Work Text:
I wear your winter coat
The one you love to wear
So I keep feeling close
To us beyond compare
*
When Denali starts coughing up roses on the first day of Drag Race, he thinks it must be a sick joke.
He’s known about the curse since he was four years old - perched on the edge of his Abuela's knee, waiting impatiently to be allowed back onto the frozen-over lake. His Abuela (on her mother’s side) had chucked at his restlessness and patted his back while regaling him with the story of the family affliction.
"Hanahaki," she'd said, "is the sleeping devil." Their particular case was said to come from one of their late ancestors from Mexico. He was cursed for his greed for beautiful things, or so it was told, by an Aztec god called Xolotl, who foretold that his line would forever be anathematised with early death, provided they could not find their love.
Their children would be given a soulmate, someone perfect for them, and when they met, the clock would start. Their lungs would begin to fill with flowers, choking them with something beautiful.
The only cure was a kiss of true love, or so it was told.
He'd had nightmares that night, of choking on daisies or gerberas.
He'd never imagined roses.
But there are roses, alright - well, petals. They mix with the blood and the leftover foundation in the sink, and his first thought is that he'll have to come up with a reason he needs a new flannel.
His second thought is that he is fucked.
He's heard the story enough times - god, it's half of what his family talks about - the constant roulette of who will escape and who will not, and he wanted to think that, at twenty-eight, he'd survived. He knew there was still a chance - his great grandad was thirty-three.
He knows the story, so he knows that he's met them today - whoever it is that's ripping him apart from the inside. The issue is - it could be any of them. Who is he to know if it was a runner that he glanced at, or the queen he lip-synced against, or any one of the porkchop queens.
What if it was Elliott? What if he won't see them again for months because they're in a pandemic and he can't exactly use this as an excuse. Well, he probably could.
He makes himself chuckle with that thought - the idea of coughing up some petals for the TSA. The laugh, however, tickles his throat until another perfect petal is dislodged.
His third thought is that the petals are pink.
*
The moment we can have
You catch me in your eyes
That beauty on my pillow
That holds me in the night
*
He wakes up all too aware of the day he will face. They had the last two days off - presumably so that the 'A-team' could have their first episode or whatever - but now it's their time to shine.
He'd be hard-pressed to say he's enjoyed the last few days, the taste of blood just a little too present for his particular tastes, but it's given him ample time to think, and he's not quite sure where the train of thought is heading.
Most important in his ruminations is that the petals are pink. The shade is somewhere between a creole and a rose quartz, but it is still uniquely pink.
If he remembers his Abuela's stories right - which he's damn sure he does - the flowers mean something. His older brother escaped the curse, but his sister was afflicted with yellow pansies, 'loving thought'.
In her case, her partner George was a philosophy major in college. Denali supposes this is fair enough.
He prepares for the day quickly but thoroughly, taking the time to scrub both his teeth and tongue until the only smell surrounding him is spearmint and sandalwood from his cologne.
He sits next to Kahmora in the van - joking with her about the Chicago scene and trying not to laugh too hard.
He knows Kahmora has heard of Hanahaki before, they've discussed it once while crossfading on mojitos and brownie's made by Denali's ex. It's not uncommon in Asian culture - their gods as equally well known - and Kahmora knew of a couple in Vietnam who'd been drawn together by the same cruel strings of fate. "Thistles," she'd bemoaned, stroking her own throat in phantom discomfort, "can you imagine."
"Yes," Denali had said, though he'd refused to elaborate.
Now, he wishes he had - maybe he wouldn't feel so alone.
He spits out a thorn into a tissue after they finish rehearsing Phenomenon , concluding that the dancing had dislodged it, but grateful to get rid of the sharpness in his windpipe.
It was almost a relief to dance again - his room isn't big enough to allow him the freedom, but he's been craving it since he first tasted blood.
It's a shame that the only way to lipsync is to fail, he ponders as they get into drag for the main performance, he could do with this sort of rush every day. He's happy enough here though, surrounded by the queens he's slowly calling his friends, he can almost forget.
They perform and it goes swimmingly, not even a hint of sap or rosewater in the back of his throat. It goes so well, in fact, that he's pretty sure he could win. It's between him and Rosé at least.
