A/N: This is a birthday gift for one of my best friends, Owen! I love you, baby, and have a happy birthday!

"The Hanahaki Disease is an illness born from one-sided love, where the patient throws up and coughs up flower petals when they suffer from one-sided love. The infection can be removed through surgery, but the feelings disappear along with the petals. You can die from it if it is left untreated."

You wake up gagging, instinctually slapping a hand over your mouth. You have to fight back the urge to cough, your throat tickled and clenching down as you stumble to your feet. You almost run into the wall on your way to your bedroom door, flinging it open and dashing to the bathroom, your eyes pricked with tears at the pain of holding it in. Finally, you can't hold it in anymore, crashing to your knees in front of the toilet as you empty the contents of your throat out into the porcelain bowl.

You don't need the light on to see what you just threw up, flushing the toilet as soon as you stop dry heaving. You're shaking, and you wipe the sweat off of your forehead. Your hands are clammy and you're having problems breathing. God, you hate doing this. Every morning, and it keeps getting worse. You dig the heels of your palms into your eyes until the tears stop.

The bathroom light suddenly flicks on, and you blink rapidly to adjust to the sudden, fluorescent lighting. You turn around, not at all surprised to see Dave standing there in his pajamas. It must be four in the morning, and you feel a little guilty clench in your gut for waking him up.

Dave looks at you for a moment, and then walks over to you. He bends down, picking up a stray flower petal from the ground and holding it up. It's lovely, flushed a deep, healthy shade of pink, and you know from experience that it's soft and smooth to the touch. He looks at you over the top of his shades, and the concern in his ruby eyes is so potent that you have to look away. "Dirk." He says softly. "This is getting out of hand. We really should see a doctor about removing it - you've thrown up every morning for a month now."

He's right - you know that he is. But you just shake your head, looking down into the toilet. A stray petal is floating on the surface of the water, and you find the sight of it almost poetic. You don't care how often you throw up. A year ago, you would cough up a petal maybe once a week. Now, you're throwing up whole flowers. Somehow, you still find a way to refute Dave's offer. "I can't." You sigh. "Dave, I love him."

You feel him put a hand on your shoulder and give a soft squeeze. "But he doesn't love you back." He whispers.

In response, you cough up another petal.

He smiles at you.

His fucking smile.

You love his smile, even though the sight of it always makes you gag. You love the little huffing sound he makes before he laughs, and you love the way his eyes crinkle, and you love how his laugh makes you feel flushed and causes your heart to flutter and pound.

You leave him there on the couch, regretting the decision to crack a joke as you kneel over the toilet like you have so many times before and cough up the sudden surge of flowers in your lungs. Being around him makes you feel like you can't breathe, in more ways than one.

Jake's footsteps follow, and you hear his voice but not his words. All you can process is the concern in his voice, and it makes your body convulse again as you reach into your mouth to pull out the flower lodged in your throat. You're worried for a moment that Jake is going to see you like this - that he's going to finally piece together what's been going so wrong with you recently - but Dave comes to your rescue. He flashsteps in from of the bathroom door, closing it before Jake can peek in, and you listen to him awkwardly explain that you were running a fever, but didn't want to sacrifice movie night for a little head cold. Immediately, Jake is trying to push past him, offering to help look after you if you were feeling under the weather, and you end up spending five more minutes coughing up flowers into the toilet as a result.

You wish that he wouldn't be so sweet to you. You want Jake to treat you like dirt - that way you don't have to deal with his casual affection day after day after day. It's exhausting. Love is exhausting, but it's all you have. Jake doesn't love you (you gag up a single petal at the thought), but you love him. This is the best that you're going to get. You can't just give that up.

"Dirk-" Dave tries again, opening the bathroom door to peer in on you.

"No." Comes your immediate, muffled response. "I'm not getting the surgery, Dave. You can't convince me."

There's a pause, and then Dave steps into the room and shuts the door behind him, kneeling next to you. He takes your hand, pressing a glass of water into it. "Then at least drink something." He sighs. "And try to spend a few minutes thinking about something besides Jake."

So you sip on the glass until all of the water is gone, and you think about Dave, and how lucky you are to have a younger brother that's the perfect blend of understanding and concerned.

And you go back out to Jake and wave away his concerns like they're nothing. You let him lean into you and you joke about the movie with him and you force yourself to close your eyes every time he smiles. You then spend fifteen minutes after he leaves coughing up the flowers you had swallowed and held back.

