The Hanahaki Disease is an illness born from a one-sided love,
where the patient throws up and coughs up flower petals when they suffer
from one-sided love. If the love is not returned, the flowers continue to grow inside the infected’s lungs, until the infected dies.
A/N: So I originally intended for this to be the last part of Skyline, but because things needed to be explained so much, the story is getting a bit longer than I anticipated. For that reason, there will be a Skyline pt. 6!! I almost wish there wasn’t, because I love the evenness and finality of five parts, but what can you do. Special thanks to Zoe and Jen for helping me brainstorm ideas, and for giving me feedback!! Also, just a reminder, I do not have a tags list!! I really hope you guys enjoy pt. 5!!!
You really had no idea how Spider-Man did it. How could he walk around in his civilian
life, bursting at the seams with the secret of his powers, and not tell
anybody? How could he stay up half the
night roaming the streets of Queens and keeping them safe? How did he balance his hero responsibilities
with those of a typical teenager? You
were sure that, if the radioactive spider had bitten you, you would not have
been able to handle it like Spider-Man did.
You felt the change immediately when you woke up the
morning after your night with Spider-Man.
After crossing all those lines that the two of you had so carefully left
uncrossed for months, you had stayed up almost all night, just talking (and
also kissing a little bit? But really,
could anyone blame you? He was a super
hero). Once Spider-Man had left around
four am, you had had less than two hours of sleep once your alarm rang at
six. And by the time you made it to
school, you had felt like death warmed over.
That day had been a groggy fog of trying to stay awake and coherent
until school was over, and you were tucked away in your cozy bed.
Sirius, whose first language is French. Who starts hogwarts with a thick accent that curls around his words, and an oddly formal manner of speech for an 11 year old. And it’s not stiff, not at all, he speaks in flowing prose, everything he says is so carefully crafted and delicately delivered and Remus Lupin thinks he speaks like an angel. Of course, he’s teased mercilessly for it by the other kids in their year, and manages to drop it in a few weeks. Remus pretends he doesn’t hear the boy whispering to himself late at night, practicing making his vowels more English. More harsh and grating. Less pretty.
Sirius, whose first language was French, who learns to make puns and witticism in English, but writes in French when no one is looking, with carefully dotted i’s and loopy, curving s’s and f’s. Remus knows his parents write to him in English, because Voldemort speaks English and the Blacks speak little French nowadays past the harsh lines of their motto. Off course, that isn’t to say they don’t have their own ways of saying things without being understood. They just don’t need French to do it.
Sirius, whose first language, first love, was French. Back when his mother loved him she’d read him poems at night, about the moon, about the stars. She stopped when her stomach began to swell, when she realised she had another chance, when she realised Sirius had taken her words to heart, that he truly believed he could touch the stars if only because he loved them so. Foolish boy. The stars were hers to have and hers alone.
Sirius, who when Remus tells him he loved him, babbles nonsensically in french. Sirius who, as he gets more comfortable, begins to throw around the occasional word, then phrase. And by their fourth year he’s speaking in a fluid mix, all elegant poetics and flowing statements, every word so carefully planned and gods Remus loves it, loves the way Sirius’ voice seems to catch in his throat and bubble under his tongue and reach into Remus’ head. Sirius, who when he cries can’t muster up a word of English. Sirius who, when James dies, can’t muster up a word at all. And when Remus greets him years later with a soft “Bonjour”, months after that terrible night in the shack, Sirius just stares tiredly, and whispers back “Hello”.
(He never speaks a word of French again, not until one night when he sees James, no, Harry. And Remus can’t hear a damn thing, but he sees the words on his lips. A farewell too soft to hear. Harry doesn’t notice, doesn’t understand, never knew. But Remus knew. Remus knows, that slight smile, the whispered “Au Revoir”, the faded eyes. He knows he knows he knows. He wishes he didn’t.)