Archive of Our Own

It’s a little ironic. 

Choi San, twenty-one, owner of the floral shop nestled in between an eccentric coffee shop and a dilapidated liquor store, throwing up flower petals. There’s a laugh rising unbidden in San’s throat, and when it finally breaks free it sounds hysterical. Unhinged. He feels like he’s going to explode. 

It’s how Seonghwa finds him half an hour later, bent over the bathroom floor with petals clambering through his fingertips, spilling like blood onto the tiles. The horror on Seonghwa’s face is almost comical and San can’t do anything but laugh. (He’s not supposed to see him like this.)

“Oh, Sannie,” Seonghwa murmurs, gracefully side-stepping the petals on the floor and dropping to gather the younger boy into his arms. Seonghwa smells like fresh laundry, lemons, and cherry wine. He’s wearing a pretty, wonderfully soft sweater and the blood smeared along the seam of San’s mouth is staining the edges. “I’m so sorry.”

The apology prompts another giggle to bubble from San’s lips, because what is Seonghwa apologizing for? It’s San’s fault anyways, falling in love with somebody who was never his to begin with. Someone who will never be his. 

“Sannie?” Seonghwa’s fingers tighten. “Why are you laughing?” 

San’s throat is itching again. There’s something wet dribbling down his chin. He doesn’t know whether it’s blood or his tears — can’t find it within himself to care, either. 

Seonghwa’s gaze is concerned, the slope of them so gentle it wheedles into San’s chest and tears a half-laugh, half-sob out of his mouth. “I’m a florist,” San states, and Seonghwa’s eyebrows furrow. (Of course he wouldn’t understand, you fool.) 

His laugh dwindles into silence, and there’s nothing remaining except for the stilted rhythm of San’s breathing echoing harshly off the bathroom walls and the everpresent itch at his throat. Seonghwa waits. “Don't tell anybody. Please,” San whispers, smile melting off his face like how paint runs when the artist adds too much water. Ruinous. 

“I won’t.” 

“Good.” San pauses, gaze fixed on the speck of blood that caught on the sink when he stumbled into the bathroom and stained porcelain with crimson and fuschia-veined petals. “I don't want to die.” His voice warbles midway. “Hyung, I don't want to die.” 

Seonghwa makes a wounded noise. “You’re not going to die, Sannie. I promise.” San muffles a defeated hum into the material of Seonghwa’s sweater, skeptical but too exhausted to argue. And San isn’t one for openly expressing his feelings, but Seonghwa saw it earlier in his gaze — like an open book, a silent cry for help. They were wide, swimming with disbelief and tears gathering like rain in cumulus clouds. Uncertain, anguished, vulnerable.  

Terrified. 

-----

Wooyoung is fifteen when he dyes his hair blond. 

He walks into the cafeteria fifteen minutes before the bell rings, not quite sauntering but definitely not shrinking into himself either. There are eyes boring into him on all sides but Wooyoung is an expert at ignoring unwanted attention, weaving between frozen gawkers to reach San, who’s hunched over on a table in the corner watching his best friend with a mixture of shock and horror. 

“So?” Wooyoung says, first thing before he slides into the empty chair opposite of San. “How’s it look?” 

“You look like a lemon,” San says immediately. There’s dye smearing the wrung-out hem of Wooyoung’s t-shirt, like the messy fingerprints of a three-year-old over their stick-figure sketches. Another streak finds its home above Wooyoung’s left eyebrow. 

“Not in a bad way, right?” Wooyoung says, casting a surreptitious glance at the neighboring tables. His voice is deceptively light but his fingers are clenching and unclenching into nervous fists. “Everybody is staring.”

They’re not staring because of your hair, San thinks. They’re staring because you’re beautiful, and you always have been. 

“Fuck them,” San says instead, shoving his feelings into that tiny, cramped compartment of his heart that he keeps under lock and key. His words tear a pleasantly surprised laugh from Wooyoung’s throat, and in that moment, it’s enough.

-----

Wooyoung is eighteen when San gets into his first car accident. It’s nothing serious; San scrapes out of it with merely a broken leg but the panic-stricken look on Wooyoung’s face when he bursts into the hospital makes it seem like he’s bleeding out all over the floor. 

“Choi San, you idiot,” Wooyoung hisses but there’s no real malice behind his words, just thinly veiled relief. He lands a punch to San’s shoulder, ignoring his little yelp of You can’t just hit the injured! before embracing him tightly. He smells faintly of sweat and his arms tremble where they’re wrapped around San’s middle. “You scared me.” 