"It's Florpulmo morbus - Hanahaki disease." The doctor tells you as if you hadn't known that you had it for almost a year now. You think that his name is Dr. McNeel, but you don't really care. All you know is, you don't want to be here. When Dave offered to drop you off at Roxy's house on his way to the store, you hadn't expected him and your long-time best friend to be working in cahoots to finally force you into seeing a professional. Roxy is in the waiting room now, having arrived after Dave texted her that he had successfully wrestled you into the doctor's office.

If Dave wasn't your ride, you would have taken off as soon as you pieced together where he was taking you. Still, getting diagnosed doesn't mean that you have to accept the treatment. A lot of people don't - Hanahaki disease kills more people than cancer worldwide. Still, more than ten times as many just accept the very simple surgery and get rid of it. You refuse to.

"How far along is it?" Dave asks from where he's seated along the wall, bouncing his leg up and down nervously.

Dr. McNeel flips through the stack of papers in his hands, pulling out two glossed photos and handing them to Dave. "Here are the results of the x-rays. At this rate, I would give you no more than a year before they suffocate you." Still, nothing you didn't already know and accepted whole-heartedly.

Dave bites his lip, flipping between the two photos. When he's satisfied, he hands them to you. You do not see what you're expecting, and it surprises you to the point that it takes a moment to process.

Hanahaki disease is… strangely beautiful. Dr. McNeel got a nice, clear shot of your lungs, one view from the front, and the other from the side. The flowers that are slowly suffocating you are very beautiful. Even though the picture is in black and white, you can see that the flowers are in full bloom. Their vines and creeping tendrils twist their way up your lungs, flowers blooming where they split off. You put a hand over your chest, thinking about the flowers just out of reach. It's a pity that something so beautiful is killing you.

"Now, then," Dr. McNeel goes over to his computer, typing something in before turning back to you, "I recommend firstly that you confess to whoever has your affections - and has had them for quite a long time, based on the level of growth in your lungs. If the feelings aren't returned, I am more than happy to sign you up for immediate removal surgery. It's incredibly safe - almost no one dies from it unless they're too far along. In which case, they were going to die from the disease, anyway."

You glance over at Dave. He's not saying anything, but you can feel his encouragement, even from here. You can feel how he wants you to accept the surgery. You sigh. "I don't want to… lose how I feel about him."

It always felt like an abysmal excuse, but now, with the disapproving gaze of Dr. McNeel on you, it feels flimsier than paper. You force yourself not to slip down in your seat and shrink away from the pity in his eyes.

"Well, I don't want to lose you." Dave speaks up. There's a tightness in his voice that you never noticed before, and you wonder how long he's been holding this in.

You turn to him. "Dave-" You try.

"No, Dirk." He cuts you off, narrowing his eyes. "I don't care how amazing you think Jake is, he is not worth dying for. Do you think that he would want you to do this for him? If he knew that you had Hanahaki, he would probably be in tears. You are the only one who wants this." Something about your expression must tell him that he's gone too far because Dave quickly tries to backtrack. "Look, Dirk, I didn't mean it like that, I just-"

You cough, reaching into your mouth to pull out a single, stray petal. "Don't apologize." You mutter. "I'll… I'll tell him, alright? And as for the surgery… um, just give me time to think about it."

Dave nods. He wants to press for more, you can tell, but he knows how hard this is for you, so he just stands, takes the petal from between your fingers, and tosses it into the wastebasket. "Okay." He agrees. "Just… be smart about it, Dirk." He says carefully.

You manage a small, thin-lipped smile.

As it turns out, Roxy is much less patient than Dave is. You probably should have seen that coming. She had Hanahaki disease, too, back in middle school. Somehow, she managed to keep it from you for seven months, probably because you were the one that she was in love with. In the end, she got the surgery. You think that she has a boyfriend now, but you two have an unspoken agreement not to discuss your romantic lives with each other.

Apparently, the courtesy isn't in effect when said love life is slowly killing you.

Roxy rounds on you the instant you enter the waiting room. "Diederik Clementine Strider!" She shouts. Everyone in the room is suddenly looking at you, and you want to dig yourself a hole to die in while you mentally strangle your past self for telling her your full name. Why would you ever think that was a good idea?

She marches up to you and holds you at arm's length, looking you up and down as though you're going to start sprouting flowers from your very skin.

Dave walks out behind you, and Roxy softens a little bit when she sees him, but you don't have any hope of getting out of this building without a stern talking-to. You used to try and tell Roxy that she's not your mom, but you have since given up on trying to get that message through.

