Chapter Text
Noah Mudaliar is not a romantic.
..Admittedly, he hasn’t had a relationship before, so it’s not like he can really prove that statement — but in general.
He’s never really—scratch that actually, he’s never—been one to have crushes, even on celebrities or fictional characters, like all of his other peers seem to have had.
Sure, he’s had the occasional dream – or maybe it’s more accurate to say fantasy – of having a romantic partner; someone special, someone to give all that you are to..
But when it comes to crushes, actually feeling that sort of love that doesn’t come from a familial place, from a friend or best friend, Noah can safely say he doesn’t know what it feels like.
Or, well, maybe that’s in the past tense.
Because now? Now, he’s not so sure.
At first, he was just a pretty face. A pretty boy soon to be forgotten.
(While Noah hasn’t ever felt that way towards someone, that doesn’t mean he’s blind. He can appreciate a pretty face, y’know?)
Except, while Noah was still working for Chris, he would be around — and, Noah isn’t even sure how, but they had began.. talking, for lack of a better word. Small talk, actually.
But then that turned into full-blown conversations, when Noah was free and he wasn’t filming or doing some other project Chris wanted.
And through those, he became Alejandro, the teenage boy with big dreams and a funny laugh. (When they were alone, with no one else to hear the way Alejandro’s laugh would hiccup and snort.
When they were alone, with no one else to hear the dreams that filled his head — ones that he knew his family wouldn't support and yet still silently held out for.)
Alejandro, who became a friend. (Noah would, without a moment of hesitance, call him a friend.) Someone he shares his day with, his complaints, his thoughts even if they're silly or unimportant.
A friend he came to look forward to talking to, listening to, being with; Alejandro, who made Noah end his days with the quiet hope of seeing him as soon as the sun would rise.
Noah would let him tag along for coffee runs, be it from the café or the kitchens. Alejandro would drag Noah to his own little trailer, likely given to him out of “respect” for his influential parents — that Noah would tease about endlessly.
Little bits of time stolen away, just for them. Two boys talking about everything and nothing, existing in companionable silence and rambunctious laughter, touching so casually..
..and yet it’d mean so much to Noah.
..What shatters the rose-colored lens that unknowingly slipped over Noah’s eyes is this: Total Drama: World Tour.
It's mere seconds (if that) after Alejandro gets back from his brief meeting with Chris before Noah is subjected to Alejandro ranting, all about how Chris is trying to shove him into a romance with another contestant. Nothing is fully set in stone, but it's obvious that it's gonna happen — that they’ll use Alejandro's looks to the absolute full extent they can.
And Noah will just have to watch.
Because, shit, what can he really do? He's not his boyfriend, not.. not anything like that. Just his friend, close friend.
(Because, to be his boyfriend, he would– he would have to see Alejandro that way, and– and Noah's never..
He's never…)
…
Shit.
(Later, from Noah’s lips, a long and scooped petal will drop. Wine red, soft and velvety.
It will find its home on Noah’s shaky cupped palm, small but a harbinger of despair nonetheless.
He didn’t know it then, but the flower that would soon grow to intertwine, twist and pull at his lungs and heart, would be a red dahlia.)
So, Noah has that going for him.
Which is just great. Awesome. Exactly what he needs right now.
Being in love with your most-definitely-straight friend, who doesn't want that?
(Noah is being sarcastic, if you couldn't tell. Fuck, he is so fucked — and that is not sarcasm!)
And, though it may not seem it, his condition is progressing rather quickly, the buds quickly morphing into full-bloom petals.
The petals, the pain, the looming dread, increasing and spiraling out of control.
(Not that Noah’s ever really had control over.. any of this.)
It's only a matter of time before he's coughing up actual flowers — before he has to make a choice.
1.
“Still got you working like a dog, amigo?”
Noah looks up and has to try exponentially hard to keep his usual deadpan face. His heart trying to leap out of his throat – he never understood that saying before now, holy shit – isn't really helping.
“Heh, yeah– Uh, yeah. Still giving me the heaviest workload, probably because I’m the only literate person here.”
Alejandro’s biceps are stupid huge when he crosses his arms — not the point. His head tilts and he has that grin, teasing and oh so terrible for the state of Noah’s lungs.
“Excuse me? Are you calling me illiterate?” Another flash of pearly whites as Alejandro gestures to himself up and down. “Moi?”