“Don't be scared.” San’s words are muffled into his neck, the baby hairs lingering at Wooyoung’s nape tickling his nose. “It was all a part of my master plan.” 

“Master plan?” Wooyoung pulls back, a confused furrow between his brows. San reaches over to smooth it out on instinct and the wrinkle dissolves under his fingertips. 

“I’m going to have to get a cast and crutches. Everybody at school is going to have no choice but to look at me now.” 

Wooyoung laughs. San lets the sound ricochet around his ribs and make a home in his heart. “What else were they looking at before?” 

You , San almost says. It comes like an instinct, an afterthought. San swallows the word down, squishes it into a ball and discards it into the mushy, unexplored recesses of his brain. “I don't know,” he shrugs, paired with a half-moon smile. “Just the usual, I guess.” 

-----

Of the eight years San has known Wooyoung, San has only seen him breakdown three times. Once, five minutes before his first dance solo in eighth grade. He had hid himself in a corner backstage, mouth moving in a constant stream of I can’t do it, San-ah. Tell them to move on to the next person. 

The second, when Wooyoung’s pet dog of seven years passed away and third, when Wooyoung’s parents told him that they were moving and he would have to leave everything behind. 

It doesn’t happen often, but there’s an inevitability of Wooyoung’s deliberately pieced together facade collapsing like the fortified walls of Jericho. San’s duty as a best friend is to be there when that happens, to hand him tissues when he needs it and let him cry onto his shoulder until they taper into dry sobs and he passes out from exhaustion. 

It’s why San doesn’t question it when Wooyoung arrives at his doorstep at 3 A.M. on a Friday night, eyes red-rimmed and cheeks flushed with either the cold or residual tears. San blinks blearily at him, half-convinced that Wooyoung is an elaborately made-up illusion. 

Wooyoung doesn’t make a move to step inside so San takes him by the wrist, tugs him gently forward until he’s seated on the couch. Wooyoung stays deathly still throughout the entire ordeal and he feels so fragile underneath San’s wary fingertips, shivering like he’s about to shatter.

San wants to slide his palms against Wooyoung’s cheeks, brush his lips over his skin and feel warmth blossom to life underneath his touch, but that’s a boundary he’s not allowed to overstep, so instead he goes to the kitchen and rummages through his cupboards for the bottle of vodka he’d received as a present for his birthday. Wordlessly, he places a glass on the table before Wooyoung. 

Wooyoung’s lips quirk subtly at the edges, a silent word of thanks. It soothes San somewhat, the reassurance that Wooyoung’s not completely gone, except Wooyoung downs the entire glass with the urgency of a man starved in the next moment, and San’s concern returns with a viciousness multiplied by tenfold. 

“One more, please?” Wooyoung asks hoarsely, sounds like he’s witnessed five different wars and then some. He glances upwards, eyes glossy and fucking pouting like he’s a child begging for a shiny, new toy instead of alcohol so strong it might as well be poison. 

San swallows rather audibly and tilts the bottle into his empty glass, Wooyoung watching the liquid trickle down with stars practically shooting out of his gaze. (So maybe he’s a little weak for Wooyoung pouting. Sue him.)

It’s no surprise that Wooyoung is nearly black-out drunk twenty minutes later, reduced to a fumbling mess of words slurred around the syllables and limbs that have all but lost their function. He’s always been terrible at holding his alcohol, never needing more than a few shots before his mouth becomes loose and his inhibitions even looser. 

Except the vodka bottle is more than halfway empty and San can say with absolute certainty that Wooyoung drank much more than just a few shots. He’s currently starfished around San’s body, head tucked into the crook of San’s neck, and every time he shifts his lips skim over San’s collarbone, feverishly hot. San craves death. 

“She broke up with me,” Wooyoung confesses suddenly, releasing a disbelieving giggle that transitions into a stilted hiccup. 

“Oh,” San says dumbly, head spinning with the abrupt influx of emotions that course through him. Sympathy first, then joy. (Wooyoung is single, his stupid, caveman brain supplies. He barely resists the urge to slam his skull into the wall.) Lastly, guilt, because Wooyoung is heartbroken, you dick, can we please focus? 

Wooyoung, blissfully unaware of San’s internal struggle, plows onward with his story. “You wanna know why?” he asks, peering expectantly at San from beneath his eyelashes. San nods obligingly, just a beat too late. “Turns out she cheated on me.”

“What,” San says flatly, and is immediately silenced by a clammy palm clapped over his mouth. 

