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It began with an itch in his throat.
James didn’t notice at first, too focused on enjoying his afternoon in the workshop. He savored each visit, coveted every minute he spent with Tony, and if he was here today because he used the metal arm as a battering ram on that last mission, there was no one to judge him for it but Tony.
Tony, who fixed and replaced and rebuilt with nothing but soothing words, careful touch, and his personal brand of humor and snark.
James cleared his throat, entranced the curve of Tony’s lashes and the tilt of his smile, the way those pretty eyes were studiously glued to the damage done to the delicate metal plates. Tony was talking, excited about another project he was doing with Banner, but his hands danced to their own rhythm and James had always been drawn to those hands, clever and capable, and oh, he had no right to imagine them touching parts of him that weren’t made of wires and metal.
He wished he could listen to Tony for hours, watch him work, absorb every explanation, every joke, every fond comment about his family. James wished he could be here with Tony, beyond this rote exercise of putting him back together. He wished he could give Tony more than a broken arm and another chore to add to the list.
He wished he could say what he thought, tell Tony that his kindness—forgiveness and mercy and generosity—had meant everything. Tony had given James a home when no one else did, when others—who claimed to love him beyond all time and space—promptly discarded him once they found him defective and not to their liking.
He wished he knew how to say that Tony’s smiles helped him through his worst days.
James didn’t know when he fell in love with Tony Stark, when the light, the energy, the grace of this man changed from a mere comfort to a burning need. It could’ve been Tony’s open and honest forgiveness, it could’ve been his offer of home and support. It could’ve been that Saturday morning, sunlit and quiet, when Tony had graced James with a surprised, grateful smile over a simple cup of coffee placed at Tony’s side to take at his leisure. Tony smiled and James remembered he couldn’t breathe in the wake of his shine.
He cleared his throat again.
He wished he could kiss Tony right now, just one reverent peck on the lips, but men like Tony Stark, made of starlight and mercy, deserved so much better than him.
James left the lab with a subdued ‘thank you’ on his lips and that peculiar tickle in his throat.
James coughed into his fist, cleared his throat for the umpteenth time, and hoped the damn tea would steep faster. Tea and honey, people drank that for sore throats, didn’t they?
A common cold wasn’t the end of the world, but the hard knot of slow-simmering panic deep in his belly had little to do with the inconvenience of a cough and runny noses.
The last time he had a sore throat was seventy years ago. He shouldn’t be getting sick at all.
He bobbed the tea bag up and down and watched the dark color swirl into the hot water. He supposed the serum could be losing its efficacy. After all, he didn’t have the shiny, perfect formula of Dr. Erskine that made its way into Steve’s veins. His was a botched counterfeit, crafted by second-rate Hydra scum.
He had to hide another cough into the crook of his elbow and decided the tea was good enough. The first sip was too hot, the second too sweet, the honey cloying on his tongue, but James gulped it down until the mug was half-empty, letting the liquid burn down his throat. When he pulled the mug away, he stood staring at it, trying to decide if it had made a difference.
“Is that tea in your hands?”
The voice startled him and just like before, his strange ailment was forgotten in favor of drinking in the sight of Tony standing in the kitchen, still dressed in his dress shirt and trousers, arms loosely crossed over his chest, a playful smirk gracing his lips.
He walked over, shaking his head. “This is blasphemy, James, I may have to disown you.”
“Sorry,” James murmured, but instead of offering a playful retort, he had to clear his damn throat again and when he looked up, Tony’s playfulness had been replaced by worry.
“Are you alright?”
James wanted to admit he was sick, to have Tony fuss over him like he did with other members of the team whenever they were injured or ill, but that was needlessly selfish, even for him. He gave Tony a smile. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just a bit of a cough.”
“I guess that explains the tea.” Tony squinted at the mug again, then moved past James to begin prodding at his own treasured coffee machine. His eyes kept darting back to James however. “Did you get checked out after the last mission? Maybe you picked something up.”
“Medical gave me the all-clear.”
“Hmm, that’s good, I suppose.”
Tony studied the coffee beans in the cupboard and James knew this routine by heart. James knew which coffee beans Tony would choose—he had preferences for both morning and late night fuel—how much sugar he’d add—Tony was in a good mood today, he wouldn’t use any sugar—and he knew by heart the generous splash of cream at the end.
“Well, definitely get checked out if it gets worse, okay?” Tony said. His desired beans in hand, he poured a handful into the machine and grinned at James when the machine began to putter along happily. “I know that probably sounds hypocritical, given my allergic reactions to all things medical, but there’s no reason for you to feel sick if it’s something we can treat. We’ll get you better in no time.”
“Thank you, Tony,” James said, ignoring the itch deep in his throat—strong enough he couldn’t forget about it anymore, not for long, but he sure as hell could pretend. He smiled—kept smiling, kept pretending everything was alright. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”
He handed Tony the bottle of cream a moment before Tony reached for it and there was that delighted smile again.
“Aw, thank you.” Tony’s fingers brushed over James’ as he took hold of the bottle. “Hey, are you gonna join us for movie night? Peter and Harley are demanding it. Something about you slacking on your pop culture education and I can’t say I disagree with them. We’ll pick something good and you can help me steal the kids’ popcorn.”
This charm, this kindness, it always seemed so effortless. Every olive branch genuine, every invitation freely given, and Tony always tried to include him, ever since James was invited to live here after Steve decided this new version of his ‘best friend’ wasn’t worth the effort.
A stray who was given a home and that would’ve been enough, but Tony always had to go above and beyond.
“I’ll be there,” James said, if only to see Tony beam at him, those big, brown eyes so warm. Tony wrapped one hand around his mug of sweet-smelling coffee and went to sit down, but as he passed, he reached out to squeeze James’ shoulder.
“I’ll hold you to it, soldier.”