He tries not to think about Rosé.
He remembers their meeting in the Porkchop Lounge - pink everywhere like cotton candy and cherry soda. He'd smiled, bounced his knees with an affectionate wave and then shook his hand.
And Denali had blushed.
He's blushing now thinking about it, though he's sure the cameras will pass it off as the hot stage lights mixed with exhaustion that will only get worse.
The first true joy he feels in days is in a moment he isn't sure the cameras will catch. Rosé catches his eye, a smirk dancing on his pink lips, and then he winks.
And something catches in his throat, but he doesn't think it's a flower petal, not this time.
So he winks in return.
*
And I will find my strength to untame my mouth
When I used to be afraid of the words
But with you I've learned just to let it out
Now my heart is ready to burst
*
He chose the quetzal for this runway as an ode to his heritage. This is, of course, what he tells the camera, sat comfortably in the confessional room at a cheery seven in the morning.
He does not think it is wise to delve into his personal history on such a show - at least not this personal - so he doesn't mention it's relation to the way he's started to smell roses that aren't there or the way he's never been so aware of his lungs. He declines to discuss Quetzalcoatl, the cousin of Xolotl and the boundary maker between earth and sky. This is a boundary, and it is one he holds dear.
He hasn't felt the feather-lightness of a petal on his tongue in a few days and it's making him distracted, so distracted that he bombs the challenge before he has the chance to really try. It's flat and uninteresting, and even the jokes of 'liking it rough' cannot bring a smile to his face as he paints for what he is sure will be his funeral.
He's not quite used to the real-life implications of that joke yet. He's not sure if he ever will be.
There's still the divide between the 'Winners circle' and the rest of them (because he refuses to call them losers) so he gets ready with his girls and lets the others gossip.
Elliott is back, though it's of little consequence as he's been firmly crossed off the list of possibilities. The more he thinks about it, though (and he's really trying not to think about it), there's only one possibility.
When Denali is sat on the Untucked sofas, vodka cranberry can gripped between his fingers, he is the one he turns to.
They're close - the closest Denali is to anyone except Kahmora, but he's about to lipsync against her, and he thinks that asking her for comfort might be a bit too much. They're at least friends, so when the group breaks away, he reaches out an arm.
"Can I talk to you?" He asks softly and his voice is full of all of the emotions he's been trying not to feel. Suddenly, he feels somewhere between collapse and breaking down, and Rosé's gentle hand on his is the only thing stopping a full meltdown.
His mascara is not nearly waterproof enough for the strength of his feelings.
They've moved slightly away from the couches for the illusion of privacy, but now that they're here, Denali doesn't quite know what to say.
"So," he starts before he has to duck his head down - Rosé's gaze too much for him to handle. "I don't know what it is about you, but like I don't even want to look at you." His voice is so broken sounding he's almost ashamed and he gestures vaguely to Rosé's gently smiling face. "There's something about you," he mumbles.
Rosé almost chuckles at him, and he wants to scold him but they've never been this close, and even through the foundation he can see his natural blush. "You don't have to look at me," he says, tender and soothing. "You don't have to look at me, baby, you know why?" Denali shakes his head, letting a soft huff of air escape his lips. "Because you're going to have a lot of time to look at me."
He goes to speak, dabbing a tissue under his waterline, but Rosé stops him. "Do not," he starts. "Listen, you really beat me last time we had to do this. And that's fierce-"
He swallows and Denali can see the bob of his adam's apple beneath careful contour.
"-You go do it again." It's a command. "And if you have to lipsync, and I think you're going to have to."
"I do, too."
"And I'm so sorry-" Denali places a hand on his arm, cutting off his pep talk with a barely-there smile.
"I'm going to pull it out, I swear," he says with a new-found determination. There's something he's found here, and he's not quite willing to let it go yet.
Rosé's own mask of confidence softens a little bit. "I need you to do it, not just for you, but I need you to do it for me," he says, "because I really need you here with me."
Their hands find each other and then, with a gentle squeeze, they break apart.
"I know that I can make it to the top," Denali says honestly.
