A happy medium
Peter does his research well after he coughs up his first petal.
Technically called pulmoflorosis, originally coined ‘blooming lung’ in the frontier ages, and more fantastically, the Flowering Death, Hanahaki is an incredibly rare disease. Not just because it is by nature, but love in and of itself is rare; real love. Especially the kind this disease feeds off. As far as Peter knows, he’s the youngest person to ever have it. There’s that Parker luck again. People don’t love this deeply in this specifically nuanced way for so long with such resignation as to warrant dying from it, and they certainly don’t do it in high school. Kids don’t fall in love. Not like this. People don’t meet the love of their life- ‘cause that’s what it is- in 10th grade.
Peter gets it in 10th grade.
The catalyst is Harry’s accident. He gets hit by a car and for a horrible hour Peter thinks he’s lost his friend. His heart shatters.
It stitches itself together again and attempts to start beating again in a horrific limping pace that’s telling of the trauma it just went through. It’s like he was stabbed through the heart and reanimated- he’s not the same.
The damage is done.
First it’s a cough. Then he’s feeling brittle and phlegmy. He coughs up his first flower alone, and he’s not sure what it means, he didn’t know that was a thing, so he looks it up.
Peter doesn’t particularly want to die, but he’d be happy to if not for Aunt May. Still, this is something he’s got to get a handle on. He’s not sure what his move is gonna be yet, so while he mulls it over his bones start to feel hollow and his lungs feel WRONG. He starts excusing himself more, coming up with strategies and tells to deal with his symptoms, and this is his reality now because he can’t think of what to do. He doesn’t know where to go from here, and he can’t think through anything. It’s all fuzzy and he has horrible stretches of lucidity in between blessed bouts of apathy.
MJ finds out. He’ll probably have to end up doing something about it now, but in the meantime she’s subjected to witnessing his steady deterioration. She sits with him in nurses office and skims through medical pamphlets and holds his hair back when he’s yarfing up blood. Peter starts bowing out of things, too weak to actually keep them up now.
The stupid disease won’t just hurry up and kill him already. It seems determined to drag this out. He’s pretty sure his spider healing factor’s fault. He lives through the thing for fourteen months before he strikes on a theory that he tests, which then leads him to the creation of a temporary cure- a deterrent- that he takes every spring when the flowers return in full.
“Hey guys, what are you watching?”, Peter asks lazily, chucking a piece of popcorn from Sam’s bowl into his mouth.
“Somethin’ stupid. You ever heard of Hanahaki?”, Ava asks without looking.
Peter chokes. In his panic, he can feel phantom roots clutching his organs and petals catching up his esophagus. Luke looks back at him semi-worriedly.
“Pulmonoflurosis?”, he asks with concealed trepidation.
Luke frowns. “Yeah.”
“Never heard of it,” Peter responds lightly. He considers making a quick escape to the kitchen, but he needs to know why this is relevant.
“Uh huh. ‘S a soap opera trope. We’re watching a bad rom com that gives ‘flowery’ a whole new meaning.”
“A rare disease,” Danny adds.
Oh, no. Am I living a soap opera trope?, Peter thinks in horror. He never considered that particular indecency.
“Why the sudden interest?”, Peter questions in what he hopes is a casual tone, leaning sideways against the door and popping another piece of popcorn into his mouth. Sam kicks him.
“Danny said he’d never heard of it.”
“So? It’s a rare disease.”
Ava looks at him like he’s stupid, and by that he means she looks at him.
“The disease doesn’t matter. It’s basically a soap opera trope. I’m not even sure it’s a real disease and not just made up for the movies.”
“It’s a pretty stupid disease. It’s just a hardcore crush for drama queens, all they gotta do is confess. Even if it is real, there’s no way anyone’s dying ‘cause they couldn’t ‘fess up.”
“Shut up, it’s for the movie, guys,” Luke chides. “It doesn’t have to be realistic.”
Peter tries not to let it hurt him. He knows full well he can’t ask anyone to understand. Besides, taking a look at their movie, they’re absolutely right. It’s next level bullshit.
“What stage is she on?”, he finds himself asking.
“One. Stage one, and Luke’s crying.”
“Shut up!”
Peter snorts. She’s coughing up perfect white petals with a couple of dainty blood speckles at stage one, about the point Peter was wondering if his cold was ever gonna go away. She’s real graceful about it, too. Phlegm? Vomit? Dizziness, blood splattering the bathroom mirrors, asphyxiation? Never heard of her. The dialogue is almost uninspiring enough to make Peter doubt his own depth. There’s no way he’s this pathetic, right? Right.
“I just don’t get it,” Luke whispers tearily.