"Gimme the dets." Roxy holds out a hand, and Dave slips her the x-rays of your lungs. You assume that the good doctor has a copy of them on file, otherwise, no sob story Dave spouted was going to convince him to let you keep those.

You shift anxiously while Roxy looks over the photos, and the pit in your stomach grows as her look of severity shifts to one of deep concern.

You wish that she would be mad at you. You could handle that. You cannot handle the look of sorrow on your face when she looks back up at you.

"This is…" Roxy starts, gesturing at the photos as if they can speak for her. In a way, they almost do. "Dirk, this is really, really bad. You know that this is bad, don't you?"

Slowly, you nod.

She shares a look with Dave, talking through whatever mind-meld they have for a moment, before she turns back to you. When she opens her mouth again, though, nothing comes out. Struggling for a moment, she finally just sighs and shifts her body away from you, studying the photos with a quiet somberness.

You would have preferred if she slapped you and cursed you and denounced you as a friend, never to speak to you again.

You start to apologize - for what, you aren't sure - but Dave puts a hand on your shoulder, stopping you. Somehow, the expression on his face hurts more than the way Roxy looks at you.

"A week." He says, his voice tight. "You have a week to talk to Jake, or I'll drive you over to his house and tell him myself. Okay?"

You don't have it in yourself to refuse. You nod. "Okay."

You spend six of your seven allotted days panicking.

You write down what you want to say, then scratch it halfway through and toss it in the trash. After two days, your floor is covered with discarded papers, and you're sure that you're single-handedly responsible for wasting the deaths of at least five trees. You practice what you want to tell him in the mirror, but you can't look yourself in the eye for very long. You find it hard to believe that Jake will be able to so much as glance at you again if you tell him everything.

You spend a lot of time laying face-down on your bed, thinking. You think about all the ways your conversation with him could go, all of the outcomes you can fathom. Best case scenario, you end up married to Jake, the disease goes away, and everyone dies happy at a very old age. Worst case scenario, a meteor hits the Earth in the middle of your confession, and you'll never know how he feels, and the planet is thrust into an ice age that lasts thousands of years and kills off 90% of humankind.

Sometimes, you'll fall asleep face-down on your bed, half-hoping that you'll suffocate in your sleep and you'll be able to avoid the whole issue entirely. But you always wake up on your back, still breathing, and plenty refreshed for another three hours of maddeningly pointless thinking.

You exhaust yourself just by existing.

You waste six days throwing up flowers, eventually just leaving the petals on your floor and your bed to gather dust. You can't be bothered to make it to the toilet anymore, and your wastebasket is clogged with crumbled up papers. It's almost poetic, you think. Green cymbidium orchids and paper, scattered like your thoughts.

You love those orchids. They remind you of Jake's eyes. His eyes, like his smile, are perfect.

You can't even imagine how you'll feel after the surgery. Your feelings for Jake will vanish with the removal of the flowers. Will you stop loving his smile? When you look in his eyes, will they stop being beautiful and just be regular green eyes? You can't begin to fathom what that will feel like.

On the morning of the final day - the day that Dave promised to drag you over to Jake's and force it out of you - you shake Dave awake with a nervous clench in your gut.

"Mngh?" He rubs the sleep out of his eyes, fumbling for his shades and slipping them on. He looks at the clock on his nightstand and then looks to you. "Dirk, it's six in the morning. What the fuck is it?"

You hesitate, but decide to force it out anyway. "I'm taking the car keys." You tell him. "Jake goes for a morning run every day at seven, so I'm going to catch him before, alright?"

Dave must decide that this is more important than being upset over waking up this early, because he nods, putting a comforting hand on your shoulder. "Good luck." He tells you.

You nod, but you don't make a move to leave. You are struck by the sudden realization that you want to hug your brother. You don't remember the last time you hugged Dave, but you know that he deserves that much, at least, for putting up with your bullshit all of this time.

"Okay, well…" You clear your throat awkwardly, getting to your feet, "sorry for waking you up, I just, um, wanted you to know…" You manage to get out.

"Oh my fucking God." Dave groans in exasperation, reaching forward and taking your hands. "Dirk, you are so fucking emotionally constipated that it's painful to watch. Get your ass down here." He pulls you down against him into a hug, tucking his face in the crook of your neck in a gesture that's so childlike that it makes your heart squeeze.