"I know you can too," Rosé responds, eyes wet, he nods his assent. "You know what to do."
Denali survives the lip sync. He coughs up three and a half petals in the Untucked bathroom. He tries not to think about Rosé.
He cannot stop thinking about Rosé.
*
'Cause I, I feel like I'm ready for love
And I wanna be your everything and more
*
Pink roses, he has decided after much tossing and turning, are a little too on the nose.
He's a little scared he's projecting a 'crush' onto the pink-haired, rosy-cheeked queen, but even now, 'crush' seems like too light of a word. In reality, soulmate, however crass that sounds, is the only option.
They are drawn together in the van, linking their ankles beneath the seat in front and murmuring about inconsequential things. His Abuela was always very heavy-handed in her reminders that the kiss must be of 'true love', it's the only thing stopping him from kissing Rosé to get the dread out of his stomach. It twists like a snake, and if he didn't know any better - he'd wonder if a rose garden was growing there too.
"Whatcha planning?" Rosé simpers later, sidling up to him while Denali's fingers fumble with the bags she's trying to deconstruct for her outfit.
"Something camp," he responds, picking up a stray crystal and pressing it to his nose, silently pleased when it sticks. "Dia De Los Muertos themed, I think."
"Ooo, mi Hermana Mexicana," Rosé sings - his Spanish passable, all things considered. Denali gives him a playful shove.
"Where did you learn?" Asks Denali, genuinely curious as he pins some of the bags together to make a skirt. The gem falls off his nose, and Rosé picks it up, placing it next to his own eye with a forceful push.
"My friend Lagoona back in New York, she is una Hermana." He's blushing again, and it's sweet, the way his mouth curves up into such a goofy-looking grin. "Unfortunately, she's been slowly ruining my highschool grammar."
Denali snorts, knowing how he uses his own random grammar sometimes. "Well, colour me impressed."
They flirt a little more, passing phrases back and forth in broken Spanish until Kandy hollers across the room (in very clear Spanish), telling them to get a room.
"Chinga tu Madre," he calls back and enjoys the way the rest of the cast laughs at the tone before feeling the telltale tightening of his chest. He places a hand softly on Rosé's shoulder and smiles.
"Just going to the bathroom," he mutters under his breath, not sure if he can speak any`louder without having to explain everything, and then he runs to find a PA.
In the bathroom, he chokes up three petals and stares at them as the taste of sap and sorrow linger on his tongue.
When he gets back, there's a note amongst his work.
"Eres Bonita," it reads.
Rosé thinks he's pretty.
*
And I know every day you say it
But I just want you to be sure
That I'm yours
*
They get to choose their pairings for the disco challenge, and if Denali didn't know better, he would say he's drawn to Rosé.
He is, of course, but the reasons are much more visible to him than they are for the rest of the cast - the vestiges of his secret forming vines in his bronchioles.
But he loops his arm around Rosé's anyway and lets the taller queen pull him along.
It's his challenge, he thinks briefly, but he feels as though he's tugged through the whole thing - his brain never quite switching off long enough to enjoy the freedom of dancing.
The more time he spends with Rosé, the more he realises that he's going to have to tell him soon. He just doesn't want to.
He only fully relaxes when he sits down next to Rosé on the couch. He's already getting drunk off the single can of vodka soda allotted to them, and while Denali sips his, Rosé has much less restraint.
Denali places his hand on the other queen's thigh and squeezes it gently, enjoying the feeling of soft tights under his skin. Rosé smiles at him, wiggling his fingers in a way that shows Denali he only has one nail on. It makes Denali snort, and Mik looks curiously between them - a small smirk on their lips.
"I thought I was gonna be in the top," Rosé says, gesticulating with his can, and bringing Denali back into the room with it. "I don't know, I felt like I had a breakthrough. I keep trying to be perfect, but I thought I loosened the fuck up."
"That's how you seem to me though," Mik chimes in. "Like everything is so perfect."
"That's crazy!" Rosé exclaims. "Back home I'm literally the drunk bitch with her shoes on backwards-”
She waves the hand for the room to see.
“-look, one nail!"
