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emoboijk · 5 years

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jjk | calla lilies

“The calla lilies are in bloom again. Such a strange flower—suitable to any occasion.” (Katherine Hepburn) or You're trying to help set him up with his boyhood crush and things don't go according to plan. —hanahaki disease au, non-idol au, friends-to-lovers au, flora & fauna series

6,222 words

p.cred

The waiting room is beige with a dark brown carpet, the kind that has either always been that color or is that color as a result of years of use. There are paintings (ironically) of flowers on the walls, and potted plants stationed randomly between the chairs. A receptionist sits behind a counter, typing on a computer and answering the phone when it rings. Aside from her, there are seven people scattered about the room.

Jeongguk sits in the corner, eyes flicking between the different patients without paying any real attention, bouncing his leg and drumming his fingers on his thighs. He’s always been an overachiever, but this takes the cake. Of all the flowers to infest his lungs: calla lilies. And black ones at that. How fucking emo.

He presses against the earbuds in his ears even though they aren’t falling out; he wants to disappear. It’s easier with loud music, so he’s been blasting Linkin Park (a favorite from his teen years) ever since he first coughed up the dark black calla lily petal three days ago. Although he didn’t so much “cough it up” as pull it slowly, painfully from his esophagus, because calla lily petals are long as fuck. But even with the reverberations of Linkin Park in his ears, he can’t escape the image of the woman stumbling to and from the bathroom, or the boy all but curled into the fetal position in his chair. His jaw is clenched as if that’s all it will take to keep any more flower petals or blood from coming up his throat.

Jeongguk nearly jumps when his music is interrupted by a harsh ding in his ears. He takes out the earbuds, wincing when he can hear the girl vomiting harshly in the bathroom; he immediately puts them back in. Of course, he thinks once he pulls out his phone, you have a sixth sense about these things.

Hey, is everything okay? It’s been like 12 hours since you texted me so ofc I’m freaking out :D

He smiles at his phone like an idiot.

JK: haven’t been feeling well

JK: at the doctor’s now

Oh! Want me to stop by with some soup later?

He chuckles and wonders if soup could burn up all the flowers in his lungs.

JK: no soup but you can stop by if you want

There are immediately three little dots beneath his last message, so he already knows what you’re going to say. And then a nurse comes out; despite the music he knows she’s said his name. He raises his hand as if in school, flushing at his embarrassment, before removing the earbuds and stuffing them and his phone into his pocket.

“Come on back." He follows behind her noiselessly, hands balled up into his jacket pockets.

The nurse asks the questions with a bored tone, typing his information into a computer, measuring his blood pressure and pulse. She has to scold him three times before he can finally calm down enough to stop drumming his fingers on the side of the table.

“The doctor will be in shortly,” she says before closing the door. He wished she’d given him some kind of indication of how bad it was.

His fingers hit the metal table even harder and when he can hear voices outside the room and the clock on the wall ticking slowly, he stuffs the earbuds back into his ears.

Cool! 3 okay?

JK: yes!

It makes him feel better, knowing you’ll be there to talk to later. He hasn’t told anyone about his…condition; he wanted to wait until he knew for sure what was going on. But if he was going to tell anyone, it would be you.

He takes his earbuds out again when the doctor walks in, smiling warmly at him before perusing his chart. The doctor isn't old but he has started graying; there are laugh lines around his eyes and mouth. Jeongguk immediately trusts him.

The doctor raises his eyebrows and looks up at him, “Calla lilies, huh?”

Deep, deep sigh. “Yes.”

The doctor almost chuckles at his patient’s whiney tone. He pulls a stool over and sits in front of him. “I’m Dr. Moon.” He holds out his hand and Jeongguk takes it, bowing his head respectfully.

“I’m going to listen to your lungs and take a look down your throat, but we may need scans to survey the full extent of the infestation,” the doctor says. Jeongguk nods. He feels like the tortoise trying to catch up with the hare. Dr. Moon continues, “But before we look at the physical signs, I have to ask about your mental state.”

“My mental state?” Jeongguk cocks his head to the side.

“Yes. Truth be told, Hanahaki starts with the mind. There are many cases in which the patient only believes that their love is unreciprocated, and yet that is enough to kill a person. Grief, despair…those are the killers.” Dr. Moon looks solemn for a long moment before continuing, “So. What’s your story?”

Jeongguk’s eyes widen because it feels like such a personal question. He’s barely told you all of the details, how is he supposed to tell a stranger in a lab coat?

Dr. Moon senses his hesitation and pats Jeongguk’s shoulder, “Trust me. I need to know.”

Jeongguk sighs and says, “Um. I don’t really know her, I guess. We went to school together for a long time, had a few classes…” He flushes as he speaks, his cheeks going beet red because what kind of an idiot gets Hanahaki disease for a boyhood crush? He hides his face behind his hands.

“I see,” the doctor says, standing and patting his shoulder again, “Okay, let’s take a listen.”

Dr. Moon presses the stethoscope to Jeongguk’s chest and back; he breathes deeply when cued, only having to stop once when a matte black calla lily petal inches up his throat. Jeongguk frowns as he holds it between two fingers, dropping it in the trash can Dr. Moon offers.

“So,” the doctor says when he’s finished, “it doesn’t look too bad.”

“Really?” Jeongguk’s face brightens.

“You’re in the early stages. But you’d be surprised how quickly things can escalate. You have some options for now; I’m going to prescribe some anti-growth pills that should keep the flora from progressing too much. And…” he pauses, choosing his next words carefully, “I would recommend finding a way to get over this woman. It’s always best to avoid surgery if you can, but if there’s no way of overcoming the mental and emotional hurdle, you might want to consider the surgery…” The doctor twists around to retrieve a pamphlet from the counter.

Jeongguk takes it carefully, the cover reads Flora Removal Surgery: What You Need to Know. He takes his bottom lip into his mouth and worries it slightly, frowning at the image on the front of a man with a rose growing in his chest.

Dr. Moon scribbles on a pad of paper before ripping it off and handing it to Jeongguk, “Get this filled today, and let’s make an appointment for a follow up in a couple of weeks.”

“Okay,” Jeongguk whispers, head swimming with the doctor’s words.

An hour and a half later Jeongguk is walking home, toting a small paper pharmacy bag and a wrinkled brow. The pamphlet the doctor gave him is burning a hole in his pocket, and he’s so lost in thought that he doesn't see you.

You're learning against the door of his apartment in a patch of sun, squinting as you see him round the corner. He's stressed. You can tell by the way he carries himself: the hunch of his shoulders, the wrinkle in his brow, the downturn of his lips. Right now he resembles the quiet boy you knew in middle school, not the confident young man he actually is.