You let out a fond little sigh, bringing your shaky hands up to hug him back tight. Before you can convince yourself to keep your mouth shut, you lean in close to his ear and whisper, "I love you."

In response, Dave tenses a little. But he just as soon relaxes, giving a sort of wheezing laugh. "I love you, too, Dirk." He tells you with a fond squeeze. "If Jake breaks your heart, I'll kick his ass."

You muster up the will to laugh, and it's a little bit easier than you were expecting. You hold Dave for another minute before you force yourself to get a move on. You don't even think about Jake while you're doing it. Mostly, what you think about is how you don't deserve a brother like Dave.

You arrive at Jake's house at 6:23, according to your watch, but you don't make an effort to get out of the car and knock on the door. You sit in the driver's seat, tapping your finger along the wheel rhythmically and staring off into space as you think.

What will you do if Jake rejects your feelings? Now that you think about, is he even into guys to begin with? What if you roll up to his door and spill your heart out to him, and all he can sputter out is something about not being gay? That would be so humiliating. And if that happens, what are you going to do? Do you keep the feelings and die a slow death in exchange, or do you finally agree to let Dave take you to a hospital to have them removed? That's going to be a lot of recovery time, though. And climbing the stairs up to your apartment isn't going to be easy with your lungs healing… Still, Dave has been talking about moving into a proper house for a while now. It's not as if you're struggling to make ends meet anymore. A house is very probable, and it would be nice to finally move out of that old apartment.

A tap on the glass makes you jump, and you whirl your head to the side to see Jake tapping on the passenger window. "Dirk!" He waves at you when he sees that he has your attention, his voice a little muffled through the glass. "What're you doing out here?"

Your mouth goes dry at the sight of him, and you take a deep breath to stop shaking before you lift your wrist to look at your watch. Shit, is it 7:00 already? Well, you have to hand it to Jake. He sure does stick to his schedule.

You get out of the car, patting your thighs a few times in an effort to keep your legs from shaking. He jogs around the car to meet you, giving you a quick hug that you barely get to appreciate before pulling back. "So, to what do I owe the pleasure, Strider?" Jake asks good-naturedly.

It takes you a moment to reply - in the wake of his hug, the air around you smells like his shampoo mixed with the smell of rain, and you desperately try to remember it and store the warm feeling it causes in your chest.

Then again, that warm feeling might not be due to the way his hair smells. "Jake," you start, licking your lips, "I need to tell you-" You cough, gagging, putting a hand over your mouth just in time to catch the petals that are forced from your lungs.

"Dirk, are you okay?" You feel Jake put a hand on your back, rubbing gently between your shoulder blades. "Don't tell me you're still sick. If you've got a fever lasting this long, you should see a doctor."

His genuine concern makes you cough again, a single petal joining the rest in your hand. "I already saw a doctor." You say, your voice muffled from behind your hand. You're putting off on telling him the truth for as long as you can - you don't want him to know.

"Well?" Jake asks, a little impatiently, maybe, but you know that it's just because he's worried. "What did he tell you?"

You squeeze your eyes shut, finally pulling your hand from your mouth. You open your palm, face up, and let the orchid petals scatter in the breeze. "Jake." You wheeze, taking a shaky breath. "I… need to tell you something."

You open your eyes to look at him. Jake has always been a little slow on the uptake (a trait that you find more adorable than bothersome), but it doesn't take a genius to figure out what coughing up flower petals means. "Hanahaki disease?" He mutters, looking aghast. He actually looks a little pale. "Dirk, how long have you had this? Why didn't you say anything?" He demands. He's angry with you, but in the same way that Roxy is. He cares about you, and he's frustrated that you've been hurting for so long and he couldn't help.

"Um, about-" You stop to gag, reaching into your mouth to pull out another stray petal. You grimace, flicking it away. God, they keep coming faster and faster. "I've had it for about a year now."

"A year?" Jake repeats, looking horrified. "Dirk, that- I cannot even begin to describe how horrible that is." He takes your hand, and your heart does a little flip. "We need to get you into surgery. A year. I can't believe you're not dead yet." He rambles to himself, starting to tug you towards his car parked in the driveway.