"I have a hard time even reading you, cause it's like - you're perfect," Denali cuts in, and Rosé leans to the side so their head's bump affectionately. He stays there, surrendering to the contact for a second before they both straighten back up. The conversation has moved on and Denali is grateful for it.
“Just win next week,” Denali whispers, looking down at their joined hands. “I can’t lose you yet.”
*
And if I've been feeling heavy
You take me from the dark
Your arms they keep me steady
So nothing could fall apart
*
The episode has been going fine - but that's the problem. It's fine, but so is the colour beige. Denali feels like the colour beige.
Sat in Untucked with Tina, Mik, and Rosé, he just feels lost - frustration bubbling under his skin each time they interrupt. It turns out the frustration is a perfect disguise for his more personal feelings.
He feels the rush under his corset and even as he stands, beads jingling together, his head feels like it's full of cotton wool.
"I just need-" he tries to say, but the words won't quite come so he waves his hands vaguely, hoping they'll get the message. He doesn't hear Rosé following him to the bathroom under the sound of his own outfit.
He enters the bathroom, letting his eyes fall closed in thanks that the cameras haven't followed before he lurches forward. His hands go out to brace himself on the cold porcelain sink, but delicate palms on his waist guide him gently. With one hand still on his torso, staying in contact at all times, Rosé removes his headband and unzips the top of his dress.
He doesn't have to look in the mirror to know he's white as a sheet.
He wants to be mad that Rosé is there - that the queen has taken away his agency to talk about it when he's ready - but he can't be. It's so nice to not have to do this alone.
"Hermana?" He hears the words echoing around the room even though he's sure the affectation is just in his head. When he doesn't answer, mouth pressed closed to try and hold off the reckoning he knows is coming, Rosé tries again. "Nali," he says, softer this time. "Nali, baby, I need to know if you can hear me or I'll have to go get a crew member."
It’s this that finally breaks him, and he shakes his head so violently that the world goes black for a second. He finds the hand on his waist, eyes firmly squeezed closed, and tries to push Rosé away, but only one of them is paralytic at the moment, so he just runs a soft thumb up and down his sides.
Eventually, he decides, he has to relent. He stops fighting it and chokes out a bloom the size of his closed fist.
To his credit, Rosé doesn’t make a sound - just watches - and then when Denali has finished, his chest heaving and his eyes half-lidded, he wipes his mouth with a damp paper towel.
“I’m sorry,” Denali croaks out, voice coarse and uncomfortable. Rosé’s eyebrows quirk, his head tilting to the side as he fishes the pale pink rose out of the sink and dries it with another towel.
“I’d rather hear an explanation before you apologise,” he responds, and while his voice is soft, there’s a tone of unease to it. He twirls the flower in his finger again.
They both jump when there’s a knock at the door. Five-minute call.
Denali manoeuvres his head under the tap and swills the cool water around his mouth to soothe it and get rid of the enduring taste of iron. He spits it out, trying not to wince as it comes back orange against the white tile. He coughs twice and then straightens back up.
"Zip me please?" He asks hesitantly, unwilling to fight right now. Rosé complies, his fingers brushing the back of Denali's neck in a way that makes him shiver. "I promise I'll explain," he swears, turning and taking one of Rosé's hands in his.
Rosé lets out a sigh, grabbing his headband so it won't be forgotten.
"They're going to think we're shagging in the bathroom."
Denali snorts despite himself, resting his forehead on the rough beading on Rosé's chest.
"They're going to think I had a panic attack." He looks Rosé in the eye. "Now, who's the horndog."
*
And I will find my strength to untame my mouth
When I used to be afraid of the words
*
The cast clearly has the good sense not to mention their absence because no one comments when they walk back in. Denali clearly looks exhausted, and Rosé is just a little bit out of it, so the only response they get is a gentle "you okay?" from Mik, who smiles when they both give small nods.
They keep to the back of the group when walking to and from the stage, and Denali has barely scrubbed the last of his lipstick off when Rosé pulls him towards the exit. He hands him his mask and tells the PA they're going for a smoke break which is borderline hilarious because Rosé is too sober to be smoking and Denali hasn't touched them since his cruise ship days.