As soon as he’s in touching distance, you press the back of your hand to his forehead and say, “How are you feeling?”

Jeongguk jumps at the sudden contact. But once he realizes it’s you he chuckles and shakes your hand off, “I’m fine.” But even he doesn’t believe himself. He unlocks the door to the apartment and sighs in relief for the air conditioning.

You follow behind him, picking up the supermarket bag you’d abandoned on the ground as you do so. He said no soup, but he hadn’t said anything about snacks…so you bought all of his favorites.

When you finally get in, closing the door behind you, he’s buried in the fridge (unbeknownst to you, he drops his prescription there in a rush). He’s chugging a carton of orange juice in large gulps. You avoid looking at him (sweaty and shedding his layers of clothing so that his shirt rides up…) and make yourself comfortable on his couch, dumping the contents of the bag onto the coffee table.

“Sick!” Jeongguk grins, swiping a bag of chips from the table and landing next to you on the couch.

There’s a pain in your chest as his arm brushes against yours but you can’t make yourself move away. Instead, you press your hand against his forehead again and frown, “You feel warm.”

“I’ve been walking in the sun for fifteen minutes,” he shrugs, chewing with his mouth open.

You wrinkle your nose at this; it’s one of his more annoying habits from childhood that, unbelievably, has grown on you.

“What did the doctor say?”

Jeongguk clams up. He puts down his bag of chips awkwardly, wiping his mouth to buy time before saying, “It’s not…that bad.”

“What?” Your eyes narrow.

Jeongguk avoids eye contact with you. Jeongguk “Golden Child” Jeon is pretty much good at everything, even lying (when the occasion permits it). He’s like Korean Superman. But his Kryptonite?

Sitting next to him on the loveseat and watching him so closely it burns.

He shrugs and bounces off the couch like he’s spring-loaded, rubbing the back of his neck, “Nothing. A cold.”

You cross your arms and lean into the couch, watching him twitch nervously as he tries to decide why he stood up. “Which is it?” you ask, “Nothing? Or a cold?”

He still won’t look at you. “I mean…it’s a cold. But it’s not anything serious. So it’s nothing. A nothing cold.”

You stand up and touch his arm gently. He finally turns to look at you, his expression guilty. You brush a piece of his hair from his face, and say, “For the record: I don’t believe you. But, fine, you don’t have to tell me.” You shrug, then hit the back of his head, “But you do have to tell me if it gets serious!” You narrow your eyes again before picking up a box of Poky and plopping down on the couch.

Jeongguk stares at you for a moment too long, his chest feeling the lightest it has in days. He adores you, his best friend, his confidant, his person. Watching as you sink deeper into the couch, pulling your knees to your chest and scrolling through Netflix on the TV…it feels like he can breathe again.

But he only gets through half an episode of Hwayugi (a recent discovery on Netflix and an instant favorite of yours and his) before his chest begins to feel tight. Jeongguk coughs harshly into a closed fist, feeling something wet on his palm and already knowing what it is instinctively.

“Gguk?” you gasp when he rises suddenly, bolting across the room and dropping to his knees in front of the toilet. He heaves violently and when he opens his eyes there’s a mix of blood, bile, and dark calla lily petals swirling in the water. Ironically, the sight (and the smell, dear god) makes him nauseous.

He leans away from the bowl, resting his back and head against the wall, trying to calm his heart and get the taste of blood from his mouth. A surge of thoughts hit his mind and he jumps when the toilet flushes.

Your face is confused and concerned as you watch him breathing heavily. Chewing on your bottom lip, you sink to your knees to sit across from him in the small space. "So...it's nothing, huh?"

Jeongguk almost smiles, his lips quirking upward just slightly, dyed red from the blood. He shrugs, his chest hurting with the effort of breathing, “Well…the doctor said it didn’t look too bad.”

“Jeongguk,” you sigh. You reach forward and push his mop of dark hair away from his forehead. There’s a sheen of sweat shining in the light that filters in from the window and you can see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows down blood and bile, his chest heaves with the exertion. You have to bite your tongue to keep your composure.

You twist around so that you’re sitting next to him, knees touching as he almost subconsciously starts to lean into you. Fighting against the pain, you rest your cheek against the top of his head, sighing again, “Who is it?”

Jeongguk scrunches his face together and you can feel shame shed off him in waves, “Lisa.”

There’s a split second where you can feel a fresh pain in your chest and you almost cry out. Instead, you smile and force a seemingly involuntary snort from your nose, nudging him with your elbow.

“Lisa Em,” you chuckle. Lalisa Manoban from Bangkok. She’d transferred in the middle of fourth grade and had thus made quite an entrance; she was popular instantaneously. All of the teachers had struggled with her last name (for reasons unbeknownst to you) and had unanimously called her Lisa Emmmm.

You remember the first time Jeongguk saw her. He was ten years old, eyes wide like galaxies and in awe of her. She’d been assigned to your and his reading group; ten-year-old Lisa had pulled out her chair, smiled and bowed shyly at the group, then complimented JK’s sketch of the tree in the courtyard. You’d watched from across the table as a new kind of light hit his fourth-grade face.

In retrospect, after you’d received your official diagnosis, you’d wondered if Hanhaki could start that early. You guessed probably not. But then again…

“Don’t laugh,” Jeongguk whines, but he’s smiling as he buries his head in your shoulder.

“I’m not laughing,” you grin.

“I know I’m an idiot,” he chuckles.

“True,” you joke, pinching his knee playfully, “but not because of this.”

“What should I do?” he whispers as if contemplating it out loud will cause the room to shatter.

“What did the doctor say?” You’re whispering; such delicate and sensitive topics are not meant for the light of day.

“To get over it.”

You roll your eyes, “They did not say that.”

Chuckling despite himself, he clarifies, “He suggested I do what I can to get over her. But he gave me some meds for now, and a pamphlet on the surgery.”

You let out your breath abruptly as if his words were a sudden weight on your chest. You cough almost violently, and Jeongguk pushes off your side to get a good look at you.

You wave your hand at him so he won’t worry, but when you manage to swallow the clotted dandelion seeds in your throat (a habit your doctor has told you multiple times will speed up the progression of your disease) he still has that same expression. To distract him, you say, “Do you want to get over her?”

Jeongguk watches you for another long second, pouting when he decides to answer, “No, of course not.”

“Well then let’s fix you two up!” You’re a little too loud with your explanation, like a goose squawking. You hope he doesn’t notice that your teeth are now stained pink.

“What?”