“And if I am?”
“Then I’ll have to say you are terribly mistaken — I am actually quite talented at reading, books and people.”
“That so?”
Alejandro ducks down slightly, to meet Noah eye-to-eye.
“Very much so.”
Noah just grins, attempting to disguise the cough shaking his shoulders as a laugh.
Alejandro is none the wiser, truly. He laughs and pushes at Noah’s shoulder as he turns, already speaking about something or another.
(Noah rushes to somewhere more secluded a few minutes later, throat burning with the suppressed need to cough, to expel. The petals that decorate the sink have significantly increased in amount since the last time.)
2.
“Have you ever thought you’d be able to be this up and close to a bear?”
“Not really, ‘less I was – for some godforsaken reason – in a forest and was just really unlucky.”
Alejandro snickers under his breath as he watches Lana, one of the bear’s handlers, work her magic.
(Or, as everyone else would see it as, doing her job.)
They don't speak much as they watch from their little corner, a reasonable distance away.
But Noah watches as Alejandro’s eyes widen, when his mouth falls open – just a little – in admiration and awe.
The lights, oddly enough, make his eyes look like they're sparkling.
Shiny and magical, God, Noah could stare at him for hours.
His throat is sore, and he's beginning to get uncomfortably familiar with the prickling sensation that—
Noah turns his head away, attempting to muffle his coughing sounds as he tries to stall the waterfall of petals; he can't afford to spill any here, he can't, not with Alejandro so close.
A metallic taste floods his mouth, the odd texture of soft petals soaked in spit and blood making his face twist.
Shit, Noah thinks as a burning sensation spreads, ow!
A lot more than last time, enough to overflow and flutter past both of his hands — Noah eyes them with dread and panic, hoping Alejandro's enchantment with the bear holds true.
And, to his relief, he can vaguely hear Alejandro snort and gently punch his shoulder, murmuring something about Noah catching that cold that's been passing around.
Noah quickly stuffs the petals into his pockets, once again grateful for his cargo shorts’ ungodly amount of pockets.
Looking back up, his eyes get stuck on Alejandro's side profile; he looks just as entranced as he was 10 minutes ago.
Eyes sparkling, mouth in an unconscious faint smile, wonder on his face..
He's beautiful.
3.
They're both outside watching the sunset, gentle sunlight on their skin.
Alejandro’s hair, in a neat half-up half-down style he's been trying out, moves slightly with the cool breeze that sweeps along.
Noah shivers slightly and Alejandro snickers under his breath.
When Noah tears his eyes away from the sun, he finds another bright light shining at him.
Alejandro's wide, teasing smile greets him; his limbs are relaxed, a sort of lazy contentment not too unlike a cat’s.
(He's like a mini sun, always shining in his own right, with his easy confidence.)
Noah shakes his head and mouths ‘asshole’ while crossing his arms. His lips curl into a smile, genuine and comfortable — like lying in a spot full of sunlight, it's nice to bask in Alejandro's attention, so easy to lose himself.
Eventually, they begin to head back, knocking shoulders and swapping quips as they do. The pleasant warmth of Alejandro’s body right next to his sinks into his skin like a blanket.
Contentment settles in his bones, an easy happiness that curls up and around his heart.
(The ache in his throat amplifies, and the prickling feeling turns into something worse.
And later, after they split ways to go to sleep, after his skin has gone back to its usual cold, after he drops down onto his bed, the burning returns with a vengeance.
Not Alejandro's warmth, just this painful, awful burning as something forces its way up his throat—
Noah’s vision is blurred but what sits in his hand isn't too hard to identify.
A half-formed flower head.
Half of the petals are missing, but there's enough to recognize the red dahlia, even with the small blood splatters.)
4.
Noah doesn't even remember how this started, just that they were arguing trivially over something or another, on Alejandro’s bed in his stupid little personal trailer.
And then Alejandro groaned and rolled over to flop onto Noah, who immediately began pushing and scowling—though it was hard to keep it there, as his lips kept trying to curl up into a smile—at him.
And then they devolved into full-on play-fighting.
Hands pushing at shoulders, elbows knocking into ribs, knees hitting each others’ sides; they were dissolving into laughter as they kept hitting each other in some sorry attempts at getting to be the one on top.
And eventually, somehow in some way, Noah ends up on top.