He turns and his back hits the metal bar of the ramp. Next to him, Rosé has rested his head on it. "I," he starts, and Denali can hear the cogs turning in his head. His voice is taut like an arrow pulled back in a bow and it's setting them both on edge. He speaks slowly, measured, "I'm going to need you to start talking now because I don't understand."
There's a lump in Denali's throat, but he knows it's not a flower.
He flips over again so they're both leaning with their forearms pressed against the metal bar. It hurts a bit, to put his full weight on it, but the pain is grounding his thoughts while they try and fly off into the empty lot.
"I'm not sure where to start," he says honestly.
Rosé looks at him. "The beginning tends to work."
And so he starts. "There's an old Aztec curse on my family line called Hanahaki-" Rosé nods for him to continue "-we, well, some people in my family have a propensity to-"
He pauses, shakes his head and looks out into the lot.
"Our lungs grow flowers."
Rosé scoffs. "I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it, "he admits, "and even now it sounds fucking bonkers."
"I know."
With a sigh, Rosé waves his hand for Denali to continue, and he wrings his hands.
"It's a soulmate thing," he swallows hard,"I have a soulmate." He watches as Rosé connects the dots, piecing the story together bit by bit.
"It started on my first day of Drag Race," he hurries along, knowing they don't have an infinity out here in the quiet of the backlot. His voice drops down to a little above a whisper, "they're pink roses."
There's a moment that Denali wishes he could distil, separate from the rest and live in forever. He watches as a tiny crease forms between Rosé's eyebrows and his eyes widen imperceptibly. His hand creeps towards Denali's and then he pulls it away again like he's been scalded.
"Why didn't you tell me?" he asks and his voice is so raw it stings.
"What was I supposed to say?" Denali bemoans, frustration welling in his throat. "Oh hey, Rosé! I think you're my soulmate so can you snog me so I won't die?"
It would be hysterical if the emotions weren't so fraught.
He barely has time to realise what's happening when suddenly Rosé's mouth is on his in a bruising kiss. The second he does catch on, however, he shoves him backwards - both their chests heaving.
"No!" he cries, "this is why."
"Why what?" Rosé wipes the thin sheen of sweat from his forehead and drags the hand down his jeans.
"That's not how it works, you brat. You can't just kiss me and make it better, you have to mean it."
"Mean what?" He near screams in defeat.
"That you love me. True love and all that bullshit."
Rosé’s hand comes up to his face again, scrubbing it like the motion will help. He lets a sigh come through his teeth, face drooping with exhaustion.
“I’m going to need a second,” he says, “just give me a second, yeah?”
Denali nods. “Yeah,” he relents softly, and tries to ignore the way frustration bubbles back up through his pores.
*
But with you I've learned just to let it out
Now my heart is ready to burst
*
He enters the workroom, the sleeves of Rosé's sweatshirt pulled over his hands, fingers grasping the edge. He'd been stupid enough to try and come to set in a Chicago Bulls jersey and his PA had pulled him aside stepping out of the van. He was given the choice between an offensively neon hoodie and Rosé's grey sweatshirt, and of course he chose Rosé's - surprised the queen even offered it after their spat.
They still haven't achieved a civil conversation.
So what if he's being a little facetious when he claims he's willing to audition for the role of Foxy. The fight led to him throwing up more than one bloom in a fitful night’s sleep, so he's more than willing to be a little bit petty.
He loses, and for that, he's glad because Rosé will knock it out of the park and he deserves the chance to shine. Plus, he gets to mess around with Mik, and it takes his mind off the sizzling tension threatening to set fire to the loose ends of his fried nerves.
And they do well - despite the way his brain feels like it’s going round and round in circles, he has fun and they make it to the top. And he’s there with Rosé.
Rosé seeks him out at the mirrors - he always does - and places a soft palm on Denali’s hip bone, allowing him to lean into the touch.
“I wish I could have given you that role, but I couldn’t,” Rosé says, a smile on his lips as his arm loops around Denali’s waist. Denali wants to melt into him - wants to clarify that there’s no hard feelings and just let them become one - his chest aches at the thought. He looks up, trying to focus back on doing his lipstick in the mirror, but he notices the camera man stood behind him and blushes nervously.