You pull your hand from his grip without much trouble (he may be physically stronger, but he didn't grow up with a little brother - you could slip out of a keyhole), and take a step back. "Jake, firstly, I have a car right here." You gesture at yours, and he smiles sheepishly. You have to bite back a smile of your own. God, where does he get off on being so cute? It's not fair. "And, secondly, I… I came to tell you because, I… well, the thing is, I-" you bite your lip. Okay, you need to just spit this out. You came here to tell Jake how you feel, and you're not going to back out of it now. "I'm in love with you!" You blurt out, much louder than intended. Jesus, the whole neighborhood probably heard that. Your face flushes red up to the tips of your ears. You probably look ridiculous - when you blush, it just makes your freckles even more prominent. It makes you look something like a spotted apple. Which, as it turns out, is not very attractive.

Jake has gone red, too, but you don't think that it's because he returns the feelings. Just as you feared, he's not looking at you, staring down at his shoes and shifting in place nervously. "U-Um, well…" He says slowly. You're already internally wincing. You know exactly what he's going to say. "Listen, mate, I'm- I'm flattered, really, but I'm… still a little confused on the boys vs. girls thing, so I… don't really know what to tell you."

There's an apology in his eyes that he doesn't say aloud. If you had to guess, you would say that he's keeping it to himself probably because he knows you won't accept it. "It's okay." You say. You bend over to cough, not even bothering to hide the green petals that come out. The wind catches them for you, and when you look back up at Jake, there's a look of pity in his eyes that's so acute you have to look away. You don't want to see that look in his lovely eyes ever again. "I'm… I'm going to get the surgery." You tell him shakily, letting your eyes close. "Dave has been pushing for it for a while now. I- I don't want to give up on... my feelings for you, but if I had to choose between that and dying, I… I'm not going to disappoint everyone by dying." You put it simply.

Jake nods in agreement. He looks like he wants to hug you, but he's fighting himself on it. You hate the way he's looking at you - as if you're so fragile that the simplest touch will send you into a coughing fit that will put you in a coma. "Well, I…" He shifts awkwardly, reaching out to pat you on the shoulder. He seems relieved when the simple touch doesn't send you to your knees puking up petals. "I'll support you, however I can, Dirk."

You force a smile. "I know you will." You say, biting back a remark about how that was what made you fall for him in the first place. You close the distance between the two of you before you can stop yourself, throwing your arms around him and pulling him into a tight hug.

Thankfully - and to your eternal relief - Jake hugs you back automatically instead of pushing you away. He lets you nuzzle into his hair, not saying anything when you take a very obvious sniff. You can't help it. This might very well be the last time that you can look at him and fully appreciate everything that is Jake English, and you want to remember it as vividly as you can. "I love you." And it hurts so badly, you add silently.

He doesn't quite know what to say for a moment, but then Jake gives a little nod. "I know." He says softly.

The statement is so incredibly Jake that, despite the bitter sadness growing in your chest, you manage to laugh. You tilt your head, kissing him on the cheek before you pull back. "Alright." You sigh, running a hand through your hair. "Sorry for interrupting your run. Thanks for, um- letting me get all of that out."

This earns you a chuckle, and while Jake's smile is a little tense, it's genuine enough for you to be able to return it. "Don't thank me, Dirk. Just take care of yourself, alright?" You nod, and he gives you a wink and a nod before turning and running off down the usual path he takes.

You wait until you can't hear his footsteps anymore before you bend over and cough up no less than ten orchid petals onto the pavement.

"So?" Roxy asks anxiously, bending over your bed to put a hand on your forehead. The gesture is so cute that you can't find it in yourself to tell her that surgery doesn't make you run a fever. "How're you feeling? Did they get all the flowers out?"

You nod, pulling your hospital gown up to show off the scar going down the center of your chest. "Yeah, I'm cured." You smile gently. Now, looking back, you can't believe how foolish you were acting. Jake is a great guy, of course, but he's not worth killing yourself for absolutely no reason. God, and you thought that Dave was childish.

Roxy grins, clapping her hands together before leaning over to hug you. She's careful not to put too much pressure on your chest, but her hug is tight all the same. "I'm so glad." She sighs into your ear. "I thought that I was going to lose you."

Carefully, you manage to get your arms free from her grip to hug her back, gently patting her between the shoulder blades. "Don't worry." You mutter. "I'm not going anywhere for a long time, Rox."

According to hospital rules, Roxy isn't allowed to stay overnight, so she leaves when it starts getting dark. Luckily, Dave is allowed to stay because he's your brother, and he sets up his computer and you and he Skype with Roxy until you pass out. You wish that you had gotten the surgery sooner. You hadn't even realized how hard it was starting to get to breathe, and now it's effortless and so, so sweet. You love Roxy and Dave so much for being there for you, and it isn't even hard to smile or laugh anymore.