Awkwardly you lick your teeth, tasting iron on your tongue, before you turn to face him. “That will make the flowers go away! Hanahaki disease is motivated by the brain; you think it’s unreciprocated which makes the flowers grow. If you two get together, you no longer think it’s unreciprocated, the flowers go away!”

Jeongguk runs a hand through his hair and you try not to watch the way his fingers move or his arm flexes. “But in my case, it really is unreciprocated. I only see her when we pass each other on campus. We just…wave,” he says lamely.

“So? Even if you go on a couple of dates, that will do it!”

For the second time, he watches you suspiciously, “Why do you know so much about Hanahaki disease?”

“Um,” you look at the grimy blue bath tile, “I had to research it for an elective?” You mean to make it a statement, but your voice goes up on the end like a question. But the plan has had enough time to percolate in Jeongguk’s mind and he’s too excited now to notice.

“Where do we start?”

Three days later and you’re hiding behind an untrimmed hedge in the quad with Jeongguk. He has his hand shoved into a bag of chips and you keep twisting around to shush him because it’s too noisy.

“I think you’re taking the stealth thing a little seriously,” he chuckles, loudly crunching on chips just to be annoying.

“You’re the one dressed all in black.”

“This isn’t for stealth, this is my aesthetic.” He puts a dramatic emphasis on the word aesthetic, but it’s ruined when he immediately starts crunching loudly on his chips.

You finally look away from the central part of the quad to side-eye him, “Are you sure they meet up here?”

Jeongguk nods seriously and you can see he’s using his tongue to pry chewed chips from his teeth. “I always see Lisa and BamBam sitting around here after my three o’clock class.”

“BamBam” is BamBam Kunpimook, an exchange student from Thailand. He and Lisa were friends from childhood (before she moved) that had reconnected last year. After a couple of strategizing sessions (in which you and Jeongguk played video games and talked aimlessly about Lisa), you'd decided he posed the biggest threat to Jeongguk’s future success.

You turn back to look at the quad, squinting against the sunlight and Jeongguk puts his chin on your shoulder to watch with you. He stuffs the empty bag of chips into his hoody pocket and frowns, “Are you sure about this?”

You find it hard to concentrate with him all but sitting on top of you. Ever since you’d learned about the Hanahaki disease, he’d amped up the skinship. You’d always been close, and not necessarily shy about skinship, but lately it seems like he’s been hanging off you constantly. Normally, you wouldn’t complain, but it makes it hard to breathe. Literally. The doctor said one of the side effects of Hanahaki, although rare, was that any kind of touch from your unreciprocated love could make the flowers grow.

Jeongguk leans against you heavily, his back pressed against yours and his chin almost digging into your shoulder. He inhales deeply; you smell like soap and laundry detergent (his two favorite things) and it makes his heart flutter. He lets the scent settle in his mind, conjuring up images of you that make him smile. Then he takes another deep breath because it’s easier when he’s close to you.

“Of course,” you whisper, but you don’t turn to look at him. You can feel how close he is and if you turn he’d be right there and with so many possibilities. “This is your life,” you add, shrugging him off gently when you see BamBam’s lithe stature from across the quad.

You stand and raise your arm in a wave, “BamBam!”

Jeongguk almost falls on his ass without you there to steady him. He takes a shaky breath, wincing at the stabs of pain in his lungs now that you’re gone.

BamBam cocks his head at you but doesn’t stop walking, taking his earbuds out and saying your name like a question. His confusion is warranted, considering you’ve only ever had one class together and it's not one in which you’ve ever talked.

“Do you have a second?” You stop in front of him, squinting because he’s standing in front of the sun, “I lost the homework assignment for composition…”

He shrugs good-naturedly and swings his backpack off, turning to place it on a bench as he digs through the papers. You catch sight of Lisa and turn to wave discreetly at Jeongguk.

“Shit,” Jeongguk whispers, bouncing up once he’s seen her. He doesn’t realize his strength and flies about half a foot in the air from the force, landing shakily and almost losing his balance. He jogs across the quad to meet her.

You snort at his antics, shaking your head to turn back to BamBam. He’s holding out the assignment and watching you with a curious expression.

“You like him.” He’s smirking and it isn’t a question.

You hope your blush can be attributed to the mid-afternoon sun. “Of course, he’s my best friend.”

BamBam shakes his head and puts his homework away. You don’t even bother with the ruse anymore, too focused now on your defensive strategies. “Not like that,” he says. He looks above your head now and you turn to follow his line of sight.

Lisa is laughing happily at something Jeongguk’s said and he has his nose scrunched him in a smile so you know he’s pleased. It creates an odd mixture of feelings for you. You’re happy for him because he’s happy; you’d do nearly anything to get him to smile like that. But there’s a sharp pain in your chest, and before you know it you’re coughing up blood.

“Oh my god,” BamBam says, his hand on your back, “Are you okay?”

You wave your hands around as if to say I’m fine, don’t worry, but it just comes off as frantic. BamBam digs into his bag again and pulls out a towel, “Here.”

You take it and wrinkle your nose because it smells like sweat but use it to wipe your mouth anyway. You swallow, but the seeds won’t go down and you cough again, holding the towel to your face and covering it in blood.

Lisa’s the one that points it out to Jeongguk, pointing in your and BamBam’s direction. He turns casually and with a smile, expecting you to be watching his success with pride. But his blood runs cold when he sees you collapsed on a bench with BamBam leaning over you.

Jeongguk can’t think. His heart is pounding so hard in his chest that it’s knocking against his rib cage. It only takes three seconds to run across the quad, but it feels like that dream where no matter how fast he runs he can’t get to where he’s going.

Until he’s there, heaving painless breaths without noticing and crouching over you. His hand is hot on the back of your neck and he’s startled by how cold you are. When he tilts your head to look at him there’s a little crease between his eyebrows.

You’re a bit delirious and all you can think about is kissing that crease.

But then he says your name so earnestly that it cuts through the delirium and the blood loss. You feel BamBam’s towel still in your hand and swiftly push it off the bench, waving your other hand at Jeongguk carelessly.

“I’m fine,” you insist.

“What happened?” Jeongguk whispers. Never, in the entire time you’ve known him, have you seen Jeongguk get loud when he’s upset. He always gets quiet. Lots of people, particularly in high school (pre-Junior year when he went through his growth spurt and started working out), took this as a kind of meekness. You know that to be the furthest thing from the truth. There’s a strength in the depths of his eyes as he watches you now; it makes sharp dandelion stems stab your lungs.