Another morning, another breakfast, and they talked while Tony whipped up a few omelets and James refilled their many cups of coffee. James could’ve stayed in this kitchen forever, just like this, but the itch in his throat kept growing, kept scraping its claws through his flesh, and James had no choice but to excuse himself early.
He managed to get through one hallway and two flights of stairs before he collapsed, hands and knees hitting hard concrete, and he coughed, unable to stop his body’s desire to rid of this insidious something inside him, seizing on every expulsion, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes as he trembled. He coughed into his elbow until specks of blood decorated the grey cotton of his shirt and one lonely, red rose petal floated down to land at his knees.
Memories were a tricky thing, made worse by decades of torture designed to wipe them away. With the help one Wakandan princess and one genius superhero however, some memories returned, but others remained floating in pieces and others still were written off as a loss.
Strangely, James still remembered the tales of cursed love he heard in his childhood. A love so strong, so pure, and so unattainable that one’s body could no longer cope with the sorrow. It turned that sorrow to flowers and for every moment of heartache, for every longing gaze, for ever tear shed over that unrequited love, a new petal appeared to make beauty out of tragedy. Lovely, poetic, but a curse nonetheless, a death sentence to those who succumbed to it.
His private search on the internet informed him it wasn’t a curse, but rather a complicated disruption of hormones triggered by a strong emotional response associated with unrequited love. Psychosomatic in nature, the body responded to emotional distress by disrupting its own endocrine system so violently it began to use macro and micronutrients not to fuel the body, but to synthesize flowers that would ultimately overwhelm and suffocate their victim.
The disease itself was rare and while there was surgery developed in the nineties, it did little more than mangle the brain, robbing the patients of their range of emotions, and the survival rate remained abysmal. Other than that, Hanahaki disease drew little interest from the medical community and even sparser funding, and derived more focus from Hollywood, where it was romanticized to the point of absurdity.
James spent a long time reading the articles over and over while the petals fell from his lips.
He knew he’d never go under the scalpel. Even if the success rate were higher, even if he could afford the incredibly expensive surgery performed by a pitifully low number of doctors, he knew he couldn’t handle the end result.
He already knew what it was like to feel nothing, to see the perpetual grays and to taste ash, to hear nothing but white static of orders and mission reports. James knew he could never go back to that state of mind willingly.
There was solace in knowing he was capable of loving someone so much, but he couldn’t lie to himself about his odds. There was no cure, no remission, and no chance of his heart’s desire reciprocating this love.
He’d die choking on these blood-stained rose petals.
Tony was babbling with Peter and Harley, the three of them trying to make dinner together, but for all their collective genius, they were a disaster in the kitchen. Each time anything burnt or bubbled up or spilled out however, the kitchen filled with laughter and teasing.
James was here to ‘supervise’, as the kids called it, and he sat nearby, a book in hand he hadn’t read in an hour. He was content to simply observe the domesticity of their lives, to enjoy being a small part of it, to keep pretending he wouldn’t give the world for another sliver of their effortless affections.
His throat burned—hadn’t stopped burning—but he forced his body to comply. He didn’t want go into a coughing fit here, to raise questions he couldn’t answer, so he suppressed each spasm and ignored the persistent burn.
Harley yelped, his pot of pasta bubbling over and the three scrambled to salvage both the pot and the stove, unable to contain their laughter, especially when Harley whined that his precious pasta was ruined and this was the absolute worst. Tony was grinning from ear to ear and this break away from work, the presence of his boys, the general atmosphere of home, looked so good on him. It was obvious to the most careless observer this was where Tony was happiest.
Happiness looked perfect on him.
Tony turned to James to give him an indulgent look across the room as if to say ‘Look at what I have to put up with.’ James met Tony’s smile eagerly, but the rest of him kept dying inside, piece by piece.
He felt those damn flowers unfurl in his lungs, growing thicker each time Tony’s gaze fell on him—only to fall away again as Tony returned to his life.
James was a liar and a fool. A sliver of this would have never been enough; he already had Tony’s friendship and that should’ve been plenty, but here he sat, wanting more. More, more, more, he wanted all of Tony, and maybe this disease wasn’t a curse. Maybe it was a punishment for his covetous nature, for wanting something that didn’t belong to him, wanting something he didn’t deserve.
Maybe Hollywood was right and maybe it was poetic that he’d die for this in the end. He wondered how his pathetic tale would look on the big screen. Tragic, pathetic James, in love with a man who doesn’t want him, will never want him.
The flowers, they bloomed and expanded and James couldn’t force his body to ignore them any longer. He jumped his feet, but couldn’t manage so much as a word to excuse himself, couldn’t open his mouth without his dark, red shame spilling over.
He ran, hoping the usually empty corridors would hide his shame, and he stumbled again on those concrete stairs of the emergency exit, falling to his knees as his body gave out.
He hoped to suffer alone, but he should’ve known better. Tony Stark wasn’t a man who ignored someone in pain, not even someone like James, but for all his intimate knowledge of Tony’s kindness, for all his heightened senses, James still startled when a tentative hand touched his shoulder. Tony was there, half-kneeling before him, brows creased with worry.
“James? What’s going on?” he asked and James wanted to tell him—I love you and I’m sorry—he wanted to tell Tony everything, but he clenched his teeth and kept his mouth shut. Above all else, loving Tony meant protecting him from this.
“James, say something, please? Are you alright?” Tony’s brows were drawn together so fiercely there was a second where James was overcome with the need to smooth out those wrinkles to wipe the worry away.
“M’fine. Just—haven’t been feeling well,” he mumbled and maybe these half-truths would’ve worked before, but his body betrayed him now, no longer able to swallow down the spasms and one small cough turned to another and another, building and building, until James was hunched over, coughing into his hands, eyes stinging with tears, wishing he had enough breath to beg Tony to leave.