“Don't interrupt me!” Wooyoung hisses. “Anyways, as I was saying, she cheated on me. And then when I confronted her about it, she started saying all this shit about how boring I was, and how I didn’t pay enough attention to her or something.” His voice grows warbly, a premonition before renewed tears spring forth, wetting the hem of San’s shirt. San takes the chance to weasel his face out of Wooyoung’s slackening grip. “She said some really mean things, you know? She called me fake, said that all she kept me around for was a good fuck, and other than that I was useless—” 

Anger sears white hot through San’s chest. “Hey,” San says, stopping Wooyoung’s frantic monologue with a hand on his arm. “Your ex-girlfriend is a bitch.” Wooyoung sniffles sordidly in agreement. “I could list at least ten things on the spot that contradict what she said.” 

Wooyoung scoffs. “No you can’t.” 

“Give me a chance to prove you wrong, then,” San says and Wooyoung huffs but doesn’t protest any further. “You’re not useless, you’re — well, you’re funny, for one. You have a pretty smile and I like your laugh even if you think it’s ugly. I like how happy you get when you eat, the way your cheeks bunch up and your eyes go really big.” 

Wooyoung is staring at him with an intensity that sets butterflies alight in his stomach, breath hitching in his throat. There’s something I’m missing, San thinks, because Wooyoung has looked at him many times but never like this. Contemplative, scrutinizing, like San’s a puzzle that Wooyoung is hellbent on figuring out. 

His brain scrambles to keep up, words stumbling out of his mouth that serve no purpose but to disperse this charged, unnamed tension that hovers over them like a particularly stubborn storm cloud. 

“I like that you’re thoughtful, like when you make hot soup for me in the morning when I’m hungover or how you always bring extra tissues for me in case I forget. I like the way you dance and the way you sing.” Wooyoung has crept up on him so silently that San doesn’t notice until Wooyoung’s nose is only a centimeter from his and oh , have Wooyoung’s eyelashes always been this long?  

“Wooyoung?” San whispers, voice caught halfway within his chest. His pulse rings in his ears, nearly dizzy with the effort of holding his breath and keeping Wooyoung’s gaze, fuzzy around the edges with inebriation but unfaltering nonetheless. “What are you doing?” 

Wooyoung considers the question for a moment, long enough for San’s thoughts to stretch gossamer thin, snarl into tangled disarray, and pull taut again. “I don't know,” Wooyoung says finally, and San scarcely has the presence of mind to recognize how ruined he already sounds before Wooyoung’s lips slot over his. 

He’s so warm, is San’s dazed first thought, hands mindlessly finding purchase on Wooyoung’s hips, fingers white-knuckled like he’s afraid to let him go. Wooyoung’s lips are soft, insistent, and San has imagined this tens of thousands of times but he has always imagined Wooyoung to taste like sunshine, like the fragments of joy that shimmer through his laugh and the ephemeral warmth of summer. 

He doesn’t expect for Wooyoung to taste like heartbreak, like the tears that he’d shed an hour ago and the acrid bitterness of vodka, and perhaps that’s when San realizes that no — this isn’t what he'd imagined at all. It isn’t, because Wooyoung is drunk, and he had just broken up with his girlfriend, and this is wrong in so many ways that San feels the panic trill all the way to his toes, electrifying. 

San braces his hands against Wooyoung’s chest and shoves, springing backwards on the couch like he’d burned himself. He tries not to stare at the way Wooyoung’s lips are spit-slick, just the slightest bit swollen and petal pink. He did that. San. Nausea swirls in the pit of his stomach, worsened by the expression of horror dawning on Wooyoung’s face. “Wooyoung, what—” 

“Don't.” Wooyoung’s tone is cutting, the sharpness of it slicing across San’s skin like a whip. He visibly recoils, sinking further into the couch cushions and swallowing down the tears that are welling in his throat. Wooyoung doesn’t look to be faring much better, squeezing his eyes shut in a futile effort to collect himself. “Please, just — don't. Let’s just — let’s just go to sleep, okay, San?” 

With all the grace of a newborn deer, Wooyoung attempts to clamber over the couch but doesn’t get very far before his foot catches on the corner of the coffee table and sends him careening to the floor. “Fuck,” he cries, and he looks so pitiful there, curled into a shuddering ball with uneven gasps tearing themselves out of his chest, wet and aching. 

Hesitantly, as if approaching a cornered animal, San sets a hand onto Wooyoung’s shoulder. “Come here, Young-ah,” he says, tugging him gently until he’s back on the couch.