“I just got lightheaded,” you say softly. In his eyes, crouching down beside the strength, you see fear. You place a hand atop his wrist so that he knows to let you go. His hand travels to yours and he helps you stand, tightening his grip when you wobble. “Dehydrated,” you try to explain, watching as BamBam notices the blood on the towel and opens his mouth to contradict you. You make a face before he can and add, “Haven’t had any water today.”

Jeongguk calls you an idiot softly under his breath and you would be annoyed but you’re too tired and you know he’s just scared. Instead, you let him loop an arm around your back to help keep you upright (you need his steady hold more than you can say) and let him walk you away.

Lisa stands next to BamBam and watches the two of you go, “That was weird.”

Only when you’ve both turned the corner does he reach behind the bench and retrieve the bloody towel. He holds it out to Lisa and frowns, “She’s sick.”

The next two days are spent on Jeongguk’s couch because he won’t let you leave. You gave up trying midway through day one because, frankly, he’s bigger and stronger than you. And he has a nice couch.

But he’s been force-feeding you water (8 ounces every hour, on the hour) and you’ve missed nearly all of your classes by now.

“Where are you going?” Jeongguk says when he sees you toeing on your shoes in the entryway. He’s standing at the other end of the hall with a bag of gummies and a hurt-puppy expression.

“Home. To shower. And then to class.” You tighten the straps on your backpack and reach down to get the lip of your shoe over your heel.

“But—”

“I can come back afterward,” you say, smiling at his forlorn expression. “But I have to go to class today because he’s handing out midterm assignments. And if I’m going to class, I have to shower. I’m surprised you put up with it this long.”

Jeongguk frowns, “You do smell pretty bad…but you can use my shower!” He flings his arm in the direction of the bathroom and gummy candies fly out of the bag.

You chuckle and say, “Gguk, I’ll be fine. I’m so hydrated I’m practically a liquid.” You wink at him boldly and disappear out his front door.

Jeongguk stays frowning at the door for a long moment. He places a hand over his heart self-consciously, muttering unhappily, “My chest hurts.” Then he turns on his heel, abandoning the gummy candies he’s spilled.

You get winded walking back to your apartment and you have to pause before you climb the stairs. As you unlock the door you make a mental note to schedule another doctor’s appointment. Even not having taken any the last couple of days, you know you’re running out of anti-growth pills.

You’d thought about sneaking some from Jeongguk’s stash while he held you hostage but it left a sour taste in your mouth. He needed those. Instead, you did your best to hide the coughing and the blood.

You take off your shoes, drop your bag on the ground and immediately turn into the kitchen. The anti-growth pills are sitting on the counter like always and when you twist the cap open you’re disappointed to find you only have ten left.

“I guess that’s what happens when you take them five at a time,” you whisper, shaking out that many and gulping them down without water.

Then you choke. Because you’ve never been badass enough to take pills without water, so you scramble for a glass as you cough. Your phone buzzes as you lean against the sink, breathing heavily.

JK: make it home ok?

The message causes a warm stir of fluttering in your stomach and you smile down at it.

Yes! Stop worrying!

JK: don’t tell me what to do!

Jeongguk has put on jeans and he regrets it. They’re a couple of years old and while he stares down at your messages, waiting for you to reply, he keeps adjusting his crotch in them. They’re a bit tight.

But since you’re going to class, he figured he might as well. Not Calculus, of course (he still thinks that’s some kind of elaborate practical joke pulled by the university), but probably Advanced Photo Comp. and Music Theory. So he showered and pulled a giant black t-shirt out of his closet and the only clean pair of pants he has (he’s been too busy hydrating you the last two days to do laundry): three-year-old jeans.

He stares at his phone the entire walk to campus, checks it every two minutes in both classes (enough that Mr. Kim actually snaps at him), and is still watching it as he crosses the quad on his way home.

“Hey, Jeongguk!”

Lisa Em. He’s startled when he sees her because, as terrible as it sounds, he had kind of forgotten she existed.

Jeongguk furrows his brow, placing a hand on his chest. Nothing but a dull ache. His jaw drops at the realization.

“Lisa,” he smiles at her, “What’s up?”

She shrugs, “I was just wondering if your friend was okay. BamBam and I have been worried.”

His head tilts to the side in confusion.

Lisa says your name and points to the bench, “The girl you’ve been hanging out with forever? The one who was coughing up blood three days ago?”

Jeongguk freezes like there’s ice in his veins. His heart is pounding so loud in his ears that it’s all he can hear. “What,” he whispers. His mind is racing back to the day, to the last couple of days. Why would you cough up blood and not tell him!

Lisa is saying something but he doesn’t listen. “I have to go,” he says, rushing past her.

The professor has just begun explaining the midterm project when you reach down to your bag for a fresh pen and your head starts to swim. You steady yourself on another chair, unable to right yourself.

“Woah,” you whisper. Breathing is like wading through cement.

Your vision goes black and you hit the floor with a loud thump.

When Jeongguk gets to the Modern Languages Building, he’s sweating and out of breath. One of the knees on his jeans has ripped from when he tripped and fell; blood is seeping into the fabric from the scrape on his skin. His lungs burn with the strain but there’s none of that prickly feeling he had grown so used to.

He stops dead in his tracks when he sees the ambulance turn the corner. His knees feel weak and he might’ve hit the ground if BamBam hadn’t come up behind him.

“Hey,” he says softly, patting Jeongguk’s shoulder.

“What,” Jeongguk is panting, still watching the spot he last saw the ambulance, “What happened.”

“She fainted,” BamBam says and holds out a bag. A jolt runs through Jeongguk as he recognizes it; the dorky video game and anime buttons, the spot where Jeongguk scribbled a cartoonish sketch of himself your senior of high school, the orange juice stain…

Jeongguk tugs the bag from BamBam’s grip and clutches it tightly to his chest. BamBam seems to sense his thoughts before he voices them and says, “They’re taking her to Seoul Central.”

Jeongguk is gone.

By the time he arrives at Seoul Central Hospital, Jeongguk has convinced himself that it’s too late. That whatever’s wrong with you has progressed too far and you’re gone. His eyes hurt from holding back the tears.

He approaches the counter of the emergency room like a man walking to his death. His grip on your backpack is so tight the pattern on the handle has dug into his palm. The nurse watches him with a concerned look.

Jeongguk clears his throat and his voice is polite as he says your name. The nurse looks it up on the computer and he can tell she’s found it. But she hesitates.

“We’re not supposed to let anyone but family back,” she says.

“We’re family,” Jeongguk insists, “We’re family,” he repeats it several more times like a mantra.

“Okay, okay, honey,” the woman stands, “Room 1132, two lefts and a right. Go on back.”