But Tony did what James secretly wanted before; he kneeled before James, his hand running gentle strokes up and down his back to help him through the coughing fit.
“You’re alright, it’s okay,” Tony’s soothed and James felt more pieces of him breaking apart inside, not from the petals, not from the sickness, but from Tony’s genuine care.
“Please—go, just—just go,” he tried, he really did, but Tony kept soothing, kept his steady presence right there, and it was too much.
When James coughed again, the petals spilled over his palms, fluttering down to stain Tony’s jeans with James’ blood.
James let the rest of the petals cradled in his hands fall as well. Hunched in on himself, he couldn’t see Tony’s expression, couldn’t possibly know what he was thinking now that he knew.
James’ only solace was the warm palm still splayed on his back.
“Oh god, James…” Tony whispered and when James finally looked at him, Tony was ashen, staring at him with wide, fearful eyes.
“I’m sorry,” James rasped, hating himself for this.
Tony shook his head. “It’s not your—Jesus, James, it’s not your fault.” He eyed the petals scattered over his lap again, expression twisted with that muted horror.
Cursed and discarded and unwanted.
James kept still and listened to the distant sounds of the Compound coming through the concrete walls until Tony asked, so softly that James wanted to weep, “Can you tell me who it is?”
He wanted to weep and to laugh at this cosmic joke, but all he did was shake his head as he wiped the blood away from his mouth with the back of his hand.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it does! James, this disease, it doesn’t linger, it can kill someone in months! If you tell me who it is, we could—”
“It doesn’t matter,” James repeated, surprised by the hardness of his own words. “Them knowing… It won’t change anything.”
It was clear Tony didn’t believe him, but he didn’t push further.
“I’ll take your word for it,” he said and James thought he’d leave then, write him off as a loss and call it a day, just like everyone else had done before, but Tony didn’t move and it was no longer fear weighing heavy in the lines of his face.
It was determination.
“Are you okay with me taking you to Medical? There are some palliative treatments we can try, get you feeling better, and I also want to run some blood tests and scans before I start researching.”
“Researching? What for?”
Tony’s sharp eyes were mesmerizing like this and it was little wonder there were flowers growing inside James.
“I’m going to find a cure.”
In the end, James allowed everything Tony had requested. Every test, every blood draw, every scan, more procedures than a team doctors and a determined Princess needed to pull the triggers out of his head some ten months ago.
The concession was for Tony’s sake, but dig a little deeper, and the stench of James’ selfishness was all over it too, a dying man’s needy desire to have Tony’s attention all to himself.
As if James were made of glass, Tony carefully pulled out the needle, the blood he’d drawn already in its vial.
“Sorry to keep treating you like a pin cushion, I’m sure this brings back no good memories, but this should be enough for now. I’m sending an overnighter to Drs. Yamada and Tymoshenko and Bruce is getting roped in whether he likes it or not.”
Tony kept talking, a biting remark on how little research there was, how Tony could count the number of doctors working on finding an actual cure on one hand, how there was no funding in finding a cure to a rare (and an aesthetically pleasing, romanticized) disease, then a reluctant admission that money wasn’t an infinite resource and there were too many competing priorities. Cancer research would always trump something like this.
“But that’s why they keep me around, I guess. No government’s going to sink money into curing Hanahaki, but I can afford a few million.” He shrugged, rubbed the back of his head, and reorganized the samples again.
James watched Tony, tried to memorize each micro-expression, each gesture, the cadence of his voice and the color of his eyes. James wanted to die remembering all of it.
He only wished Tony were smiling.
Tony was fussing with the utensils now, cleaning them up, each movement of his hands a little more rushed, a little shakier, missing the precision James remembered from Tony’s work on his arm. Without thinking, his metal hand wrapped around Tony’s wrist and Tony went still at the touch.
“Don’t get me wrong,” James said, then stopped to clear the awful raspiness out of his throat, hating how Tony’s face twisted with sympathy. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but—” James swallowed down the taste of rose petals. “—doesn’t seem like the best use of your time.”
The severe furrow between Tony’s brows reappeared to frame his displeasure. “James, you’re dying. If we don’t do anything, you’ve got a few months, at best.”
James shrugged before he could catch himself and winced when Tony’s displeasure doubled.
“I know and I appreciate—”
“I’m not letting you die, okay? I know it’s a long-shot, but Dr. Yamada’s work is promising and from the notes I’ve seen, the cure is viable. He just needs additional funding and a few geniuses like me and Bruce to help with the grunt work. James, come on,” Tony pleaded and James was powerless to do anything but give Tony his full attention. “I know we had our differences—hell, we started this whole song and dance trying to kill each other—but we’re past that, aren’t we?”
“Of course we are.”
“Well then, there you go. If any of my other friends started coughing up goddamn flowers, I’d be right here for them too. I’m not going to let you die.”
There was such conviction in that promise James could almost believe it and for one brief moment, he allowed himself to indulge in that gilded Hollywood fantasy.
Struck down by the disease, left hopeless in his unrequited love, until proven wrong, just before that dying breathe, saved by a dramatic love confession and one passionate kiss. The flowers dissipated to dust. The lovers lived happily ever after.
James realized he was still holding onto Tony’s wrist and forced himself to let go.
This wasn’t a film and this wasn’t Hollywood and he wasn’t going to get a happy ending.
This wasn’t some fairy tale, but James reminded himself it could also be worse. Tony was still here, trying to help because they were friends, and James decided if Tony’s friendship and kindness were the things he had claim to when he took his last breath, it’d be enough. So he gave Tony a smile and a permission to continue and Tony dove back into his samples and holograms.
James spat out more petals into the basin before shoving it away from the bed; he curled back into fetal position beneath the thin blanket.