“What are you doing?” Wooyoung manages to ask when they’ve settled at last, San’s chest pressed to Wooyoung’s back. 

“Shh,” San says, clenching his eyes shut and pretending for a second — something stolen and secret — that Wooyoung isn’t crumbling beneath his fingertips. “We’re just going to sleep, remember?” It’s a silent offering of peace, an extension of his hand, palm up with a supplication of no, we don't have to talk about it, not if you don't want to. (San wonders if Wooyoung is reading between the lines, if he can hear the inaudible whisper of I just don't want you to leave.) 

There’s no answer, nothing but the choked noises of Wooyoung attempting to stifle his sobs but he doesn’t move away and San can’t do anything but hold him and pray it’s enough. After all, it’s his job. He doesn’t get to ask for anything more. 

-----

Wakefulness doesn’t creep up on San so much as clobber him over the head, forced upon him by the thunderous noise of an object falling to the floor — a book? — accompanied by a punctuated “fuck.” 

“What,” San mutters distantly, squinting over the back of the couch to see Wooyoung fluttering around the kitchen like a headless chicken, unzipped backpack swinging wildly off of one shoulder. 

“Where is it?” Wooyoung hisses under his breath, too preoccupied with searching for whatever’s missing to notice San shuffling up behind him. 

“What are you doing?” San asks. He doesn’t think his voice is especially loud but it startles Wooyoung anyway, arm jerking painfully against the counter and eliciting another curse from his mouth. 

His heart gives a stilted skip-a-flop when Wooyoung smiles at him, the way it does when he catches Wooyoung’s eye from across the room or when Wooyoung laughs and his first reaction is to throw as much of himself onto the nearest person (which, more often than not, is San).

Yet San can’t ignore the shrill notes of fear singing in his chest, the wavering certainty that Wooyoung is going to look into his eyes and unearth every secret that San’s been hiding for years now, brought to light with the knowledge that yes — it hadn’t been a dream — Wooyoung had kissed him and San had kissed him back. 

Wooyoung’s going to have to pull the pin eventually, San thinks. It’s going to hurt but at least he’s kind enough to do it swiftly, would tell me that no, I’m sorry but I don't see you that way. It’d be awkward for a while but we’d be okay because Wooyoung’s — he’s my best friend. That has to be enough, right? 

Right? 

“San-ah, you’re awake,” Wooyoung says, reaching up to pinch San’s cheek with an exaggerated croon like a grandmother would their grandchild and San is momentarily stunned by how normal the action is, as if yesterday had never happened. Confusion bubbles up inside of him but if what Wooyoung wants is to pretend, then San can play the part. “I would’ve made you some breakfast, but I’m late for a morning class.” 

He flits away towards the door with a call of “Can you get me my jacket sometime, please? I can’t find where I’ve left it but I haven’t any time to search.” San hums passively in agreement and trails after Wooyoung, watching as he laces up his boots. Honestly, it’s pathetic — the way San can’t help but hover around Wooyoung like a lost puppy, but he can’t dispel the ball of anxiety inside his chest that tells him that Wooyoung is going to drop this charade any moment, walk out the door, and never come back. 

That thought is what ignites the sudden spark of irrational, unadulterated fear that seizes him when Wooyoung moves to step out, his hand clamping onto Wooyoung’s forearm before he registers what he’s doing. Bemused, Wooyoung turns to look at him and San flounders for a second before, like an idiot, he blurts, “Do you — do you remember anything? From last night, I mean.” 

Wooyoung’s lips give a perplexed twitch. “Um, yeah? I think I kind of blacked out halfway because I don't remember anything after like, the sixth shot. Why?” His eyebrows furrow. “I wasn’t too clingy, was I? I know I can get clingy while drunk.” 

Wooyoung’s looking at him expectantly for an answer but San’s tongue has gone heavy in his mouth like lead and all he can do is shake his head, muted. 

(Are we still pretending? San asks with a blink of his eyes. One, two, three, the sinking realization that maybe, just maybe, Wooyoung hadn’t been pretending in the first place. He simply doesn’t remember.) 

“Oh, good.” Oblivious to San’s inner turmoil, a relieved smile grows on Wooyoung’s lips. “I’m really sorry to say this, but I do have to go. The professor’s going to have my ass on a silver platter if I’m late to one of his lectures again.” A roll of his eyes. “9 A.M. classes, am I right?” 

“Sure,” San replies faintly, doesn’t feel like his soul is fully tethered to his physical body. 

“See you later, San-ah,” Wooyoung sings, and then he’s bounding off down the hallway, the apartment door clicking shut behind him and leaving only a deafening, empty silence in its wake. 