Smile wide and hair a mess, Noah lays sideways on Alejandro, hands pushing down on Alejandro's shoulders, his hip settled beside Alejandro’s side.
Alejandro is still laughing, his long hair splayed weirdly on the bed, half of it falling and fanning over his face and in his mouth. His shoulders shake with his laughter and, shit, Noah wishes he had a photographic memory.
To keep this memory for as long as he lives.
A familiar scraping feeling begins to come alive in his throat, as his heart beats dramatically at the sight of Alejandro.
Noah quickly excuses himself to the bathroom, ignoring Alejandro's ‘I told you so!’s.
Two flower heads sit in the sink, one half-formed and the other so close to being a perfect bloom.
5.
“You’re like.. my best friend, y’know that?”
Alejandro’s smile is so soft, so happy.
So happy to have a best friend, something he’s never really had before, as he’s told Noah.
Noah’s heart, cliché as it is, breaks.
(Even if he saw it coming from miles away.)
That was a week before World Tour was set to begin, and now that it’s actually began, Noah knows he’s fucked.
(The flower heads that rest in his hands now are full-bloom, perfect with all their petals intact.)
The flowers increase in quantity as Alejandro and Heather begin their little dance of rivalry and ‘love,’ and Noah wonders how he's supposed to keep up with this bullshit when he's vomiting bouquets every 5 minutes.
At least before World Tour, Noah could have time to himself away from Alejandro. Now? He's always in proximity with the other boy, and it's really not helping.
Especially as he keeps finding his eyes always stray towards Alejandro, even when he knows he shouldn't because of the pain that settles like a fog around his lungs and in his head.
“Little Buddy?”
“F–uck!”
Big hands rest on his shoulders, uncertain and likely fearful, concerned. Noah hates that Owen is seeing him like.. like this.
Vulnerable, no. Truthfully, if Noah had to choose anyone seeing him be vulnerable on this god-forsaken plane, he’d choose Owen without a second-thought.
(..Well. At least, now he’d do it without a second-thought.
Fuck. Fuck!)
But in pain? Noah hates that Owen is the only one he trusts (now) to be with him through this, through the particularly painful bout of coughing.
He knows Owen is basically in pain too, seeing his best buddy all curled up like a dead bug. His chubby buddy with a big ol’ heart.
“Should– Should I get someone? Staff? They’d help, right? They can't ignore this! I’m gonna get someone, they gotta help—!”
Noah tries to shake his head but the new round of coughing starts up and forces him to jerk forward; petals burst forward, all around the plane’s stupidly cramped bathroom, as the main star of the show forces itself up his throat.
Private bathroom, used by the staff, anyway.
(Those chicken interns didn't have the balls to say anything when they saw him storming through, one hand clamped around his mouth and the other clawing at his chest.
And the ones who did, who tried to stop him, were bowled over by him and a panicking Owen.)
Wine red, but stained with fresh blood — it contrasts but he knows it’ll dry and seamlessly blend in eventually.
Globs of blood stain the metal, drip from his lips, fill his mouth; he can taste it, its taste so familiar now.
Noah claws at the sink as he gags, eyes tearing up and chest constricting as– as—
“Noah!”
A red dahlia sits pretty in the sink, a long but still arguably short stem laying sideways with a leaf or two still hanging on. It’s showered in petals and blood droplets.
Noah can feel its sister flower attempting to join it, clawing at his throat and making his body curl inward with pain, his chest tight with pain.
Tears slide down his cheeks without his say-so, his throat burns from hacking up all these flowers—especially with their stupid long and still growing stems—and from holding back his pained noises to not alarm anyone.
Noah is so tired of this stupid disease, just because his heart decided to finally open up and latch onto a stupidly suave and dorky boy named Aleja—
A strangled sob leaves his lips as another flower tears itself from his lungs, pain blurring his vision as he gags and coughs his way to freedom.
Som—Somethin– g’s n– no— t ri–ight
Noah raises a shaky hand up to his lips, in his mouth, and tugs.
The flower comes free with a wet splat! that makes Noah’s face twist in disgust.
Its stem is just longer than the last, with small leaves still attached somehow, but what’s more surprising is the tiny flower almost full-bloom just underneath the bigger flower.
Ffffuuck.
Owen’s presence being missing doesn't really hit until there's another someone standing in the, now cracked open, doorway.