“Oh, no, uh-“ he stutters, and he knows Rosé finds it sweet because he finds himself pulled closer into his side. Rosé squeezes his waist.
“No, no,” he cuts Denali off, “I just know that coming out of this - you’re going to mean something to me and-” He notices the camera too and steps sideways so his arm falls off Denali’s waist. The shorter queen immediately finds himself missing the contact.
Rosé fiddles with his collar and smiles at Denali in the mirror - a toothy grin that warms him from the inside. “At some point we’re going to have to really compete,” he points out, and Denali nods, knowing it’ll ruin him. “It’s going to break my heart.”
“I know,” Denali murmurs, smacking his lips together to make sure his lipstick is even. He notices they’ve only got one camera trailing them now, and it’s the same guy who films his confessionals. He shakes his head, locking eyes with the cameraman who walks slowly away, off to find Kandy and Symone - the sure fire bottom two.
“So, do you want this?” Denali asks, voice low and soft, gesturing between the two of them with the wand of his liquid lipstick. Rosé’s hand finds his hip once again. He’s too full of anxiety to ask outright - too scared Rosé will say no to the idea of them .
“I do.” He gives a curt little nod that takes Denali right back to the first pep talk they had - right before the trains runway.
“You have to be sure.” He’s deadly serious, and Rosé knows it, moving the hand from his hip to the bottom of his rib cage - like he’ll be able to feel the garden within.
“I swear,” he promises, eyes focused on Denali, flickering from his cupid’s bow to his eyes and back again. If he wasn’t so annoyed at the idea of getting green face paint on his hand, Denali would hold his face in place. He feels Rosé drop a kiss on the top of his head through the head dress and the action sends a shiver through him.
“Baby,” Rosé says after a moment of silence between them, and Denali looks up expectantly. “I’m yellow, aren’t I?”
Denali snorts, bringing a hand to cover his mouth as he feels a petal hit the back of his throat. He swallows hard and then grins. “I’m colour blind love, but you were yellow.”
“Good enough for me.”
He watches Rosé preen and flap his collar around like a peacock and smiles. He’s pretty sure he could get used to this.
*
'Cause I, I feel like I'm ready for love
And I wanna be your everything and more
*
Denali goes into Snatch Game with a mouth that tastes of sap. His throat is raw and his voice hoarse in a way that gets a look of concern from Rosé, who strokes the side of his hipbone with a reverence Denali didn't know one could have. He lets him, allows himself to be followed to the bathroom where he vomits up a rose that leaves his eyes streaming with tears.
He's grateful not to be singled out for the walkthrough so he lets his voice rest - enabling Rosé to baby him with takeout cups full of honey and lemon. Mik somehow gravitates towards them and starts styling his Jonathon wig in exchange for a choker Denali forgot he had.
It gives him pause, lets him stare at Rosé in his cardigan looking warm and cosy. He imagines them both in a lodge in the Alaskan woods - a log fire going to keep them warm as they explore each other on a soft sheepskin rug.
He's snapped out of his thoughts by Rosé's reverberating Scottish timbre and sends a withering glare at Mik who laughs at how he's turning vermillion.
Rosé winks.
Somehow he makes it to Snatch Game without having to run to the bathroom and, even more shockingly, he's in the top. He gets to skate again on the runway and he lets the freedom wash away the fear that the rose garden in his lungs is trying to instil. It doesn't quite work, but it's good enough.
"You had to dress in pink roses, huh," he quips to Rosé as they sit next to each other on the Untucked couches, his hand on the pink-haired queen's knee.
Rosé winces, mouth poised to say something apologetic when Denali swipes a thumb over the inside of his thigh to silence him.
"I swear it's okay," he says, trying to quell the storm. "You look so pretty."
Rosé flushes the same colour as her dress, and Mik - who seems to have a sixth sense for every time they get flustered - turns and giggles.
"You look pretty good yourself," he retorts after a second, eyes flicking over Denali's padded form. "Can I take you out sometime?"
Denali flicks her coiffed wig over her shoulder with a limp wrist and winks. "Any time you want, love."