Tony was performing miracles, helping to advance science yet again, but even his tenacity and genius combined with the expertise of men and women whose life work revolved around this disease were not enough to outpace biology. James coughed and coughed, his whole life sinking into scarlet petals and the stench of blood while his strength deteriorated. Every day his heartbeat grew threadier, his limbs heavier with now-constant exhaustion, and he slept more, ate less, and stopped trying to leave the Medbay.
For every breakthrough Tony’s team made, James lost another week off his prognosis and they theorized that the accelerated development was due to the super soldier serum; every time the healing factors kicked in, they only made disease more aggressive, shortening James’ already meager time left on Earth.
James had his own theory. Maybe it was the constant reminders of the love he secretly wanted that pushed him closer to death. Every kind pat on the shoulder, each tender swipe against his sweat-soaked brow, every time Tony dabbed the corners of his mouth with a soft cloth to wipe away the blood. Each instance of generosity, every scrap of kindness, every touch, it killed him just a little bit faster and James wasn’t in the right state of mind to tell Tony to stop.
He didn’t want Tony to stop.
He’d die with his lungs full of flowers, but he would also die knowing Tony cared for him, in his own way. In another universe, he could’ve been worthy of a greater, more encompassing love and maybe it wasn’t right for him to dream of more, but was it so wrong to long for that happiness?
He didn’t want to die, but when did he ever get what he wanted?
A tear rolled down his unshaven cheek, but there wasn’t enough energy left in him to wipe it away.
Desperate and running out of time, Tony suggested the surgery, gently, without judgment, and when James shook his head and stayed silent—talking hurt damn too much now—Tony accepted his decision with a solemn nod. His hand where it rested on James’ now-skinny ankle kneaded the pallid flesh to comfort him.
“The success rate is abysmal anyways,” Tony added, weary and drained by the last few weeks. “Brain surgery is tricky even when everything goes right, and with the serum throwing everything out of whack, I’ve no doubt there’d be unforeseen complications.”
James wanted to nod, to show stoicism in the face of impending death, but for once, instead of flowers, it was a sob that worked its way up his throat. He tried to blink away the tears, to pull himself together because this was not how he wanted Tony to remember him, but everything, the fear, the desperation, the hopelessness and the injustice of it all, it was all too much.
Tony was already wrapping his arms around James, pressing James’ forehead against his breastbone, right where James could hear his heartbeat. Soothing words followed, apologies and promises to do his best to fix this.
“It’s okay, you’re okay,” Tony kept repeating and James let himself pretend, just for a moment, that Tony was right as he cried in his arms.
Each exhale hurt. Each inhale hurt worse, rattling with blood-sticky flowers, and every bone ached, every part of him crumbling into disuse. He must’ve made for an unpleasant sight—lethargic, pale, and weak—but James was far past caring about appearances.
He knew he was going to die soon. The doctors and Tony, they insisted he still had another week, but James had been around death long enough to know when it was near.
James looked out of the window, still open to let a gentle breeze into his room. It was already well past dusk and he wouldn’t make it past sunrise.
He heaved another shallow breath and tasted iron again, bitter and familiar after weeks of this sickness. The sensation of petals clogging his throat was ever-present too, the wretched sensation of having this foreign other inside him, just another insidious entity crawling into him and rotting him from the core.
The lethargy made his limbs heavy, but he forced them to move. Maybe it was selfish, what he wanted, and maybe at this point he was truly nothing more than a burden, but he no longer had the willpower to care.
He’d blame his selfishness on the disease-addled mind, later—but then again, there wouldn’t be a later for him anyways.
He drove his body upright, urged it to plant both feet on the ground and stand, to take a step, and every move cost precious energy. He had little to spare, but this was worth it, this final, selfish act.
Bracing himself on the bed, he stopped to cough up more petals—dozens fell from his mouth, but his throat never felt empty—and he didn’t care that they scattered over the comforter and marred its pristine white with his blood again.
He knew Tony well enough to know he’d forgive him.
James was out of breath by the time he dragged himself through the doors of the Medbay, so when he made it all the way to the threshold of Tony’s workshop, James was wheezing, shaking, and seeing spots of light dance before his eyes and it was that pathetic state that alerted Tony to his presence just before Friday’s quiet announcement did.
Tony was up on his feet, dashing across the workshop to catch James just before he collapsed, and Tony’s arms around him, the blurry sight of him so close now both eased James’ suffering and sharpened his pain.
“Jesus, James, what are you doing out of bed? You shouldn’t be moving around so much,” Tony reprimanded as he led James to sit down on the familiar, ratty couch. James obediently followed and made no complaints when Tony settled right next to him. He didn’t complain when Tony didn’t let go, one arm still braced around his shoulders, the other settled on James’ knee.
“I didn’t— didn’t want to—” He choked again and turned away to cough up more petals, cringing when he saw nearly half a rose fall and stain the couch.
When he turned back, he couldn’t look Tony in the eye, but he wanted to grant himself one last moment of honestly. “I didn’t want to die alone.”
He hated himself for that damnable honestly almost immediately. Tony’s face twisted with pity and pain and this was why James’ presence was selfish, Tony didn’t need this guilt on his shoulders, but James wasn’t strong enough anymore to fight the needy desperation clawing inside him.
“Please, Tony,” he begged, his addled mind scared Tony would send him back to that sterile, cold room. “Just need—just need you.” He didn’t bother thinking through his words anymore. “I can feel it, I won’t—won’t make it through tonight.” Another wheeze, another painful cough, and when he felt the first tear roll down his face, he let himself curl into Tony, let himself hide in the crook of Tony’s shoulder. Just for a moment, he told himself.
He whimpered when Tony separated them, hands holding James up by his shoulders.
“James, we’re almost there, we just need a few days to work out the formula—”
“I won’t make it.” The conviction in that prediction must’ve been enough because Tony offered no further argument. His grimace was severe, the furrow of his brow so achingly deep and because this was the end, because this would all be gone come sunrise, James gave into the urge to lift his heavy, tired hand and soothe the wrinkles between Tony’s brows with his thumb.