Noah slowly meets Chris’ eyes in the mirror and knows his time on the show is over.
His time around him is over.
And fuck, he knows he was cursing that forced proximity out earlier, but if that doesn't bring more (irritational) tears to his eyes.
“No.”
Chris’ previously pleading expression hardens, if only slightly.
“You're getting off this plane, Noah.”
“No.”
Chris steps forward, gently—and oh, the universe must be joking—pushes Owen behind himself, “You going to confess then?”
No. And Chris knows that, knows Noah and what he’d say, even if Noah wants to pretend otherwise.
It's no surprise.
Noah’s chest aches with the pain, tightening as he fights off another cough.
He’d lose him in a heartbeat if he confessed, Noah knows it, so no. No, he can't just– just—!
(Alejandro grins at him, all eager and excited to see him. And it's just.. It's just so easy.
To be around him, to be with him; it feels so..
..nice. Noah's never felt like this before, never felt this way around anyone before.)
..He can't lose this.
Noah bends forward with the force of his coughs, ignoring Chris and Owen’s hands on his shoulders to keep him upright, more tears stinging his eyes.
He hates crying so much, but they just keep coming unbidden, torn from him through pain and heartache.
Another flower forces its way out, similar to the last with its twin flower heads. Except these leaves are a lot fuller and unfurled, healthy even with the dark red drops coloring its lively green shade.
Noah gags and heaves as more petals follow the flower, as a smaller and less developed flower drops too.
Shit, shit.
“..Can't.”
It's a whisper, so quiet and so resigned. Tired.
It's no surprise.
Chris’ face twists briefly before he shakes his head and sighs.
“I’m sorry, kid.”
Noah’s eyes overflow—though for what? He doesn't know—and the tears streaming down his face and down his neck feel like defeat.
Sobs want to shake him, wails want to rattle his ribcage and squeeze his lungs until he can't breathe, until he can't do anything but let go.
But he stays silent, throat burning. Because, because..
“..If you need, I can pay for the sur—”
“No!”
Noah shrieks, nearly tripping over himself in his (stupid, stupid) haste to get away from Chris — as if his prolonged proximity would have consequences just as devastating as that surgery.
Chris backs up, hands up, and Owen rushes in.
Noah shakes his head again, trying to clamp his mouth shut before more of that stupid flower tries to show itself.
No, no, Noah’s heard about the after effects of the surgery; he's heard of people describing missing parts of themselves but never quite knowing what they're missing, what they've lost, how to mend that gaping, bleeding wound.
He's seen the scar left behind, and he can't stand the thought of losing so much time, of losing an entire person from his life, of having a permanent reminder of this person but never even knowing who this person was and how they became so important.
Of having his memory wiped clean of Alejandro and never remembering just how good it felt to be around him, how warm he felt when Alejandro's attention landed on him. Of having Alejandro gone, of seeing him afterwards and having no recollection of just how important he made himself to Noah, all those little moments gone—
Arms envelop him and Owen whispers reassurances to him: “It's gonna be okay, little buddy.” “Don't worry, we got you!”
But as Noah watches Chris leave, likely to plan his elimination, he feels..
So lost. A dreadful and sinking feeling in his stomach, a want to rewind time but knowing that is impossible.
Of course, Noah gets the surgery.
He was already throwing up full-on flowers and, given that it happened in so few months, it would've been stupid to wait any longer.
Especially because Noah isn't going to confess, didn't have any intentions to confess.
(And if he did, even if the smallest, barely burning fire there ever was, well.. that's for Noah to know and forget, and for no one else to ever learn of.)
And although rejection brings about an awful case of coughing and hacking up a whole system of flowers, it doesn't automatically mean your deathbed. But sometimes, it may just be the final hurdle to the race no one wants to win.
Either way, it was choosing between his love for, and his memory of, Alejandro or his life.
Noah chooses his life, chooses not to suffocate on the flowers that symbolize his love. And he doesn't regret that.
He doesn't regret catching those feelings either, surprisingly.
Laying on this bed, right before he goes under for his surgery, he can't find a single part of him wishing he never fell for Alejandro.
How weird is that?
When he wakes up, the lights are still off and the little bits between the window blinds are dark.
He vaguely remembers waking up before, feeling a lot more groggy than now. Faintly remembers people hovering around him and keeping busy, the mechanical and standard beeping of machines, but not much else…
…
..
.
.