For an indiscernible amount of time, San simply stands there and stares at the door, watching — waiting — for the telling thud of Wooyoung’s footsteps down the hall, the muffled bzzt of the keypad unlocking before the door opens again and Wooyoung’s there with a dazzling smile on his lips, laughing and saying, I was joking, San-ah, how could I forget? 

So San waits, indelibly, foolishly. 

The clock ticks near-silently in the background and the door doesn’t budge. 

-----

When San first meets Wooyoung, he is thirteen and Wooyoung is nothing more but a passing face in the hallways, just as insignificant as the other students that flood into school once the dismissal bell rings. 

Sure, San’s heard of him before. It’s almost impossible not to with how often his name gets thrown around, mostly by a gaggle of girls that have proclaimed themselves as Jung Wooyoung’s Official Protection Squad (A thirteen year old has a protection squad. It’s ridiculous and San doesn’t understand it at all.), the same broken record of he’s so hot I’d pay him to chokeslam me into the lockers or he smiled at me once and I think I’m in love. 

From a safe distance, San watches as Wooyoung and his entourage, all with equally bright and sparkly reputations, cross the field, tailed by a swarm of girls whose screaming escalates to an unbearable amount when Wooyoung turns and waves — waves! — like he’s some A-list celebrity. The cheek of some people. 

San vows right then and there to never — never — involve himself with this Jung Wooyoung, except — except. 

He’s curious. 

It’s not a secret that Wooyoung has a remarkable talent for dancing. And while San has never actually seen him perform, he’s heard enough praise to know that yeah, Wooyoung is definitely several marks better than the average person. 

A prodigy, even. 

I’m just confirming it for myself, San tells himself when he searches up Wooyoung’s YouTube channel one Monday morning, huddled over his desk like that’s going to shield his screen from prying onlookers. Purely scientific reasons. 

All his carefully pieced together excuses fly out the window once the video starts, a slow fade from black to reveal Wooyoung standing alone in an empty room, lights just bright enough to shadow his silhouette against the cream walls. 

He’s good, San begrudgingly admits as he watches Wooyoung prance across the floor, movements somehow both smooth and powerful at the same time. He’s more than good and okay, maybe San kind of gets why the entire school is drooling over him. 

A shadow falls over his shoulder. San slams the laptop screen shut so hard his desk rattles, whirling around in preparation to yell at whoever was interrupting his ‘research’ session but his mouth goes dry once he sees who it is, dread washing through his limbs like polluted water. 

Wooyoung, the man of the hour, leans casually against the other desk, grin Cheshire-sweet and unforgivingly smug. San would snap at him but he’s too busy attempting to stave off the embarrassment clambering up his neck, flushed all the way to his ears. 

“Was that my video?” Wooyoung asks with a tilt of his head, like he doesn’t know. 

“Um,” San says eloquently. 

It’s enough of an answer for Wooyoung, who kicks off the desk and advances towards San almost predatorily. “Did you like it?” Wooyoung continues, apparently undeterred by San’s inability to form proper sentences. San feels distinctly like a gazelle cornered by a starving lion, except under Wooyoung’s gaze he feels strangely — seen. His knuckles tighten on the back of the chair as Wooyoung stares, expression unreadable before melting into something warmer, more playful like what San’s used to seeing from a faraway distance. 

“You look like you would be good at dancing,” Wooyoung says. “Do you want to try?” 

“Not particularly,” San says. For some unknown reason, Wooyoung actually looks disappointed. 

“I’m heading to practice after school.” He looks up then, hopeful, like what he said is supposed to mean something to San. Cluelessly, San blinks back at him and Wooyoung heaves a sigh before spelling it out. “Wanna come watch?” 

Suspicion at Wooyoung’s unerring persistence fizzes weakly under his skin but it’s quickly overtaken by anticipation, the prospect that San is going to be able to see Wooyoung dance again. This time, without the barrier of a screen. “Sure,” he agrees easily. The bell rings and students are already starting to file through the door. 

“I’ll wait here for you after school?” Wooyoung asks, slowly backpedaling out of the room. San nods helplessly as he watches Wooyoung’s lips split into a beaming smile. (He’s never been one for poetry, but he thinks he would describe Wooyoung’s smile like the first rays of dawn cresting over the horizon in butterscotch streaks, blindingly golden.) 

Yeah, he thinks later after the dismissal bell rings and Wooyoung is right outside the door — waiting, just like he said — with two bottles of strawberry milk in his hands. Wooyoung looks up and immediately bounds over to San, enveloping him in an aggressive hug like they were lifelong friends and not two strangers that had only exchanged their first words just hours ago. 