“I would’ve thought you’d be the most likely to understand,” Danny notes with surprise. “You’re the most empathetic member of the group.”
“I understand. It can be horrible being stuck between a rock and a hard place like this. I wouldn’t want to be forced into something like that. And it’s really embarrassing and all. But... dying is permanent. This feels... out of proportion. How can she not see the point in confessing? It’s a chance, at least! Once it gets down to the wire, I just can’t see why you wouldn’t confess.”
“It’s like she has the cure to her cancer and she’s just sitting on it,” Sam agrees with a lot less understanding in his tone.
Peter shifts. “You guys of all people should know there are things worth dying for.”
Ava’s head whips in his direction. “There are. This ain’t one of ‘em.”
“Love isn’t?”, he asks with a carefully neutral eyebrow.
“That’s an oversimplification,” Danny argues with a hand wave. Luke pauses the movie.
“So is your argument,” Peter shoots back, because he’s incorrigible and never knows when to let things lie. “It’s a stupid movie and a piss poor representation, but the concept is sound.”
“No it isn’t!”, Sam explodes incredulously. “She’s gonna die for something she can prevent!”
“If there was a civilian behind you, would you dodge a bullet?”
“That’s different!”
“Uh, yeah, that’s not this,” Luke agrees.
“Okay, bad example. But, look... maybe if you love someone, they are your life. If you were dying, and the only way to cure you was to tell a family member something that might mean you never see them again, or that they hate you, or even get hurt themselves- would you tell them?”
The team goes a little quiet then. Sam exhales sharply through his nose. Luke’s forehead furrows in contemplation.
“Well if you die they’ll probably be in pain anyway. The other option’s just rolling over and dying. Like, it’s not even a choice. I’m not saying telling them’s a great option, but dying isn’t an option at all.”
Peter’s heard this all before. It makes logical sense. Scientific method and all that. In his eyes, though, risking Harry is the unfathomable option. Besides, he’s fixed it. He doesn’t have to make a choice.
Peter gives his team an aborted shrug that means nothing and shuffles out to go be perfectly down to earth and not at all dramatic somewhere else, thank you. This is why he never watches these rom-coms.
It’s spring. Peter knows because his lungs feel fluffy, which is not as nice a feeling as it sounds. He registers it, but he can deal with it later. He is so close to perfecting medical webbing, and it will actively save lives in the field and possibly beyond it. Just two days ago a civilian caught in Shocker’s last tirade had been announced DOA on account of blood loss that could’ve been prevented if he’d had these webs on lock.
He also has a Spanish test and he’s been studying his ass off for Decathlon, MJ’s been pissed at him for skipping three times in a row, which is pushing it even for him. Harry’s kept him up with a late-night rant and therapy session too, so his reflexes are 7% slower than standard, which makes a difference. Worrisome. He promised Aunt May he’d go with her to see Ben today, so he won’t be able to nap it off in the afternoon, but if he’s lucky it’ll be a quiet night and he can catch up then.
Peter’s collected all the stuff he actually needs to make the antidote, so he’s not worried. He’ll just have to cough a little longer.
That all seems very viable until he’s taking his beatings in training and the blows feel like trains slamming into him. He’s shivering- the cold blows right through him despite them being inside and it seeps and circles through him like he’s a biodome for the brittle twigs that have replaced his bones.
It’s nothing new. It’s been a few years, but he remembers the attacks. He’s been a lot worse. Peter grits his teeth and hits back.
Sam keeps coming at him. Peter works twice as hard to keep up the fight and find open moments to gulp big deep breaths because it’s getting harder.
“Come on, Spidey, I know it’s Friday, but a little more energy, please!”, Nova taunts.
“Someone’s off his game,” comes Ava’s biting comment from the sidelines.
Peter shouldn’t have taken his focus off of his foe. Nova uses his momentary distraction to land a hit right to his chest.
Peter flips clumsily backwards, still on his feet more out of instinct than anything else, and doubles over, wheezing. He sucks in air that doesn’t seem to reach his lungs, doesn’t do anything for him, he just needs to breathe, damnit, breathe-
Peter shoves his mask up over his mouth desperately, sides heaving. His ribs shake with the effort to expand, letting him down just as he needs them. Nova’s stopped, and through his hazy vision he can see the others congregating hurriedly and rushing over towards him. He takes two steps back and throws a hand up, the other hovering over his quivering chest. Stay away.
They press in anyway. Only Danny wavers. They can’t help him, though. He can hear their squabbling but he’s too focussed on not passing out to tune in. He takes another shaky step back, giving them the best glare he can muster, and hopes he doesn’t sound too pathetic.