Jeongguk nods and pulls your backpack up to his chest, hugging it tightly as he wanders down the hall. All urgency has left him, now he only feels a sense of doom. But she would’ve said something if you were dead…

He doesn’t notice the tears that slip down his cheeks and hit the floor.

“1132,” he whispers, opening the door with a shaky breath.

You’re. Awake.

Jeongguk drops your backpack in surprise and stares. Now he does fall to his knees because he’s so relieved his body can’t hold him up.

“Woah,” a nurse says, jogging from your side of the bed to Jeongguk’s crumpled form on the floor. He lifts him by the armpits and places him in a chair, waving a hand in front of his face. “You okay?”

“Jeongguk?” It hurts to say aloud. Your voice is raspy and raw and soaked in emotion.

At the sound of your voice, Jeongguk is up so fast that he sends the nurse reeling. He takes your hand and squeezes, “What happened? Are you okay? Why did you faint?”

The nurse rolls his eyes and shakes his head. He walks back over to your other side, “That’s what happens when you put off life-saving surgery,” he jokes. He cracks the ice pack he’d been prepping before Jeongguk walked in and then presses it to your head (the spot that hit the ground when you collapsed), “Keep this here. The doctor will be right in.”

“Surgery?” Jeongguk wonders but you won’t meet his eyes. When he finally looks away from you he spots an x-ray in the corner. He assumes it’s yours. A ribcage, dark shadows in the shape of lungs and…a messy infestation of flowers. His eyes turn wide and fearful, “Hanahaki?” His voice cracks.

You nod, tears slipping down your cheeks. Jeongguk stumbles back in disbelief.

“But,” he whispers, over and over again. “Who?”

Tears are spilling over your eyes unbidden, seamless and silent like rain on a window. You try to look at him even though your vision’s blurred. “It’s you, Jeongguk.”

Jeongguk is a statue. Frozen in time. The gears in his brain try to process that statement and they refuse to. He blinks and that’s how you know he’s alive.

You keep crying, still noiselessly, but you cover your face. You’re mortified. And your chest feels like the crack in the concrete where flowers bloom, split open by nature and forever scarred.

It’s a long minute before Jeongguk finally says, “What.” His eyes flick to you and stare like you’re an abstract painting he doesn’t understand.

You frown and your face is itchy with wetness. Your voice is soft and raw, “You’re my unrequited love, Jeongguk.” Your voice cracks on his name.

He points to himself as if you may have gotten him confused for someone. “Me.”

You almost laugh. You do smile. He’s ridiculous.

“What do you mean unrequited?” he frowns, and it’s really a pout. He can’t believe that you could be friends for two decades and you think he doesn’t love you.

You sigh; your smile is gone. “I know I’m your best friend and you love me, but…”

“I’m in love with you,” he blurts and then looks sheepish.

You shake your head, “Don’t just say that.”

Jeongguk furrows his brow, “I would never just. Say. That.” He’s balled his hands into fists and he’s about as angry as you’ve ever seen him. He chews on the inside of his cheek and stuffs his hands into his pockets. He can’t take it anymore.

Jeongguk lunges forward boldly, clumsily taking your face in his hands and pressing his lips to yours. He’s determined and his lips stay frozen against yours for a long time; your eyes are open as you stare at him, bewildered.

When he pulls away there are tears in his eyes, “It’s not going to work if you don’t kiss back.”

“What’s not going to work?” you whisper, brushing a tear from his cheek.

“Making the flowers go away,” two more tears, “If you kiss me back, you believe that I love you…they’ll go away. Kiss me back.”

This time when he kisses you you’re ready. He tastes like mango chapstick and desire. His hands are warm against your cheeks and his kiss makes you feel warm everywhere else. When he pulls away so you can breathe, he lands soft butterfly kisses all over your face.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, kiss, kiss, kiss. On the side of your mouth and your cheeks and your nose and you’re forehead. “I’m sorry. I love you.”

A doctor clears their throat and Jeongguk leaps away from you like he’s been electrified. He stares at the ground sheepishly and it makes you giggle and blush. The doctor is standing in the doorway watching with a bemused expression.

“Well,” the doctor says, standing in the doorway casually, “I guess we should do an x-ray to confirm there are no more flowers.”

author’s note—happy birthday jeongguk-ssi (now watch this tweet go crazy)

for more of my works check out my m.list

#bts #rosynamjoon #bts x reader #jeongguk #jungkook #bangtanbudsnet #bangtanbuds #jungkook x reader #jeongguk x reader #jeon jeongguk fic #jeon jungkook

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emoboijk · 5 years

Text

kth | daffodils

“Daffodils are an optimistic flower, and foolproof.” (Tasha Tudor) or sometimes denial is the brain’s way of protecting itself. —hanahaki disease au, flora & fauna series

4,388 words

p.cred

Taehyung is sitting by the door to the doctor’s office, flipping through a back issue of Vogue he’s already seen, thinking of other things. He doesn’t feel any different; just the same old Taehyung. He’d been having coughing fits, hadn't noticed any petals or blood, but his general practitioner noticed some flora-like images on the precautionary x-rays and made him book an appointment right away. Taehyung had heard of Hanahaki disease, of course, had a friend of a friend who’d suffered from it, but for the life of him, there wasn’t a one-sided love in his life that he could think of.

When the nurse calls his name he’s surprised to find that he’s nearly the last person in the waiting room. He crosses the space, smiling politely at the nurse as he follows her through the maze of hallways to one of the private rooms.

“How long have you been experiencing symptoms?” she asks without looking up from the clipboard.

Taehyung opens his mouth to reply but pauses before he can speak, reaching his fingers into his mouth and extracting a daffodil petal that’s a brilliant shade of yellow. It shocks him. It’s his first petal and it’s so beautiful. No one ever talks about how beautiful the petals are… With his eyes still wide and his heart suddenly hammering in his chest he replies, “About a week.”

The nurse raises her eyebrows and says, “Is it just the petals? No blood?”

Taehyung shakes his head, “Nope. And just the one petal.” He’s still holding it in his hand, cradling it like a baby bird, as though it might fly away. It’s proof of something—the disease, of course, but something else. He just can’t place it. He slips it into the pocket of his shirt gently and looks up to find the nurse staring at him questioningly.

Taehyung smiles sheepishly and the nurse shrugs, telling him that the doctor will be in soon. When the door clicks shut, Taehyung relaxes, breathing deeply. He swings his legs back and forth from his high vantage point, scowling as his brain goes back to the puzzle.