Strawberry milk is being pressed into his palm and Wooyoung is already heading towards the door, only pausing to throw that damn smile over his shoulder, a beckoning of hey, aren’t you coming? San quickens his pace, Wooyoung laughing when he stumbles over his shoelaces to catch up, and thinks yeah, I could get used to this. 

-----

“Sannie, you’re here.” A warm smile, a warmer embrace, and the scent of lemons and cherry wine encompassing him like the blankets San’s mother used to knit him to protect him against the frigid winter air. 

“Seonghwa hyung,” San returns. “Of course, I wouldn’t miss the showcase for the world.” 

“Because it’s Wooyoung?” Seonghwa says, drawing back. San’s breath hitches and he’s suddenly paranoid with the ludicrous thought that, somehow, Seonghwa knows — knows that San’s been hopelessly and irrevocably in love with Wooyoung since the beginning, knows that San had kissed Wooyoung, drunk on the heady atmosphere. But when he looks into Seonghwa’s eyes, the look is teasing, not knowing. His shoulders slump in relief.

“Because it’s Wooyoung,” he confirms just as the lights start to dim over the theater, the low hum of conversation pattering out into a silence charged with an undercurrent of crackling excitement. San watches, heartbeat fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings in his throat, as the red velvet curtains part and the spotlight switches on with a distinct click, echoing through the auditorium.

A sense of deja vu floods into him when he sees Wooyoung standing there in the center, like the first time San had watched Wooyoung dance through a computer screen when the stage had just been a cramped room and his only audience had been the lifeless eye of the camera lens. 

He’s dressed in all white, haloed by a ring of light that makes him look like an otherworldly being and San is once again struck by how beautiful Wooyoung is, chest overflowing with emotion so palpable it smarts at his fingertips. His head is still reeling by the time Wooyoung catches his eye, a little flicker of recognition flitting through his gaze like the flare of a match. You’re here, it says. 

A smile wrestles its way onto his lips, unbidden. You’re going to leave them all breathless, San replies with a miniscule, upward twitch of his fingers. He wants to take this moment and preserve it in a jar, store the feeling in his chest and guard it within his ivory ribs like something precious, something reserved just for the both of them. Suspended in time, San and Wooyoung, Wooyoung and San. 

The music starts, the reverberating song of a cello, deep and melancholy. 

Wooyoung lifts his arms and leaps. 

-----

San’s out of his seat the second the show ends, amid a sea of thundering applause that fades to background noise once his gaze connects with Wooyoung’s again, like two planets bound by the same gravity. Come meet me, Wooyoung mouths with a jerk of his head before disappearing backstage. 

“Slow down, Sannie,” Seonghwa laughs, one hand on his arm to keep him from barreling into the people in his path. “He’s not going anywhere.” Together they weave through the dense crowd, eyes sweeping across bobbing heads to pinpoint a familiar shock of blond hair. 

San hears him before he sees him — hears the shriek of bright laughter that rises above the chorus of overlapping voices like a beacon, unmistakable. In the space between two dancers’ shoulders his eyes zero in on Wooyoung, whose head is thrown back in delight. 

His own heart swells, hand reaching back to tug Seonghwa in that direction before his gaze lands on another opposite of Wooyoung, footsteps stuttering in their tracks. It’s a slender young man, with hair so dark it looks like spilled ink on his head. He’d also performed, San remembers, an impressive number with a swagger that seems misplaced on such an elfin creature. 

There’s a bouquet of freesias cradled within his arms — Wooyoung’s favorite, San notes dimly. 

(San would always give Wooyoung a freesia blossom whenever he stopped by the floral shop, ignoring Wooyoung’s adamant protests of I can’t keep taking free flowers from you, San-ah, that’s bad business. San doesn’t tell him that it’s payment enough to see how happy Wooyoung looks when he tucks the bloom behind his ear, like lemonade gumdrops against the faded gold of his hair.) 

Oh, San thinks as he watches the handsome stranger offer the bouquet to Wooyoung, hands trembling around the blousy cloud of white wrapping paper and blush high on the apples of his perfectly sculpted cheekbones. And Wooyoung — Wooyoung accepts the gift with a smile so wide it folds his eyes into hyphens, as if he were the sun and Wooyoung had only seen doughy, gray clouds for decades. 

There is the pain of San’s heart plummeting directly to his stomach along with the ghostly burn of Wooyoung’s lips against his, the remains of a memory.