You get the first good night's sleep that you've had in a long time.

You feel amazing!

After they release you from the hospital, it's almost like your entire life takes off. You're not supposed to strain your lungs too much for about two months, and you and Dave quickly reach an agreement; the apartment isn't going to cut it. You keep it for another week, but then you quickly put a payment on a small, two-bedroom and one bathroom house recently put up for sale in the area. Roxy and Jake come over to help you move your stuff so that you don't have to do so much heavy lifting, and you get to fully appreciate what it's like to hug Jake and talk to him without your stupid feelings getting in the way and messing everything up. You know that Jane would be there if she could, and you manage to get her on the phone for a few minutes before she has to leave. Her training to take over her family's baked goods empire has finished, and she has the whole year to prove what she can (or can't) accomplish in a position of power. It's stressful work, and you all wish her luck before she has to get back to work.

Speaking of work, yours takes off! You work as a website designer and manager, or really, you do anything with HTML, CSS, Javascript, and more - whatever your boss needs. He's trying to kickstart his own small company, and as such, he keeps you pretty busy with even the tiniest changes. You were making money before off of the job, as well as by tinkering with your own inventions and selling them on the side. But when your boss finally gets his big break, your income gets kicked up to the stratosphere. Mostly, you think that it's because your boss is too ecstatic to realize that he's overpaying you, but you aren't complaining!

As a special treat, you get Dave his own car for his 20th birthday. You were getting tired of practically letting him own yours, anyway, and the meltdown he has at the sight of it is worth every penny. So is the hug he gives you once he's calmed down.

Maybe if you keep saving up, you can even push Dave the rest of the way through college. Now, he gets by mostly on his basketball scholarship (he's tall and lanky and fast enough that he may be short by comparison, but he can score like there's no tomorrow). He's not allowed to have a job while he's playing for his college, which is sometimes a problem, but you're glad that he's not burning himself out with school work, practice, and a job on top of his already poor sleep schedule.

Now, you think that even that will start to change. Things are really looking up for the both of you, and you're finally getting interested in other men. Maybe even someone that likes you back this time.

Things are going great. Well, until you wake up one Tuesday morning to the doorbell being pressed relentlessly, filling the house with the loud dinging over and over and over groan in annoyance and sit up, slipping your shades on and trudging to the door. Not for the first time, you're jealous of what a heavy sleeper Dave is. You would love to be able to sleep through that.

You groan in annoyance and sit up, slipping your shades on and trudging to the door. Not for the first time, you're jealous of what a heavy sleeper Dave is. You would love to be able to sleep through that.

"I'm coming, I'm coming!" You shout, but still, the ringing doesn't stop until you unlock the door and swing it open. You're ready to curse someone out, but you stop as soon as you see who's on the other side.

Normally, when he knows that he's done something annoying or frustrating, Jake looks sheepish and apologetic. But not this time. His skin is pasty, almost sickly, as though he hasn't slept in days. The dark bags under his eyes reaffirm this. And is he… shaking?

You step out of the threshold of your door to put your hands on his shoulders, looking at him with concern. "Jake?" You brush the hair out of his face, pressing a hand to his forehead. He doesn't feel warm, but he's covered in sweat. Did he run all the way over here? "Jake, what happened? Are you okay?"

He pants, taking a moment to catch his breath before he can speak. You don't see a car parked out front… Holy shit. Did he seriously run ten miles to your house just to speak with you? Your concern mounts. It must be something serious if he forgot that he owns a car. "Dirk." He manages. "Dirk, it's- it's-" He reaches into his pocket, holding something up for you to see.

At first, you don't believe it. You blink, then take the object into your hands, turning it over and studying it. It's a flower petal. Probably a sunflower just starting to bloom, based on the size and shape of it. You slowly look up at Jake, not wanting to believe it. "Is this…?" You trail off, but you don't need to finish. He's already nodding.

"Yes." Jake tells you, terrified. "Dirk, I- I think I figured out my thoughts on the whole boy vs. girl thing. I just… I wish that I had done it sooner." His voice cracks, and he forces a smile.

You feel yourself starting to tear up, and you're so, so glad that you put your shades on. You pull him into a hug, letting the flower petal fall as you give Jake a reassuring squeeze. "It's going to be alright." You say, more to convince yourself than him. "We'll think of something."

Jake coughs, but you don't need to look to know that he's clutching another sunflower petal in his hand.