He goes through every person he knows (men and women, older and younger, close friends and acquaintances), still nothing. He’s sorting through various one night stands when the doctor comes in.

“Everything alright?” she says when she sees Taehyung’s expression.

“Huh?” he asks, cocking his head at her before realizing, “Oh, um.” He hesitates, unsure of how to phrase this, “It’s just...doesn't Hanahaki disease manifest from unrequited love?”

“Yes, that’s right,” the doctor says, sitting on a stool and looking up from his file.

“But, I don’t...love anyone.” He winces as he says the words because they sound colder than he intends. He just means that...unrequited love, from what he’s heard, is the most painful thing a person can experience (actual Hanahaki disease aside). Taehyung doesn’t feel anything like that.

The doctor raises her eyebrows, “Well,” she says, closing his file and folding her hands across her lap diplomatically, “this would be the first documented case of Hanahaki without a love interest.”

Taehyung’s shock reads on his face, “Really?”

The doctor nods, “People have claimed, of course, to not have an unrequited love before. But it almost always turns out to be,” she pauses. She hates having to tell someone that they do in fact have an unrequited love; as if the Hanahaki disease wasn’t cruel enough, telling someone previously unaware that they have actually been in pain this whole time...it’s awful.

“What?” Taehyung asks, even though he’s pretty sure what her answer will be.

“Denial,” she sighs.

Taehyung breathes deeply, “Well then what am I supposed to do?”

“Well,” the doctor says, “surgery is an option. It’s so early on in the flora progression that there would be minimal risk, except for the obvious one: you’ll no longer love the person, will have no emotion toward them at all.”

“Sign me up,” he says, shrugging, “I already don’t feel it, clearly.”

The doctor keeps her gaze steady, “We do require a fourteen-day waiting period since this is your first appointment for the Hanahaki itself.” Taehyung nods along. She pauses for a long moment before adding, “And you might want to think more about who it is you might have feelings for.”

“I told you, I don’t—”

The doctor raises her hands to silence him, “I know. But oftentimes, people who claim to have no unrequited love that rush into surgery...they realize afterward who it was and lose a fundamental piece of their lives because of it.”

“But the patients don’t even care, right? Because they don’t have any emotion for that person?”

“That’s true,” the doctor concedes, “but it’s like the person has died. It fundamentally changes your life.” She stands up, turning to swipe a brochure from the counter and handing it to him, “Just think about it. We’ll make an appointment for two weeks, a follow-up, and then we can schedule the surgery.”

“Okay,” Taehyung whispers, glancing down at the brochure: Who Do I Love? Tracking Down the Source of Your Hanahaki Disease. He stands from the table and folds the brochure neatly, tucking it into the pocket of his pants and following the nurse through the maze of hallways again.

“Follow up,” the nurse says, craning her neck into the reception area. The receptionist nods and Taehyung leans against the counter to wait.

“Two weeks, is it?” the receptionist says.

“Yeah,” he nods, worrying his bottom lip before pulling out the brochure again. The picture on the front is of a man with a forlorn expression, a glowing picture of a flower (violets maybe?) in his throat. Taehyung frowns.

“Tuesday the 14th work?” the receptionist says, and Taehyung nods without looking up. She slides a reminder card across the counter to him and he takes it, eyes never drifting from the brochure, even as he leaves.

Taehyung’s feet take him there without his knowledge. He just looks up from the brochure and he’s standing in front of the gallery. There’s a tacky white neon sign that blinks in and out: Open. The windows have all been blacked out with heavy construction paper (he’s already seen the latest installation ‘Black Stars’ - every piece glows in the dark). Multiple copies of the same flyer have been pasted to the heavy metal door: BLACK STAR EXHIBITION NAOMI CRAWFORD THURSDAY — MONDAY.

It’s Monday.

Taehyung folds the brochure into his back pocket carefully and pushes through the metal door.

It’s dark. Melodic jazz is humming through the overhead speakers and it puts him at ease (he likes it better than the heavy metal they played when Jake Martinez held his instillation of decapitated dolls as a comment on beauty standards). There’s a small corner near reception lit by soft yellow candles.

Taehyung is still staring into the darkness when you call his name. You step out from behind the reception desk (which feels more like a shrine, what with all these candles) and are greeted with a wide, box-shaped smile shrouded in shadow.

“I was wondering if you'd stop by.” You wrap your hand around his wrist and tug him toward the counter, “I saved some snacks for you.”

His face lights up when he sees the various catered goodies you’ve kept hidden in a napkin amongst the candles. He holds it in his hand delicately and starts munching.

Silence. Or worse yet, jazz-filled silence. You want to say something but there doesn’t seem to be anything to fill the space. And Taehyung seems…distracted.

The phone rings harshly and even though it’s dark you can see Naomi glare at you like a demon in the dark. You hold your hands up to appease her and scurry around the desk. Naomi huffs when the phone rings a second time and you actually roll your eyes as you pick up the phone, “Bogo Sipda Art Gallery.”

Taehyung wanders off.

You can see him stall in front of a wide canvas covered in brown and black paint, pinpointed with tiny drops of glowing yellow. It’s called ‘Alone.’

“Sorry, sir, yes, I’m here. What was your question?”

Taehyung is still there when you approach to mark the painting with a red ‘sold’ sticker.

“Someday,” he says and his eyes aren’t here, they’re amongst the painted stars and fantasy clouds, “I’ll have a home filled with art.”

“I know.”

When he turns, his eyes have grounded again, but they’re still alight, glimmering in the low light like the Milky Way, “Do you?”

“Yes.”

You jump when the phone rings again and Naomi immediately screeches your name like you are single-handedly ruining the entire evening. Artists.

“Bogo Sipda Art Gallery.”

Taehyung wanders again.

You find him nearly two hours later, crouched at the end of the exhibit, the darkest point, pitch black but for a small, square canvas painted edge-to-edge in white glow-in-the-dark paint. It almost illuminates his face.

His fist is closed so tightly over the used up napkin that his knuckles have turned white. When he frowns it takes up his entire face. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him frown before; neutral or stoic, yes, when considering a piece of artwork, but never such a blatant display of unhappiness. Not here.

“I can take that,” you say, holding your hand out for the napkin.

Instead, he slides a worn-out brochure into your palm. He holds the napkin between his knees and begins to tear it up, the soft white pieces fluttering to the ground.

Your eyes scan the brochure. “Hanahaki disease?”

He shrugs. Passive aggressively.

“Do you have Hanahaki disease?”

He shrugs again.

Figures.

You sit beside him on the bench. “Have you told anyone?”

He shrugs then adds, “You.”

