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Tim wakes choking on petals.
This, unfortunately, was not something new.
Luckily this time it’s soft against his tongue, velvet-edged, blood-speckled, and tiny. He cups them in his palm, breath hitching as he recognizes the bloom; blue salvia.
The flower of wisdom, of tranquility. Of what he certainly doesn’t feel right now.
Tim knows the names of every flower blooming in his lungs.
He catalogues them like he would evidence;
- Little Blue Salvia blossoms after every time he hears Kon laugh, when his head is thrown back and the sunlight catches his hair just right.
- White Camellia show up every time Kon ruffles his hair, or calls him any number of affectionate names, like Tim isn’t bleeding petals behind his smile.
- Red Spider Lily that showed up one day after a mission when Tim actually realised he did love Kon, not as a teammate, or a friend, but something more.
Those thin petals started his panic, and started it all.
The petals started small. A cough in the shower, a bloom on his pillowcase when he wakes that quickly is moved.
Tim keeps track after the first petal, keeping them in his Nest, labeled with dates of their appearance. He tells himself it’s manageable. That unlike countless others before him, he won’t let it affect him.
Bernard doesn’t know.
Bernard still kisses him like he’s spring; gentle, eager, full of promise.
Tim still kisses back like he's autumn; full of lost time, fading, and a dash of that seasonal depression.
They’re dating. They’re happy. At least Tim thought they were.
Tim memorises the curve of Bernard’s smile, the way Bernard says his name like it enthralls him. But it’s Kon’s name that is a refrain in his chest, blooming with every heartbeat, and it’s Kon who is a ghost in every room while Tim tries to work this out.
Tim’s heart is a divided kingdom that aches.
But Kon keeps showing up. The team keeps needing his help. In stakeouts, in shared missions, and in the way Kon say’s Tim’s name like it’s a promise.
Tim keeps coughing.
And the petals multiply.
They appear stuffed in the folds of his suit, after a coughing fit on patrol where he really didn’t want to leave behind any evidence, crushed and damp with sweat. They tumble from his lips during meetings at WE, caught behind coughs he disguises as clearing his throat.
The growing archive in the Nest nearly needs a new shelf.
The petals don’t stop.
But Tim doesn’t tell Bernard. He doesn’t tell Kon.
The petals don’t stop.
He looks for cures that won’t remove his emotions, for any old folk remedies in his parent’s vast collections that he kept.
The petals don’t stop.
Tim loves Bernard. He does.
The petals don’t stop.
Tim tries everything. Tea steeped with dried yarrow and honey. A poultice of crushed violet and mint. Breathing exercises and meditations.
The petals don’t fucking stop.
And Tim keeps coughing.
Bernard notices the blood first, blooming rust-red on the collar of Tim’s white undershirt, as if he had turned his head to cover a cough. It’s a smear, not a splatter. Almost delicate, if it, you know, weren’t for the blood.
At first, Bernard didn’t even think of it, brushing it with his thumb, thinking at first that it might have been paint or something that might have spilled.
“Are you sick?” Bernard asks, voice trembling as points it out.
Tim want’s to say yes. Tim should say no. “I… It’s nothing.”
Bernard doesn’t believe him, not really, but he lets it go. Anyone who knows Tim knows that pressing too hard only makes him retreat further, like a shadow folding inward.
But Bernard starts paying more attention. Noticing the way Tim’s coughs linger too long. The way Tim excuses himself from meetings with a hand pressed to his mouth. The way he’s always doing laundry almost ritually, with burning floral candles.
The way that Tim tries to break up without saying anything. If anything, Bernard holds on tighter.
So he is watching as Tim begins to unravel. The way he flinches when his friends are brought up. The way he seems worse after visiting Superboy. The way the TV and radio are always on a metropolis news station.
Then, Tim collapses during a mission.
It’s Superboy that flies him back to the Nest, a bloody bouquet smashed between the two of them as Tim coughs.
Bernard is already there when they arrive, though he hears them before he sees them. Kon’s boots hitting the balcony with a force that rattled the glass, the sharp intake of breath as Tim coughs again, wet and ragged. A sound that doesn’t belong in any human throat.
Bernard is running before he can think, getting to the door as it slides open; and there they are, Kon cradling Tim like he’s something fragile and breaking to pieces.
And Tim?
Tim is soaked in blood and petals.
Bernard freezes.
Kon’s eyes meet his, wide and wild, “He just… he went down. One second he was fine, and then, then he couldn’t breathe. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know—”
Tim coughs again, more petals spill from his lips, fluttering to the floor like confetti at a funeral.
Bernard moves before he can think, helping Kon lower Tim onto the couch, brushing the petals from his face with shaking hands.