*
And I know every day you say it
But I just want you to be sure
*
He's handsy when he's drunk - feeling Rosé up as they de-drag in the werk-room, one hand placed tenderly on his waist as they head out to the van.
He's still handsy the next morning and while he whines and complains that he's hungover, he just can't bear to go back to not holding him. Something snapped in him last night, hunched over the toilet bowl choking on blooms that grew from his own flesh and blood and love.
He's not going to fight it. Not when it could kill him.
So he gives in and rests a head on Rosé's shoulder while they reset the cameras - allowing the scot to comb his fingers through his dark hair.
"You okay?" Rosé asks, eyes soft but a hint of worry floats in them close to the edge. He's noticed Denali looks paler - the bags under his eyes flushed the same shade as a fresh bruise - lord knows everyone has.
Denali nods, "Mhmm", he responds, turning so Rosé's shoulder fits between his forehead and the bridge of his nose. "I'll miss this." Rosé gives him a peck on the forehead and Denali chooses to believe it's agreement.
They get separated through the mini-challenge and end up on opposite sofas as a psychic dresses them down. Denali tunes it out around the time Utica receives a message from a cow but she's snapped back to attention when the psychic looks at her.
"Were you connected to him?" Char asks and Denali feels something twist in his gut. He's sure he turns an even sicklier shade of pale than usual as Char points between him and Rosé - a low buzz running through the room.
He hums. "Are you guys friends? Do you like each other?" Char follows up and Rosé giggles - surprisingly soft under pressure. "Do you have a crush on each other?"
Denali feels a thorn punch into his trachea and resists the urge to wince. "A little," he manages to choke out, coughing into his hand to hide the warm flecks of blood that are coming up with the spittle.
"A small one," Rosé agrees, shooting him a worried look that he can't even brush off because showing the palms of his hands would unearth way too many questions. He wipes them on the thighs of his black jeans and hopes it hides his secret.
Hopefully, no one will take a psychic's soul predictions as actual proof of soulmates. He's banking on it.
Rosé joins him for a second in the bathroom once they've been assigned pairs. He gently wipes a hot flannel around Denali's mouth and hands him a glass of warm salt water to gargle to make sure his throat doesn't get infected. He works so delicately and lovingly that it makes Denali's knees a little bit weak.
By the time he's dressing Olivia for the runway, the younger queen has to put his heels on for him. She's gentle and doesn't mention her concern even if it's painted across her face in spades.
He walks the runway and then struggles to stand for the judging - even with Olivia's hand firmly on his waist so by the time they get to retreat to Untucked he feels like he's about to collapse. He goes to blow his nose and ends up coughing until he dislodges blooms.
And Rosé is there, holding his hand through it all because they both know he's going to be in the bottom and there is no way he can beat Olivia in a lipsync right now - even if he doesn't think he should be there.
"I know it's a curse, but it brought me you," Denali tells him boldly, squeezing their tangled fingers to ground himself. "I don't think I can be angry at that." He knows the words he wants to say but he doesn't want to push his partner so he lets them lie.
"You're not allowed to say goodbye to me," replies Rosé with watery eyes.
"I have to."
Rosé's thumb ghosts over the back of his hand and he smiles, soft and warm. "They're going to fall in love with you," he says, voice hoarse with emotion as he gestures to the cameras watching them. Denali dabs at the corners of his mouth with a tissue and nods for Rosé to continue - grateful that the rest of the cast seems distracted. "Just like me."
"Just like you?" Denali whispers, trying to confirm he didn't just hear what he wanted to, that he heard the confession of love.
"Just like me."
The kiss that saves him isn't one of fireworks. He doesn't think he'll ever be able to write poetry about it but that's okay because he feels a vine slowly detangle itself from his vena cava and that's just the sweetest feeling of all.
*
That I'm yours
*
Rosé gets through the rest of the season with a little help from his friends. He can relax a little, now he knows he's not going to cause the death of the man he really quite likes. He doesn't know if he'll win the season - but he knows Denali will be waiting in New York with a kiss and a bouquet of pink roses.
Maybe that's enough for him.
*
That I'm yours
-fin-