You know why he’s telling you. You’re not real friends. Telling his real friends would make it real, would mean having to face it and make decisions about it. Telling you…an acquaintance…that’s safer. But it does feel like a needle in your spine.

He sits up straight and leans against the back of the bench, stretching his legs out in front of him and tossing the rest of the napkin harshly. As if just to defy him, it flutters to the ground in mid-air. “I don’t love anyone.”

You snort. You’d argue that he loves too much, everything too much all the time. The sky and the birds and the trees and art and his friends and his life. Love, love, love. As if he just has to dip a hand in to sprinkle it on top of everything.

He actually smiles at your response. “I’m not in love with anyone.”

You don’t believe this either. You’re not sure how Hanahaki disease works but you’re pretty sure the fundamental, unavoidable cause is being in love with someone.

“I know that’s impossible,” he sighs and you wonder how he’s reading your thoughts.

You shrug then, “Maybe your subconscious knows something you don’t.”

“How can I be in love without knowing I’m in love?” he huffs, “I love love.”

You shrug. Again. And wonder how much of a conversation can actually be shrugs. “The brain avoids pain…tries to protect you from pain.”

“And gives me Hanahaki disease instead?”

Anyone else would have scoffed that sentence or laced it with anger and bitterness like a martini with too much gin. But Taehyung says it like a boy in Algebra class presented with a problem he hasn’t studied for, something he hasn’t learned yet. His voice is pure confusion and innocent wondering.

“The brain is the only thing to ever truly name itself.”

He laughs so loudly it tears a hole right through your chest.

You don’t see him for three days after that. Naomi’s exhibition ends (she sold almost all of her paintings, a new record for the gallery) and you’re back to stocking one-offs from various local artists. When you put up the sketch Taehyung drew three years ago (not in the best spot, a little nearer to the back than you would like) your boss scoffs at you; he doesn’t understand why you’re so attached to it, why you insist on putting it up between installations when no one’s shown an interest in it.

You think it’s the closest you’ll ever get to confessing. It’s like your own silent love letter that Taehyung is deaf to. It feels both like a security blanket and a knife in the chest.

When he does come in he brings the smell of french fries with him. He’s carrying a large street vendor plate of them (smothered in cheese and bits of bacon). He walks right by the handsome new hire flipping through a high-brow art magazine at the front desk and walks the gallery maze until he finds you.

“Thanks, Taki.” You’re smiling up at the aging Japanese man atop the ladder, screwing in a light bulb over an abstract painting the size of a flatscreen TV. But both you and Taki freeze when the smell of fries wafts in your direction.

Taehyung’s face transforms into a smile painted with recognition. “Hungry?”

“Starved.”

Two minutes later (after Tae gave Taki some fries and you struggled through an introduction between Cole The Receptionist and Taehyung), you’re perched on the bench outside, picking gingerly at the cheesy-fries with your fingers.

“How are you feeling?”

Taehyung shrugs, “Still in love, I guess.” He leans against the brick wall behind the bench and stretches his arms above his head, “But I told some more people… and I’ll have the surgery.”

You try not to let your surprise electrocute you and turn you stiff, you fight to keep from looking at him like he’s crazy. “You will?” Your voice comes out even.

He picks up the last fry and offers it to you. “I don’t even know who I love…what’s there to miss?”

You lean forward and bite the fry, leaning back when Taehyung releases it. You chew slowly and swallow. “You aren’t scared?”

This stumps him. Taehyung hadn’t even thought that far. “Scared of what?”

You take a deep breath and lean against the wall, too, watching the orange sun sink behind the familiar outline of the buildings downtown. “Of losing something.”

Taehyung doesn’t think he is, but there’s a flicker. It’s like the last bit of light before a candle extinguishes. That’s his fear.

He spends all day thinking about what you said. He’s in a daze as he walks the three blocks back to his apartment (the one he shares with Minho and Hyungsik and Seojoon). He ignores the elderly lady that sells churros from a cart (and sneaks him free, extra-crispy bits); he ignores the homeless man he chats with a couple minutes every day before handing him a couple of bucks; he even ignores the sweet woman and her two kids that live above him. None of these people, though, are at all perturbed by this daze. That’s Taehyung; sometimes he’s a bright ball of uncontrollable light and sometimes he’s the early morning fog that wraps around the trees.

When he makes it up to the apartment, all three roommates are in the living room. Minho is typing quickly on a laptop perched on his knees and ignoring the drama playing on the television. Hyungsik is absorbed in it, dropping pieces of popcorn in his distraction. Seojoon is fighting with his partner via text.

They all look up when he unlocks the door, pausing to toe-off his shoes in the entryway before drifting down the hallway.

“Hey,” Seojoon says, grateful to look away from his phone, “how was the gallery? Anything good?”

“Yeah,” Minho says, already chuckling at his own joke, “did she put up that sketch of yours again?”

When he doesn’t respond (or rather, when he doesn’t immediately start gushing about the pieces of artwork and how nice they are to put his on display after all this time, how nice you are in general), they look closer. The normally bright and vibrant Kim Taehyung seems diminished, just a shade of his usual self.

“What’s going on?” Hyungsik asks, pausing the drama and turning to face him.

Taehyung side-steps the couch and then moves to sit between them, chewing on his bottom lip. He takes one of the decorative pillows Hyungsik picked out (this one is pink with a festive llama embroidered on it) and hugs it to his chest.

“Is this about the Hanahaki?” Seojoon says quietly, leaning over to squeeze Taehyung’s knee, “I thought you had decided to have the surgery.”

Taehyung nods and, inexplicably, there are tears in his eyes.

“What happened?” Minho asks quietly.

He looks up and everything’s blurry. The tears. “What if I lose something?”

“Lose…something?”

“Something I don’t know I have now.” His voice breaks on the last few syllables and he hides his face in the pillow. The flicker of fear you’d set alight in his chest has grown into a forest fire, it’s consumed him.

They share a concerned look over his head and Hyungsik rubs soothing circles into his back. Seojoon ruffles his hair. “Do you think you’re going to lose something?”

“I don’t know,” Taehyung sniffles, “It feels like I will now.”

“Why?”

“She and I…” he’s talking about you, they already know, he doesn’t have to clarify, “we were just talking and she said that. She asked me ‘what if I lose something’ and…” Taehyung looks up and his eyes are red. He hits his chest harshly, “What if she’s right?” He wipes his nose with the back of his hand.

The three others all have the same thought. It’s not so much what was said but who said it.

“Tae,” Minho starts. Both Hyungsik and Seojoon look at him desperately over the younger boy’s head, don’t their expressions say. But Minho knows he has to. “What about...her?”

