Daffodils and Phone Bills
A.N Hi, me again.
Please tell me if I’ve missed a tag, I'm not an asshole, I'm just stupid
(Master List)
He’s on a rooftop again, sitting down and looking up at the fading sunset.
“E.V.” Peter starts. “Tell me about Hanahaki. From the notes we took.”
“Hanahaki.” E.V.’s voice is quiet, like she knows this is serious.
"Hanahaki is a condition where the victim's unrequited love manifests as flowers growing in their lungs.” Peter pulls his legs up against his chest, curling up as the temperature begins to fall.
“The flowers take root in the respiratory system, causing symptoms that worsen over time. Coughing, wheezing, chest pain, and the expulsion of petals and blood. If left untreated,” E.V. pauses here, as if preparing herself. “If left untreated the flowers will eventually suffocate the victim."
She pauses again, as if choosing her next words carefully.
"The only known cures are surgical removal of the flowers, which also removes the feelings of love, or reciprocation of the victim's affections. Without one of these, the condition is fatal."
Peter is silent for a long moment. The sunset continues to fade, the colors deepening into purple and blue.
"How long?" he finally asks, his voice rough.
"The progression varies," E.V. replies quietly. “Would you like me to do a passive scan on your lungs and heart?”
“Please.” Peter swallows, tears welling up under the mask. He rips it off, rubbing aggressively at his eyes.
"Based on your symptoms, and the advanced state of the flower growth observed in the initial scans…" She hesitates. "Weeks. Perhaps less."
“Weeks.” Peter chokes down a sob. “Ok. I’ll be fine.”
“Peter, I suggest you tell-”
“No!” Peter shouts. He stands, running his hands through his hair and pacing. “I can’t, I can’t tell them. What if I- what if they don’t feel the same way.”
“Then the next course of action would be surgery.” E.V replies.
“Surgery, you think I have money for surgery? How would I even- They’d ask questions, right? What am I saying, I don’t want the surgery.”
“Peter, I am unsure how to help you if you don’t want the things that can.”
"I don't want to stop loving them, E.V." Peter's voice is barely a whisper. "Even if it kills me. It's the only thing that's ever felt real since MJ."
He swallows, the words coming out raw and broken. "Is that stupid?"
E.V. pauses, and when she speaks, her voice is gentle. "It's not stupid, Peter. It's human. It's the most human thing you've ever said."
Peter sucks in a breath, but it catches halfway. The sharp, ragged hitch that turns into a wet, gurgling rasp. He tries to push through it, forcing air past the obstruction in his chest, but the next inhale is worse. Something shifts in his throat. Crawls. Claws.
“E.V.-” He barely gets the word out before the cough tears through him.
It’s not a cough. It’s a convulsion. His entire body seizes, spine bowing forward as a violent, wrenching spasm rips through his lungs. The sound that escapes him is wet and broken, a gag, a choke, a desperate gasp for air that doesn’t come. His vision blurs, dark spots eating at the edges of the world as his oxygen supply thins.
The next cough is agonizing. Something scrapes up his trachea. A solid, jagged presence that tears at the soft tissue on its way out. Peter gags, one hand flying to his throat, fingers digging into his own skin like he can claw the obstruction free. A strangled, guttural sound escapes him as he hurls forward, landing hard on his hands and knees.
His throat convulses again. Something rips loose.
The flower comes up in a violent, wet gag, caught in a thick string of blood-streaked saliva, tumbling from his lips to land on the rooftop with a sickening splat. Peter hacks again, coughing up a spray of pink-flecked spittle, his chest heaving as he pants, face pale and slicked with sweat.
The flower lies before him in a crumpled, ruined heap. It’s a full flower, but barely, petals bruised and broken, torn from the stem in the violence of its exit. One petal is missing entirely, and the ones that remain are streaked with crimson, the yellow stained dark where blood has soaked into the tissue. A thin strand of bloody saliva still connects the flower to his lips, snapping as he finally pulls his head up.
He stares at it, breathing ragged, trembling, the taste of copper and rot thick on his tongue.
“E.V.. . .” His voice is a hoarse, broken rasp. He coughs again, a wet, pitiful sound that shakes his whole frame, and a speckle of blood lands on the concrete beside the flower. “What—what is it?”
“The flower? It’s a Daffodil.”
He sits back on his heels, trying to get his breath back. The flower is gross, and bloody. “A Daffodil.”
“Yes, in hanahaki the flowers have meanings according to a flower language.”
Peter can’t help it, he laughs, incredulous. And then regrets it when it hurts his chest. “A flower language?”
“Yes, Daffodils mean chivalry and regard. They can also represent rebirth, eternal life, and new beginnings.” A pause. “Daffodils may also represent unrequited love.”
“I wonder which one it means for me,” Peter says darkly, reaching out a hand to brush his fingertips against the flower petals.
E.V. is quiet for a moment before she speaks, her voice soft. "In your case, Peter, I believe the meaning is all of them. Chivalry, because you've always tried to protect them. Regard, because you love them more than you've ever loved yourself. And unrequited love, because you don't believe they could ever love you back."