“It’ll be okay, please don’t worry,” he whispered and when he could hold his arm up no longer, he slumped back into Tony, thankful that Tony drew him into his arms this time and held him. James focused on every place they touched, memorized the way Tony felt, the smell of him, the texture of his shirt beneath his fingers, the curve of his shoulder beneath his cheek. He wanted his last sensation to be Tony’s hand and the weight of it at the back of his head. “I just want to spend my last few hours with you.”
He wanted to remember the way those fingers brushed over his hair—and stilled.
“Oh god. James, wait,” Tony croaked, voice hoarse. “Is— is it me?”
James froze, which betrayed him immediately and he wanted—desperately needed—to protest, he needed these final few hours to be unmarred by Tony’s rejection, but there were no more words left in him, nothing he could say past these wretched flowers.
“Oh god…” Tony whispered again when no denials came and then there were hands on James’ cheeks, gently pushing him away again—no, please, please, don’t let go—and those same strong hands held him up when Tony looked James in the eye.
James shook his head weakly, but Tony’s expression said enough. He wouldn’t believe James now.
“It is, isn’t it? It’s me.”
“I’m sorry,” James wheezed through the onslaught of fresh tears and the building pool of blood in his mouth. He could feel his heart slow and he knew there were only minutes left now. He knew Tony deserved so much better. “I’m so sorry.”
He watched Tony’s gaze grow distant, his expression unclear, closed-off. James used to be so much better at this, at reading people, but now everything was a meaningless blur.
Everything except Tony’s hands on his face—and the warmth of his breath when he pressed their foreheads together.
“You should’ve told me earlier.” Tony’s voice trembled.
“Didn’t— didn’t want to be a burden,” James confessed between shallow breaths. Talking still hurt, each word a sharp stripe of pain down his throat, his lungs, his spine, everything, but he was dying and he had to say this. “You— you deserve so much better. You deserve—” He swallowed blood and flowers and ignored the tears soaking into his shaggy beard. “You deserve the world, Tony. I just want you to be happy. Thank you for being the brightest part of my life.”
James listened to their shared breaths, his shallow wheezes too loud in the quiet of the workshop. I’m sorry, he wanted to say again, and I love you, but there was nothing else left in him.
He heard Tony sigh and the thumbs cradling his cheeks began brushing back and forth.
“I love you, James,” Tony whispered and James knew he had to be hallucinating, no matter how clear and real Tony’s voice was in his ears. He shook his head again, as weak as a newborn kitten, but Tony held him steady, shushing him with infinite tenderness.
“Listen to me, okay? I love you, I’m in love with you. I just— I never had the guts to tell you and I’m sorry I didn’t know it was me. I’m sorry you had to go through this, but everything’s going to be alright now. Everything will be fine.”
His breastbone ached, so badly he thought there was fire inside him, but James didn’t know if this was the illness or hope and then all pain became irrelevant when Tony pressed their lips together.
A simple kiss, a chaste touch, but that burning hope roared and something shifted inside him. Something gave way, something loosened, and when Tony pulled away, when James opened his eyes and blinked to bring the world into focus, although he was no less weak, no less trembling, something had changed.
“Tony?” He didn’t know up from down, left from right, he didn’t understand, but the only thing he needed were the hands framing his face and Tony’s determined expression.
“Everything will be alright, James. I love you and everything will work out now. Okay?” When James nodded, Tony offered him a beautiful smile. “Take a deep breath for me, sweetheart.”
Bracing himself for pain had become automatic; James didn’t want to hurt again, but he could do nothing but obey—Tony had given him hope and he’d give the whole world to Tony—so he dragged the air through his nose on sheer willpower, forced his lungs to expand to their limit and for the first time in three weeks, they did.
The scepter of death turned away.
James may have laughed, he may have cried out in joy or just cried, he couldn’t remember, but whatever sound he made was swallowed up by another live-giving kiss.
Tony watched the nurse carefully, eyes tracking her hands to make sure she was hooking up things to the right machines. The Compound staff were the best of the best, but Tony was still on edge and uneasy.
James was on the other side of the glass, laying in his hospital bed, pale and still, but alive.
Tony heard the footsteps behind him, but he didn’t bother turning around. He already knew whose steady hand would settle on his shoulder, because even if the whir of the braces didn’t give him away, Rhodey had worn the same cologne since college.
“Did you just fly in?” Tony asked; he did spare a glance when Rhodey came to stand at his side, but the nurse fussing with the IV kept most of his attention.
“Yeah, we touched down a few minutes ago.”
“How was the mission?”
“A false alarm. No aliens in Queens.”
“Well, Peter’s going to be awfully disappointed.”
“Mm-hmm, it’ll break his little heart, but I think he’ll live. And speaking of broken hearts—”
“Wow, skipping right over the small talk, huh? Did Friday tattle?”
“She sure did.” Rhodey watched the nurse too, although with far less intensity. “Will he be alright?”
“I think so. He’s sedated now, mostly to give his body a chance to recover, make sure the serum isn’t throwing things out of whack again, but with time and rest, he should make a full recovery. Dr. Yamada is flying in tomorrow to examine him. Contrary to Hollywood, a recovery from Hanahaki by natural means is quite rare, so he’ll want to get all the data he can.”
The nurse covered James with a blanket, but covered one side of him more than the other and Tony’s hand twitched, itching to fix it.
“That’s good, I’m glad to hear he’ll be alright.” They both spent a good minute in silence until Rhodey asked, “So, Tones, which is it?”
“Hmm?”
“Did we drift apart so much this past year that I didn’t even know my best friend was in love with the Winter Soldier?” He paused meaningfully until Tony looked over to show he was listening. “Or did you lie to that man to save his life?”