Tim’s eyes flutter open, glassy and unfocused, “Bernard? You’re here…”
It was quite clear that Tim didn’t actually know where here was.
“Of course I’m here,” Bernard says, voice cracking, “You idiot. You absolute idiot.”
Tim tries to smile. It comes out as a grimace, “Sorry.”
“For what?!” Bernard demands, cradling Tim’s hand in his, “For almost dying? For not telling me… your team? For—” He stops himself, “Tim, who is it?”
Tim’s gaze flicks to Kon, then back to Bernard, “I don’t… I didn’t mean to,” Tim says roughly, coughing again.
Kon’s hand rests on his shoulder, “What’s going on, I can go get B, or like, Zatanna? Constantine?”
Bernard shakes his head, “It’s Hanahaki, magic won’t help”
Kon goes still, “Hanahaki? That’s… that’s the flower’s in the lungs, right? Where you—”
“Cough up petals,” Tim finishes roughly, “When you’re in love, and it’s not returned.”
Bernard’s heart stutters, “But I do love you.”
“I know,” Tim coughs without a petal appearing, “I love you too.”
“Then why—”
Tim drops his gaze to the bloody flowers on his chest, “I didn’t mean to?” He repeats again, “I didn’t… don’t want to ruin anything.”
Kon’s hand tightens on Tim’s shoulder, near to the point of being painful, fingers trembling just slightly, “Ruin what?”
Tim doesn’t look up, his gaze fixed on the petals crushed against his chest. “This?” He whispers, “Us. The team. Me and Bern. I didn’t want to break anything.”
Bernard exhales sharply, like he’s been holding his breath for weeks, “Tim, you’re not breaking anything.” He says, and it’s not angry, not even hurt. Just full of something raw and aching, “You’re the one falling apart. The one literally dying.”
Tim shakes his head, weakly, “I thought I could manage it… That if I just… loved you enough, that it would be enough.”
“And it wasn’t?” Bernard asks softly.
“It was,” Tim’s voice cracks, “It is! But… Kon… he… you,” He turns to look up at Kon’s piercing gaze, “You’ve always been there. In my ribs. In mind, every breath I take. But I didn’t want it to be real. I didn’t want to want both of you.”
Kon speaks, stunned, “You love me?”
Bernard sits back, eyes widening as if connecting the dots, “You’re in love with both of us.”
Tim closes his eyes, his body trying to curl up on the couch, “I’m sorry.”
Kon is silent for a long moment, then knelt beside the couch, his hand hovering over Tim’s and Bernard’s.
“You’re such a dumbass, Rob,” He says softly, “You think I wouldn’t love you back?”
Tim’s eyes snap open, “I… I thought you were just being nice.”
“Tim,” Kon says, his voice bottled with emotion, “I’ve been in love with you since we were kids.”
Bernard squeezes his hand, “And I’ve always known you loved him too. Before I even met Kon, or knew about you… I knew that Superboy and Robin III had the hots for each other, even if nothing happened.”
Kon and Bernard exchange glances and then Kon leans in and kisses Tim’s bloody lips. Bernard kisses his temple.
The petals in his lungs burn up into his throat, turning away from the kisses into the couch as he coughs and coughs and coughs.
Tim gasps, breath catching like wind through broken glass. “I…” Tim coughs to clear the itch in his throat, “I think it’s gone.”
Kon’s hand finds Bernard’s, and Bernard’s hand squeezes Tim’s, and for the first time in months, Tim doesn’t feel like he’s holding his breath.
Tim’s body, so used to bracing for pain, doesn’t know what to do with the sudden peace. He’s trembling, but not from sickness or fear. Just the aftershock of being held, truly held, by the two people he thought he’d lose if he ever spoke the truth.
Tim’s gaze flicks between them as he slowly tries to sit up, “So, what now?”
Bernard sits beside him, looping an arm around him to help, “Now we figure it out.”
Kon settles on Tim’s other side, “Together.”
Later, Tim plants white camellia at the manor, not sharing with his family the significance, but he’ll let them come to their own conclusions. He kneels in the garden just after sunrise, worn out from patrol, the soil beneath his hands still cool from the night. His fingers tremble slightly as he presses seeds into the earth, then a few live flowers Bernard had bought him, transplanted carefully to ensure the petals do not bruise.
The bloom is pristine. Soft ivory with a hint of pink near the center.
White Camellia; Purity, perfection, faithfulness.
He presses the soil gently around the roots, thumb brushing the edge of the petal carefully.
Tim sits back on his heels, breath fogging in the morning chill. The manor looms behind him, the rest of the bats having fallen asleep an hour or so ago.