The heavy silence stretches, and Peter's hand is still resting on the petals. His thumb traces the edge of one, smearing the blood that's drying there.
“Yes,” E.V. agrees. “Go back to your apartment, go back to them-”
“No,” Peter cuts her off. “I mean, I mean go back to the warehouse.”
“And what are you hoping to accomplish from that course of action? What is there for you?”
“I’ll find one of the scientist people, interrogate them, maybe there’s something we missed. There’s gotta be a way to stop this.”
“E.V.” Peter replies. There’s a long pause before he speaks again. “There isn’t any other way, is there. It’s surgery or, or tell them.”
A tear tracks its way down his cheek. He looks up, watching the last rays of sun disappear and New York transform into night life.
The city hums below him, a symphony of car horns and distant sirens and the murmur of millions of lives being lived. Peter sits in the middle of it, alone, the daffodil still resting on the concrete beside him. A grotesque monument to the love that's killing him.
He doesn’t know how long it’s been. He’s just been sitting there, lost in his thoughts. Thoughts about dying.
He's dying because he loves Matt and Frank. He's dying because they don't love him back. He's dying, and he can't even tell them why.
Matt and Frank. Shit. They’re probably worried about him.
Peter checks his phone. No messages or calls.
The phone screen glows in the darkness, illuminating Peter's face as he stares at the empty notifications. No missed calls. No unread messages. Just silence.
He locks the phone, and slips it back into his pocket. Standing up slowly, one of his legs gets the pins and needles feeling, it must’ve fallen asleep at some point.
He stoops, picking up the daffodil from the ground. He can’t leave it up here. The blood is dried on it. Into his pocket it goes.
Peter stands on the rooftop for a long moment, his hand pressing against his pocket, feeling the lump of the dried flower beneath the fabric. The city hums below him, indifferent, alive, moving on.
He takes a breath. It's shaky, but it doesn't trigger a cough. Small mercies.
He steps off the building into the night, catching himself with a web-line.
He lands on the ground in an alley, somewhere. He doesn’t know where he is right now. It doesn’t matter.
Peter looks up. Daredevil and The Punisher are in the mouth of the alley.
He straightens, putting on the Spider-Man persona like a shield.
"Hey, guys. Fancy meeting you here." His voice is light, casual, but he can hear how strained it sounds. "I was just, uh, taking a night stroll. You know how it is."
Daredevil steps closer, his head tilted, listening. "Peter. You've been gone for hours.”
“We’ve been looking all over for you Pete.” Frank says, walking closer slowly, as if Peter might spook.
“We called, and texted.” Matt added, getting closer as well. “But nothing was going through. Did you turn your phone off?”
“What? I don’t have any messages or calls.” Peter pulls his phone out again, turning it on and showing them. Frank takes the phone, inspecting the screen for a moment before turning it for Peter to see. He taps the screen in the upper corner. “You don’t have any service. When’s the last time you paid for that shit?”
“Paid for…” Peter trails off, taken aback. “I guess I forgot, I just got so busy that it slipped my mind.”
“Alright, you’re going on my phone plan.” Matt says with finality.
"Matt, you don't have to-"
"You're going on my plan, Peter." Matt's voice is firm, but there's warmth underneath it. "I'm not taking no for an answer. We need to be able to reach you. Especially when you," He pauses, his head tilting slightly. "Especially when you're out doing Spider-Man stuff."
Frank snorts, crossing his arms. "What he means is, you scared the shit out of us. We thought something happened to you."
Peter swallows, his throat tight. The flowers stir, but he forces them down. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to worry you guys. I just... I got caught up, and-"
"Stop apologizing." Frank steps closer, reaching out to grip Peter's shoulder. "We're just glad you're okay."
Peter stands there, Frank's hand warm and heavy on his shoulder, Matt's sightless eyes fixed on him with an intensity that sees everything. And for a moment, Peter forgets how to breathe.
They care. They care. They care.
The words echo in his skull, but they feel too good to be true. Too easy. He's spent so long convincing himself they don't feel the same way, that he doesn't know how to accept the possibility that he might be wrong.
"I-" His voice cracks, and he has to clear his throat to continue. "I'm okay. I'm fine. You guys didn't have to come looking for me."
"Yeah, well," Frank's hand squeezes his shoulder once before letting go, stepping back. "We did anyway. Don’t mention it.”
“I just said don’t mention it Parker.”
Peter's mouth opens, ready to argue, but Frank's raised eyebrow stops him cold. The words die in his throat, and he just nods, a small, almost helpless motion.
"Ok," he manages. "Ok, I won't mention it."
Matt hums in thought. “I think we were getting dinner before you decided to ditch us? Isn’t that right Frank”
Frank grunts, crossing his arms. "Yeah. We were gonna get Thai before you pulled your disappearing act." He pauses, then adds, almost grudgingly, "Still owe you those drunken noodles."
“You don’t owe me anything guys, I can-”
“No, it’s fine. We got it.” Matt gestures with a hand, as if waving away Peter’s words. “Now come on, I think they’re still open this late.”
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