Tony waited until the nurse was done checking the chart. “You and I both know we haven’t drifted apart.”
“Yeah, that’s what I figured too, which brings me to my next question. What the hell were you thinking?”
A familiar question, given their history. Rhodey continued without giving Tony a chance to deflect. “You can’t just… pretend, Tones, this isn’t fair to you. You can’t keep playing the martyr for these people. Hell, I don’t want you playing the martyr for any people. Your stunt with the nuke was more enough.”
“What exactly was I supposed to do?” When Rhodey didn’t reply, a hint of anger flared around the edges of Tony’s words. “Should I have told him the truth? Should I have said, ‘Sorry, James, I’ve never really thought about you that way,’ and watch him go into cardiac arrest right there in my arms?”
“I get that, I do, but this isn’t right!” Rhodey’s voice picked up volume and Tony at him glared to keep it down. “How is this any different than some guy holding a knife to his throat and forcing his partner to stay with him?”
“Because James didn’t ask for it.” He turned to face Rhodey fully, surprising even himself with the conviction in his voice. “He didn’t ask to get sick and he didn’t even tell me. He wasn’t going to tell me. I guessed, because he—god, he was delirious, he stumbled into the workshop, told me he didn’t want to die alone. He said he wanted to spend his last hours there, with me.”
Tony wasn’t made of fucking stone and even now, remembering the way James pleaded for a crumb of affection made the pit of Tony’s stomach ache, made his jaw hurt from the punishing clench of his teeth. “He was willing to die without telling me, foregoing any chance of me reciprocating, because apparently I deserve better. He used what he thought would be his last words to tell me he wanted me to be happy.”
By the look of his slumped shoulders and the recalcitrant frown, Rhodey’s own frustrations had already deflated. He sighed as he said, “Yeah, I get it, alright? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to jump down your throat. I just worry about you. You give so much of yourself away and after all the bullshit of last year, I’m hesitant to see you tear yourself apart again for someone else’s sake. I want you to be happy too, you know, that’s all.”
Tony offered a grateful smile. “I do know that.”
“Where do you go from here though? You don’t love him, Tones.”
“No, I don’t, at least not in the way he loves me,” Tony admitted. He turned to study James again, eyes tracing the pale, emaciated form. “But I think I could.”
The last few hours had been a whirlwind. Getting James to Medical, stabilizing him, calling both Drs. Yamada and Tymoshenko to inform them of the development—two awkward conversations to say the least—and in that rushed string of minutes, Tony hadn’t had the time to think about the future, but here and now, in these early morning hours, with the sun slowly rising over the horizon, the world had finally gone still.
“I certainly don’t hate him,” Tony added, a self-deprecating huff leaving his lips. “Truthfully, I never hated him. Just let too much of Rogers bleed into what I initially thought of him, but then Rogers basically abandoned him when James refused to act like a starry-eyed sycophant, and James came here and we got to know the real him. He’s quiet and broody and shies away from all the flashy parts of our lives, but so does Bruce and we don’t love him any less for it.” He offered Rhodey a grin to go with the teasing, trying to alleviate the worry he could see on his best friend’s face. “I’m pretty sure the kids have basically adopted him already and everyone treats James as part of our little family without even thinking about it. He’s… a good man and I care about him, and maybe that’s not enough for this damn disease, but what the hell is love anyways, right? It’s all goddamn chemicals and I do care enough about him to give him a real chance to live a happy life.”
“At the cost of your own happiness?”
The question wasn’t biting, just a soft expression of concern, but Tony met it with a shrug nonetheless. “I’ve done shittier things for less noble reasons. Hell, jumped into bed for much shittier reasons. And besides, no one can say he’s not easy on the eyes, right?”
“Tony.”
“I know, I know, sorry, bad time for jokes.”
“It isn’t about the jokes. I just don’t think you’ve thought this through.”
“Oh, I definitely haven’t, but please don’t act like you’re surprised, that’s been my motto since undergrad O-Chem.”
That, at least, got a huff out of Rhodey. “How do you see this going forward? Pretend you’re in love with him, let him propose, get married, adopt five more kids and a dog, and then get a room with a view in a retirement home together?”
Tony hummed, shaking his head fondly at the words. The funny thing was, Rhodey’s little scenario didn’t sound all that terrible. Tony could think of worse ways to live a life.
“He’ll get better on his own now, but that doesn’t mean we’ll stop working on the cure. Hell, I really do think we need a few more weeks tops to stabilize the neutralizing agent and if there’s a cure that we know works, then maybe when James is stable, I’ll tell him the truth.” Would James feel betrayed by the lie? Would he hate Tony for it? Or would he hate himself for forcing Tony into this position? “So if he relapses, we’ll be ready to save him.”
“By the look on your face, you’re not all that eager to try that.”
Tony didn’t deny it. “Would it really be so bad? To be with James? I’ve never considered it—hell, didn’t even think he was into men once he debunked the whole ‘he and Rogers were lovers in the forties’ thing for us. Plus, I was still so damn raw after my break-up with Pep.” Tony gave Rhodey a grateful smile when Rhodey rubbed his shoulder in solidarity. “I know that was for the best, I know, but I really thought Pepper was my one and only and when it ended, I thought, if I can’t make it work with Pepper, how the hell can I make work with anyone else?”
“And now you’re thinking you’re gonna it work with the amnesiac super soldier who tried to kill you last year?”
“To be fair, I tried killing him too and hell, who says that’s not a good place to start? We’ve seen each other at our worst, gone through some serious shit already, and we came out on the other side as friends.”
Tony thought about the way James’ rare smiles always appeared when Tony was around, about each caring gesture he’d taken for granted. Every cup of coffee, every offer to help, every quiet night spent listening to Tony vent about one thing or another, every hesitant touch, every longing look—and that was longing Tony mistook for caution, in retrospect. Every kind word, every encouragement, every curious question, every moment spent together that served as proof of James’ love.