(He’s known since the start that he didn’t have a chance, so why does he still feel like he’s lost?) 

There had been a multitude of words San wanted to tell him (I’m so proud of you it hurts and you outshone every performer that came after you and words can’t convey how much I love you, did you know that? ) but they have long dried up on his tongue, shrivelling once he sees the sparkle in Wooyoung’s eyes.

Radiating adoration, the way he’d looked talking about that one girl he’d crushed on his entire eighth grade year, then the water polo athlete who made varsity his first year in high school, then his chemistry lab partner who’d eventually become his first girlfriend. 

(The way he’d never looked at San.) 

Oh. 

“Sannie?” Seonghwa’s touch jolts him out of his stupor. “Have you found him yet?” 

“No,” San says eventually, tearing his eyes away from Wooyoung. “No, I haven’t. Sorry, hyung.” 

“Why are you apologizing?” Gently Seonghwa nudges him so that San’s facing him, concern lacing his voice. San can’t look him in the eye but Seonghwa can read him anyway, better than anybody else in the world. “Hey, what’s wrong?” 

“Nothing.” He musters a smile but it’s unconvincing at best, watery around the edges. “Nothing, I just — I think I’m going to go home.” 

“What?” In his peripheral vision he can see Wooyoung and the boy talking, so incandescently happy that neither of them have noticed San hovering in the corner, his heart fragmenting into desolate, irreparable pieces. San knows he probably owes Seonghwa an explanation but he’s too preoccupied with willing himself not to cry. 

Stupid, he’s so stupid. 

“I’m sorry,” he says one last time, doesn’t wait to see Seonghwa’s reaction before he’s shrugging off his grip and shouldering his way through the crowd. Nobody calls after him.

-----

Five hours later San finds himself crumpled on the bathroom floor, surrounded by speckles of blood dotting the eggshell white of the tiles and petals drenched in the same viscous liquid. His throat burns and every intake of breath hurts, oxygen scraping through his lungs like scrap metal. 

“What do I do now?” San croaks after Seonghwa discovers him.

Seonghwa pauses from where he’s cleaning the blood from the floor with a wet rag. He’s been scrubbing the stains for the better part of an hour and San’s certain that whatever’s left of it is already gone, but Seonghwa only cleans obsessively when he’s stressed and San’s not going to tell him to stop. 

It’s better than sitting here alone. 

“We’ll figure it out, Sannie,” Seonghwa says finally, and the scrubbing resumes, the swish of the rag against the tile harsher than before. 

It’s not a concrete answer and both of them know it, but all San does is hum and draw his knees in, watching silently as Seonghwa continues to polish an already pristine floor. 

He won’t look up, because he knows if he does he’ll see his own face in the mirror and see that nothing has changed, not the sharp jut of his jaw or the slope of his cheekbones or the bow of his lips — nothing, except that his eyes have become haunted with the knowledge that he’s weathering away as the days pass. 

San won’t look up because he’ll be forced to face the fact that he’s in love with his best friend, and his best friend doesn’t love him back. 

-----

Seonghwa brings him to the doctor the day after. 

It’s a highly impersonal affair, set within a room that smells so strongly of antiseptic that San feels his very existence is contaminating the space. It goes something like this: the doctor pokes at various parts of his body before scuttling to the corner to scribble notes onto his clipboard, then returns to San’s side to prod some more. 

San feels not unlike a lab animal but he sits obediently still throughout the entire process because he wants to — no, needs to — get better. 

By the end of the appointment, the doctor has laid out three rules. 

Rule One: San has to stay away from Wooyoung at all costs

Rule Two: He has to find ways to distract himself 

Rule Three: Breaking Rule One is out of the question, unless he wants to die

-----

It’s funny how nothing changes after that, not outwardly, anyways. 

San still wakes up at 6:00 A.M. everyday. He still opens up the floral shop at 7:00 A.M. on the dot, takes his lunch break at 12 P.M., and then heads home around 6:00 P.M., when the sky is aflame with the drowsy indigos of early evening. 

The only difference is that sometimes he’s woken up in the middle of the night by an especially violent coughing fit, and that he occasionally has to duck behind the curtain between shifts to pry a stray petal from the cavern of his mouth. And his throat always, always itches.  

Seonghwa has become a constant presence in his life as well, appearing during San’s lunch breaks with bags of takeout from San’s favorite restaurant (the hole-in-the-wall chicken joint five minutes down the road) and finding excuses to spend extra time in San’s apartment. 