Taehyung rubs his eyes and sits up straight. He always feels a bit saner when talking about you; a bit safer and like things are for-sure. He tilts his head to the side.

Hyungsik sighs, giving in, “Don’t you think maybe…it’s her? Don’t you love her?”

“What?”

Seojoon closes his eyes and prays for patience. “You’re always talking about her, Tae. And when you brought us to that exhibition last month, to introduce us…”

“You’ve never looked so happy,” Hyungsik finishes.

“Well, of course, I love her,” Taehyung says. His words are fact and he says them like they’ve been carved into stone, but his brow is still knit in confusion.

“Then don’t you think, maybe, she’s your unrequited love?”

Taehyung shakes his head, “No. I’m not…it’s not…like that. I don’t…why are you—” He gets up in one quick motion like it's the only way his newfound nervous energy can be released. He walks out of the room quickly, stopping to repeat, “It’s not like that,” before disappearing.

This time when his three roommates share a look they agree on this: Taehyung is in denial. And it’s going to kill him.

When Taehyung wakes up the next morning he stays in bed. His eyes open to the sunlight through his window and he rolls onto his back to stare at the ceiling. He switches off the alarm on his phone without looking and counts the imperfections in the ceiling plaster. He listens to each of his roommates as they go about their mornings.

Hyungsik hogs the bathroom, Minho berates him for it. Seojoon pads around the apartment quietly and Taehyung knows that he’s just staying out of the younger two’s way, sipping his coffee and ducking in and out of the kitchen, the living room, and the bedroom. He hears Hyungsik grab an apple and his keys off the counter before rushing out. He hears Minho dripping from his shower as he meanders back to his bedroom. He hears them all leave, slowly, one by one.

Then he climbs out of bed, walks across the hall to the bathroom, kneels over the toilet and spits the flower petals he’s been holding on his tongue into the bowl. When he looks in the mirror he’s paler and his teeth are stained pink. And he’s sad. He tries to brush his teeth but he keeps having to stop for the flower petals.

He calls out of work and skips classes. He climbs back into bed with a trash can to vomit into.

You spend nearly a full week walking in crazed, frantic circles in the art gallery, waiting for Taehyung to come in. He’s never gone more than a few days without stopping by, not without telling you first.

I’ll just have the surgery.

Five words. Like ice in your veins.

His number, which he wrote on a donut shop napkin (the one around the corner that sells the sugary, cinnamon covered ones he loves so much), and which you never felt you were allowed to use, finally gets dusted off. You open a message and type the first thing that comes to mind.

Did you have the surgery?

Sorry…that was blunt

I just…did you?

This is a stupid decision.

You’ve been to Taehyung’s apartment once before. Last Halloween he invited you to the party he and his roommates were throwing. Then, like now, you stood on the sidewalk across the street and stared up at the window you imagined to be his with a feeling of nauseous dread crouching in your stomach.

On that day, you had turned (perfectly crafted Tinker Bell costume and all) and left, texting him a half-hearted excuse and folding into your couch with a pint of ice cream.

Today, you swallow the nauseous feeling and plunge forward.

You slip inside behind a resident, stepping into the elevator and pressing the button for the fourth floor. You feel pathetic for having that information memorized, despite not even having attended the party a year ago.

You know which apartment is his because there’s a faint pencil sketch on the faded red wallpaper beside the door of Taehyung and his three roommates. You would be able to recognize him from the sketch, but you mostly know this because after he’d done it (when he was slightly tipsy after his exams last semester), he’d shown you a picture on his phone proudly.

You trace the drawing softly, stalling as you muster the courage to knock on the door.

But you don’t get the chance. Someone sidles up next to you at the door. He jingles his keys and jimmies it into the lock. He says your name with a smile in his voice.

“I’m Seojoon,” he smiles, “Want to come inside?” He pauses in the doorway and adds, “You’re here to see Taehyung, right?”

You follow him inside, bowing politely at the two other men lounging in the living room, but freezing when you see Taehyung turn the corner. He freezes, too.

“What—?” Taehyung looks between his roommates and you, “What are you doing here?”

You feel winded looking at him. He’s wearing a large, faded baby blue t-shirt and loose flowing pants. There’s a kimchi stain on the collar of his shirt. His hair is oily and disheveled. His lips are chapped and his cheeks have drained of color, his whole face has.

He looks…wrong. That isn’t the right word but it’s the only one you can come up with.

The Taehyung you're used to has the sun beneath his skin and so many easy smiles that they fill you up inside. He’s frowning now.

“I, um—” You fumble for an excuse but your mouth is dry and your brain is wringing. You feel like a dishcloth being twisted in his hands. You squeeze out a sentence, “Did you have the surgery?”

His eyes dart away from you but you can’t look away. Your eyes have gone wide like saucers, trying to take in every detail of him. Everything’s slightly askew.

“No.” It’s not him who answers but one of his roommates; Hyungsik, you think.

Taehyung looks at him like shut up.

Your knees almost give out you’re so relieved. Not so much, maybe, because you didn’t want him to have the surgery but because you wanted to be there with him, for him. You wanted to hold his hand and fetch him water and make sure he was alright.

And maybe they almost give out a little, too, because you’re afraid. You’re afraid that whatever they cut out in surgery a piece of it will be you. Maybe not you directly—you aren’t the flower—but what if you’re a side fixture? What if you’re the painting beside the painting he’s cutting out and by consequence he never sees again?

Now Taehyung looks at you like what the hell.

You can stand straighter now, more composed now that you’re carrying the information you came for. You fold your arms around your stomach and worry your lips together, “I was worried.”

Now he looks at you like your answer to his next question is the only answer in the universe. “Worried about me?” In his eyes, you see that he’s teetering on the edge of hope and despair.

It’s your turn to look at him like what the hell.

“Of course. You.”

Then, because you’re a little lost in the galaxies beneath his eyes, you reach forward and put your palm on his chest. You feel his breath hike and you almost feel something else, the hint of growth, of something else in his lungs. But you press harder because you can’t say the words aloud, you have trained yourself not to.

But he seems to understand. “I love you,” he says, softly and with blood on his lips.

You fist his shirt in your hand and press your lips to his. You kiss the blood, the flowers, and the fear away.

author’s note— i took ‘bogo sipda’ from spring day; ‘보고 싶다’ (literally ‘i want to see,’ figuratively ‘i miss you’)

for more of my works check out my m.list

#bts #bangtanbudsnet #bts kim taehyng #v #taehyung #kim taehyung #taehyung x reader #v x reader #hanahaki disease au

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