Tony studied James again, remembered him healthier and stronger, a quiet man with a sweet smile and a good heart; he rolled that image around in his head, testing what it would be like to merge that image with his own.
The taste of it wasn’t bitter and perhaps that surprised him too. Maybe he was only convincing himself into accepting this, but he stood by his point. What the hell were love and desire anyways?
Chemicals, all of it, sometimes so powerful they forced the body into literal decay, but chemicals nonetheless, and right now, Tony’s own mixture tasted like a steady affection and a blossoming curiosity.
“Maybe it wouldn’t so bad.” To be loved so deeply, he didn’t say. “I guess we’ll just have to see, but at this point, what’s done is done. James is alive and I don’t have it in me to regret what I did.”
Regret and guilt were old friends and there had been a trail spanning his whole life littered with those regrets, but when James’ chest rose and fell on a steady breath, Tony accepted this wasn’t one of them.
Rhodey shook his head, resigned to this latest bout of Tony’s recklessness. “So, red roses,” he said. “Any grand meaning behind that?”
“That’s a misconception, actually. Hollywood loves to assign deeper meaning to the flowers, but based on all the studied cases, what manifests has less to do with the person’s feelings and more with the pollen and particulates of the region where the victim lives.”
“So he was coughing up roses because the Compound is covered with them?”
“Guess so.”
During the renovations, Tony had the roses planted as a way to honor his mother. Roses were Maria’s favorite, as beautiful and elegant as she was, and maybe it was poetic irony for roses to choke the life out of James, but Tony could only feel nausea at the thought, rather than any vindictive spite.
Maria would have loved James, would have fussed over him, would’ve played the piano for him and spent hours listening to his stories while they drank tea and enjoyed sweet treats together. She would’ve been so charmed by his quiet intelligence and soulful eyes.
In many ways, he supposed, Tony resembled Maria far more than he resembled Howard.
“I trust you to have my back, to pull me aside if I start losing my head, but whatever happens, Rhodey, whatever I end up feeling—friendship or love, it doesn’t matter—if he has any doubt, it can put him right back at death’s door.” Tony held Rhodey’s steady gaze. “So I trust you’ll keep this between us?”
Rhodey nodded without hesitation and Tony didn’t think he could love him more.
“Like so much else, I’ll take this to my grave if I have to. I just want you to be happy, Tones, that’s all.”
He opened his arms and Tony came willingly, melting into the tight hug, allowing himself one moment of weakness, one brief acknowledgement of his own exhaustion.
Honestly, the exhaustion had little to do with tonight’s events. He’d been running on fumes for months and months, even before James arrived at their doorstep. Damage control, the Accords, politics and endless debates, cutthroat industry competition, actual world-saving, the break-up with Pepper.
Maybe he really was overdue for a real break.
Rhodey left after a quiet exchange of goodbyes and Tony turned back to James. Would he really want to spend his whole life with Tony? Broken, bitter, exhausted Tony with his ledger of blood and a body of scars and a mind wrapped up with anxiety?
Maybe they both needed a break, he decided, and he let himself wonder what James would look like stretched out on the golden sands of a faraway beach. Maybe he’d smile more when he wasn’t trapped in this stuffy Compound, maybe he’d let himself be more playful, more confident, more at ease with himself and the world if he knew his feelings were returned by the man he loved.
James’ eyes fluttered open and Tony made sure to smile, funneling every bit of encouragement into his expression. It surprised him again how genuine it felt, how little effort it took to summon the warmth in his chest.
“Tony?”
Raspy, weak, and obscured by the oxygen mask, but there was no mistaking Tony’s name on James’ lips.
Tony took James’ hand and gave it a squeeze before lifting it up and pressing his lips to the knuckles. The gesture was deliberate, since Tony would’ve never thought to treat James with such an intimacy before, but he never even knew James would welcome this. It felt nice though, to be so gentle with someone, and even behind the oxygen mask, Tony saw James’ lips struggle valiantly to form a smile.
“Wasn’t a dream,” James rasped, the unspoken doubt obvious, and Tony made sure to keep his encouraging smile in place as he shook his head.
“No, not a dream at all, I promise. You’ll be just fine James, you’ll see. We’ll be just fine.”
James nodded; with his hand uncoordinated and shaking, he tried to take off the oxygen mask, so Tony stepped in to help.
Clear blue eyes followed his every movement.
“How are you feeling, James?”
“Tired.” James licked his dry lips, cleared his throat, and grimaced. “Like I need half a gallon of toothpaste and water.”
Tony chuckled and handed him a glass, hands hovering, keeping James from taking too-large sips of water. With the glass put aside, Tony settled back on the bed and brushed away a few of the greasy strands that fell over James’ eyes.
“We’ll get you cleaned up in no time. You’ll be good as new.”
James could really use a confidence-building makeover after all this, Tony decided. A nice trim, a little pampering at the spa, maybe a wardrobe overhaul, and why hadn’t Tony thought of this before? He’d allowed cheap T-shirts and baggy, ripped jeans to go on for too long, especially when James would look so fantastic in a nice three-piece suit or some well-fitting slacks.
“I still can’t believe—” James stopped to clear his throat. He breathed easier and Tony could see the palpable relief on his face. “Still can’t believe you’re here.”
“I am definitely here and I’m not going anywhere.” There no more fussing to be done, no more need to keep touching James, and Rhodey would probably call Tony out for indulging in his mother hen tendencies, for getting drunk on the feeling of someone needing him, but Rhodey wasn’t here anymore and James seemed to relax with each brush of Tony’s fingers as if Tony’s touch solidified this new reality for him.