.
..
…
Noah blinks blearily, sleep still clinging to him, and he lethargically moves his head to look up at the hospital ceiling. It's boring and blank, mind numbing, really…
…
..
.
..
…
But it helps when he (reluctantly, mind you) is forced to acknowledge the.. Well, the gaps in his memory.
It's not like it was his first thought—which was actually: damn, my mouth is dry—but it is certainly pressing.
Because he can feel– no.. He just.. knows something is missing. Not sure what or, even, who, just that he is missing something…
…
..
.
.
..
…
There's time lost, bits of his life gone, and the most he can remember is that he needed this. Needed to forget.. forget h—
“Noah?” A nurse interrupts his thoughts, which is frustrating, because he finally got somewhere after drifting in and out of consciousness.
But, whatever, right? Life goes on.
“Hey kid,” the nurse smiles, placing a tray of food on the bedside table. “Before I do anything, I am assuming you have questions?”
Noah nods, squinting slightly as he turns on a lamp nearby. (Somehow, it had escaped his mind, how nice this room is compared to previous hospital stays.)
“Most typically do, how about you eat what you can and I fill you in?”
Noah looks at the oatmeal and yogurt, and reaches for the juice box.
So.. he’s missing a someone.
Noah stares at the blue sky outside, still stuck on light activity and monitoring for the next few days before he's discharged.
The clouds outside look fluffy, big and white and taking up so much of the wide sky.
Noah’s mind kind of feels similar, except instead of clouds, it's holes.
Whoever it was that captured his heart so wholly, well, it wasn't just his heart and head.
They clearly had a presence in his life, so close and intertwined, like seriously. The past few months could be swiss cheese, for crying out loud.
Noah turns away from the window and stares down at the tray of food. Today's menu consists of some kind of chicken broth, applesauce, another juice box, jell-o, and mashed potatoes.
He pokes absentmindedly at the eggs, unable to stop.. shit, obsessing over who it was that stole his heart (and bits and pieces, full-on pieces, of his life).
A part of him is scared, knowing there's time he’ll never recover, never know of, never know this person like the Noah before would…
And another part of him is tired, wanting to just let this go, to just forget whoever it was and move on.
Noah has never felt so bewitched by someone and yet so ready to let these parts of him, that never seemed to truly belong to him and him alone, go.
(Some of these pieces are, just, so interlaced with this mystery person that those moments were a part of them too, not just Noah.
At least, that makes it easier for Noah to let go.)
Noah gives up, letting the fork clatter on the tray, letting his head fall back and rest on the pillows.
His eyes stray back to the sky, seeking the sun despite the glare.
(As time passes, he finds those gaps in his memory feel more.. second-hand, in a sense. Maybe like phantom pain, missing that love like he’s missing a limb.
…
..
.
..
…
Or maybe it’ll drift away until he never remembers a time when he loved this person, until he never thinks twice about those missing pieces of his life.
There's no lingering pain in his chest, but when he looks down, even despite the patient gown, he knows what he’d see.
A reminder of what he's missing, a reminder that won't fade for years, if ever, even if all it’ll fade to is a faint line.)
Thinking longer on it, Noah decides it’d be best if he just.. stays away from love, just– just for now.
Though he can't remember (not.. really, anyway) the way the flowers—red dahlias, or so says the nurse—clawed at his throat, clung to his lungs, wrapped delicate stems and petals near his heart, he doesn't need to remember to know it had hurt.
He's still recovering from the removal of the flowers, but that doesn't mean his throat, rubbed raw and scratched, isn't recovering either. Doesn't mean his organs weren't affected by the literal symbols of his love.
…
And he doesn't want to go through that again. Maybe they (not his “they,” that mystery person he thinks he's okay with keeping distance from) would reciprocate, maybe there's a chance Noah would feel confident enough to confess, but there's also a pretty high chance Noah will run himself into another corner.
A high chance Noah will keep his silence, like he did before (the nurse had gently clued him in on the fact that he, himself, had let it get so bad, had let it manifest so greatly), and he can't.
(He can't trust himself, he thinks he might've broken any confidence he had in himself)
Noah turns his head away from the window, throat burning.
…
..
.
..
…
He breathes easily, though.
Better than when he first woke up, it feels.. nice. Nothing suffocating him, nothing obstructing his way of living.
Noah will be okay.
‘Course he will.