Suddenly he can breathe again- just a slight improvement, but he gulps it up gladly. He smacks someone’s hand away, possibly Ava’s. He wishes they’d shut up. Their noise is almost as painful as the pounding in his head and the scrape at his throat, and the worst part’s coming.
Right, he’s got to get out of here before that happens. He really should’ve made his medicine. As is, all he can do is fumble around his teammates for the exit, waving their frantic hands away. Luke gets louder for some godforsaken reason.
Peter makes it to the first door and turns left. His room shouldn’t be too far, it’s got a lock, he can figure the rest out later. Yes, good, he’s got an adjoining bathroom he can paint red and ride this out in-
Huge, thick hands that could only be Luke’s force him around in an about turn, and the quick movement sends his head underwater. The currents shove him on and he’s not quite conscious enough to react.
The sight of the water cooler outside the medical wing snaps him somewhat awake. The medical wing? No, he needs to go to his room. What’s he doing here? Is Luke taking him here? No, this isn’t where he wants to be. Luke flounders momentarily at his sudden resistance and Peter seized the opportunity to shove him off and stumble backwards. Luke grabs for him again, but Peter isn’t messing around anymore. He cannot be exposed like this. He needs to get back to his room now.
Ava. Her hands falls readily on his shoulders and he jerks, but she’s steadfast. A vice grip, though she’s careful not to dig her nails in. Considerate, but he can’t afford this now. Luke says something, and Peter realizes Danny and Sam are still here too.
He’s out of time. He doesn’t even realize it under the first bout hits him, the wetness in his throat so familiar and expected that he hadn’t even processed its progression. He coughs it up, biting down to keep his mouth shut as he tastes copper. It burns. Shit, there’s the first petal. He’s gotta get a bucket or he’s fucked.
Danny is an Angel. He must be, because he is the one to bring Peter a bucket. His brain comes up with some justification in the moment, something like ‘if I’m careful not to show them the bucket I can pretend it’s just vomit,’ and that’s it before he gives in. He lets himself hack out the blood and bile and all those fucking petals without restraint into the bucket. More crawl up his throat, slower, and it feels like a cheese grater going up his esophagus. He loses control of his breathing, body spasming, choking on fluid and simultaneously gasping for air. He has not missed this. He has not missed this at all.
It occurs to him now to panic. He didn’t make it to his room, and there’s no way his teammates haven’t seen the bright red yarf he’s been hacking up all over their nice white bucket. They maybe haven’t seen the petals, they tend to get pretty muddled up with everything else in these attacks. Still, they’re gonna have questions. What the hell is he gonna tell them?
For now he just lets himself choke up his stomach lining because there’s nothing to be done about it now and it’s too hard to focus on anything. It’s all he can do to keep glaring and waving off the hands invading his space. Let a guy break in peace.
When he’s able to, the first thing he coughs out is “I’m fine.”
Ugh, more noise. He can kind of listen now, though, so he understands the disbelieving exclamations he receives in return. It just makes him more annoyed.
“I’m- fine,” he insists defensively.
“Oh, false alarm. Don’t worry about it guys, he’s fine,” Ava hisses.
“I have it under control.”
“Your teeth are red! You’re vomiting blood!”
“Peter, you must see how we can’t believe you,” Danny adds in an urgent undertone.
Peter gulps in air gratefully, his throat feeling not unlike a splintered reed. He forgot how tiring these stupid episodes are. “It’s fine, it’s normal.”
Danny falters. Luke’s face does something interesting, and Ava’s head whips around to stare him in the pale face. Sam, however, hasn’t caught up yet.
“Coughing up blood isn’t normal, you idiot! It’s a sign of internal bleeding!”
“Yeah, well, that’s where the blood’s supposed to be.”
Sam gives him such a horrified face that Peter saves it to his mental files to laugh at later. He clearly doesn’t get the joke though, and if anyone else does, they don’t appreciate it. Peter is wasted on these guys. He sighs.
“You knew about this,” Danny breathes. Sam snaps around to face him. Ava hisses out a shocked ‘what?’ Peter leans back against the wall and lets his head dip back until it hits the wall as well, closing his eyes.
“Let’s talk about this any other time. I’ve gotta go make my medicine.”
“You’re sick. God. Okay, guys, let him go.”
Thank Spider God for Luke. Peter’s gonna send him a fruit basket. He hums as much, or he tries to, but his closed up shredded throat betrays him and his voice cracks and tapers off into another weak cough. Fuck this soap opera life of his.
His team lets him wobble off alone, each step granting him a little better balance, and Peter, for the first time in a long time, runs away.