Hanahaki affected the brain just as much as the respiratory and the endocrine systems and James would’ve spent this last week going in and out of consciousness, struggling to distinguish between fevered dreams and reality, unable to accurately track the passage of time.
What a nasty affliction.
The metal hand came up to press Tony’s palm into James’ cheek, the beard scratchy and rough.
“I hope— I just want to—” James wheezed between words, still weak and unsure, but the way those eyes stayed on Tony, the intensity in them, the determination… It sent shivers dancing across Tony’s skin. “I just want to make you happy, Tony. I swear I will.”
Tony didn’t let himself frown, but the words made him wonder whether James saw right through him. Maybe they were both lying to themselves at this point.
Tony leaned in and kissed James’ forehead, the taste of sweat and salt on his lips, the lingering scent of roses slowly fading. He pressed their foreheads together and whispered, “Take a deep breath for me, sweetheart.”
James did, both of them shifting in a rise and fall as James’ lungs expanded, the flowers and blood gone to make room for sweet, precious air.
Rhodey may have called this martyrdom, but usually Tony got a hell of a lot less for his sacrifices. Learning to love and appreciate a handsome man who already respected Tony, who admired him for the right reasons, who proved time and again he was a good person who wanted to make Tony happy? How was that a sacrifice? How was this selfless when Tony was free to claim something so beautiful and so good all for himself?
James clung to him and kept whispering soft declarations, a trembling “Thank you,” and “I love you,” and “I’ll give you the world, sweetheart, I swear.”
It didn’t feel like a sacrifice.
It never did, in the end, and Tony was right all those months ago too. The sun and the surf did look perfect on James after all.
Strong arms wrapped around his waist to pull him in flush against a broad chest and James whispered a sultry “Good morning, darling,” before peppering Tony’s neck with kisses.
They didn’t get their vacation right away, with recovery and work and doomsdays getting in the way, but there was nothing but glorious white sand and the blues of the ocean outside their window now, a warm, salty breeze caressing Tony’s skin, calling out to him to go out and explore, to drag his boyfriend along and find a secluded place to them to enjoy.
Tony turned in the embrace and buried his hands in James’ hair, pulled him in for a kiss. No hesitation, no second-guessing, nothing but the warmth of their mouths, the slip of tongue against Tony’s, the taste of coffee mingling with something Tony had come to recognize as purely James.
Tony groaned into the kiss, deepening it, tempted to drag James back into bed for a repeat performance of one satisfying, toe-curling morning, but the surf kept on calling his name, the warm sand of the beach begging him to lie down and absorb the rays of the sun.
He broke them apart. Sex they could have anywhere, but tropical vacations were few and far in between.
“Well, good morning to you too, gorgeous,” Tony added belatedly and watched James break out into a grin. His smiles were brighter here and those big hands hadn’t stopped roaming, clearly not satiated by their morning festivities either.
James had changed in these past months, just as Tony had. It could’ve been that close brush with death, could’ve been this relationship, or it could’ve been the actual, honest-to-god therapy James went into during his recovery period that had changed him. He had said he wanted to be ‘the best he could be’ now that he knew he could have Tony. He wanted to be better, healthier, for Tony.
It was the sort of devotion Tony found intimidating sometimes, still doubting he could live up to it, but he hadn’t disappointed James yet and Tony couldn’t deny the unique pleasure in knowing his existence alone could help change someone for the better.
They didn’t fall into bed right away, taking months after James’ sickness to get there, until he was strong again, clear-minded, seeking the help he wanted, and eager—enthusiastic and ready—to get his hands on Tony.
Tony had been pretty eager too.
He kissed James again, because he could and because he wanted to. These kisses had never been a chore, not even when they were chaste and meant only to keep the Hanahaki at bay. It didn’t take long for these kisses to become something Tony thought about constantly, something he craved and sought out himself.
“Thinking of doing some surfing today?” Tony asked. “Because you know how much I love watching you flex all those muscles while you navigate the waves.”
James huffed. “You can barely see me that far out in the water.”
“I have a fine imagination, thank you very much.”
“That does sound nice, now that you mention it, but just a few waves. Afterwards, I’d rather just stretch out on the sand next to you.”
Tony nuzzled his cheek, loving the feel of him, the smell, the sensation of being in his arms.
They didn’t fit together perfectly, but imperfect people never did, and they fit well enough for both of them to still be here.
“Kiss me again,” Tony whispered and James happily obliged.
There was a cure now, although that in itself was imperfect. A seventy percent success rate, but for many, it turned out to be a literal life-saver.
Tony still had no intention of telling James the truth. He loved James and there was no percentage low enough for Tony to risk telling him the truth for truth’s sake only to watch him die.
With their hands laced together, Tony tugged James back to the counter so he could finish his coffee and coax some breakfast into both of them. James followed, as he always did, always ready and willing to indulge Tony’s every whim—and Tony always made sure James got just as much out of this, in every facet of their lives—and while Tony fussed over their drinks and their food, James stood behind him, arms wrapped around Tony, breath tickling the hairs at Tony’s nape as he gave out unhelpful advice through fits of soft, sleepy laughter.
Out of their window, Tony spotted the bright red of a hibiscus flower billowing gently in the breeze. A different red, something softer than the color of roses that had plagued James’ body. A beautiful color and Tony wanted to see tucked behind James’ ear, contrasting perfectly against James’ sun-kissed skin.
Maybe Tony would always wonder if he talked himself into falling in love with James through sheer determination. Maybe James always knew Tony’s love didn’t start out like this and convinced himself he could make Tony’s sacrifice worth it by being everything Tony could ever ask for.
Maybe they were both living with lies hiding beneath their breastbones.
The hibiscus swayed in the wind and Tony swayed in the circle of James’ arms and he hummed as he basked in the warmth of the sun and the sweet touch of James’ lips on his skin.
Or maybe not. After all, their love held no lies within it today.