him into a deep sleep.
He doesn’t see the sun gradually rise the next morning after what feels like forever of staring out the window, watching the sky gradually turn from a dusky grey to a warm collage of purples, pinks, and orange. Sunlight burns hot stripes across his face, the rays directed through a slit in the curtain. He rubbed a tired hand over his face, a wet hand.
The joints in his arms creak as he stretches out, the dry air from the oscillating fan makes his uncovered skin feel infinitely dry. Well, almost all of his exposed skin. The inner corner of his elbow feels wet, uncomfortably so. Blinking sleep out of his eyes and squinting, he sees the reminiscence of an eerie red liquid. There isn’t a cut below the gleaming splodge so there must’ve been a different source for where it’s spilling out of.
The most logical option is a spontaneous bloody nose occuring at some random point during the night, and he’s proven correct when he feels the skin just above his top lip and below his nostrils and there’s that same familiar trickle of warmth.
It stains his fingertips and just under his fingernails and no amount of dry tissues is going to get it fully off, so he lugs himself to the bathroom to scrub away the marks. As the covers of his bed are pulled back, they reveal a single striped carnation petal laying upon a smear of blood, completely unnoticed.