(“I’m not going to drop dead, hyung, so can you please just stop hovering?” San snaps one day. Seonghwa looks so completely and utterly crushed that San’s anger saps out of him almost immediately, replaced by a guilt that eats at the corners of his mind. He reaches over to pat Seonghwa’s hand apologetically. “Sorry, hyung. You can — you can stay.”) 

So yeah, nothing much has changed. 

San thinks it would hurt less if everything had.

----- 

Rule Two is first brought into fruition in the form of a new roommate. 

His name is Jongho, a twenty-year-old that San had found through Seonghwa. 

(Seonghwa tells him that Jongho’s an engineering major, an undergraduate at the same university whom he takes out for free coffee occasionally. “He’s a good kid,” Seonghwa had said. “A little shit, at times, but a good kid.” San laughs and contacts Jongho immediately.)

Jongho arrives in the afternoon, and when San opens the door the first thing he notices is that the ends of his hair are dyed a rusty crimson, the color of ripe apples. His hands are empty but an army of cardboard boxes stick up around him like blown up sandcastles, barely held together by layers of clear tape. 

“Hey, Jongho, right?” he chirps, extending his hand in welcome. Jongho’s grip is surprisingly firm, a juxtaposition to the way his cheeks are drawn up in embarrassment, the tops of his gums peeking out in a timid smile as he nods. 

“So where are you from?” San asks while he’s helping to move the boxes into Jongho’s room. The weight strains his arms but Jongho seems to have no problem lugging them around, carrying two or three at a time. 

“Actually, I’m from Seoul,” Jongho says. “I used to live with my parents.” 

“Ah.” San sets a box onto the ground with a winded grunt. “Why’d you move out?” 

“I just thought it was time for a change, is all.” Jongho wrinkles his nose. “Also — forgive me for the crass language, San-ssi — but my parents are overbearing as fuck.” 

San barks out a laugh, clapping a hand onto Jongho’s shoulder. “Call me hyung,” he says, and that’s that. 

Rule Two manifests itself in less innocent ways too, which is why San finds himself sat on a barstool in some nondescript club located in the heart of the city, nursing a dew-rimmed glass of whiskey that’s more melted ice than alcohol by now. 

The night is sweat-sticky, humid enough that San’s leather outfit clings insistently onto his skin when he attempts to yank the sleeves above his elbows. The fabric protests, so after two more frantic tugs he gives up, fingers sweeping through his midnight hair with an irritated sigh. 

Objectively, San knows he looks good. His hair is swept above his eyebrows in a comma to reveal the feline curve of his eyes, accentuated by the smoky eyeshadow he’d painstakingly smudged on before he left. The amount of effort it had taken was starting to look rather pointless, since people had yet to approach him. 

Am I really that undesirable? His hand clenches around the glass and he lifts it to his lips, downing the remaining contents in one gulp. Gesturing for the bartender to close his tab, San slings his jacket over his shoulder and prepares to leave when another person nearly barrels into him, slumping into the chair next to San. 

“One glass of tequila, please,” he groans out, head in his hands. Then, “Wait, make that two.” San huffs out a laugh, bemused and quiet but the stranger picks it up anyways, head jerking in his direction. “Oh!” His eyes are blown wide, sweet and inquisitive despite the panic zipping through them. “Sorry, did I — am I sitting too close? I’m making you uncomfortable, aren’t I—” 

“Calm down,” San says, hand held out placatingly to keep him from launching himself out of his chair. “It’s fine, I promise. Nobody’s uncomfortable.” Reluctantly, the stranger sits back down and it’s endearing because he looks like a kicked puppy even when he hasn’t done anything wrong. 

The bartender sets the two glasses of tequila he’d ordered onto the counter before slinking away to serve another customer. San nods at the drinks. “Bad day?” 

The line of the stranger’s shoulders are still tense, but they deflate a little at the question. “You can say that,” he says with a wry smile. “My boss was in a bad mood so he was on my ass all day. I swear he almost fired me because I spilled his coffee, like that’s an accurate reflection of my ability to function in a workplace, and — I’m oversharing again. Shit.” 

San shrugs. “I asked, didn’t I?” 

A moment of contemplation, then, “Yeah, I guess you did.” His eyes flicker down San’s form for a split second, a movement that San would’ve missed if he weren’t actively searching for it. Satisfaction trickles through his veins, and this — this is what he’s wanted all evening. This is a game that San can play. “Can I buy you a drink?” the stranger blurts suddenly, then flushes. 

San grins coquettishly and the stranger’s flush grows deeper. “Are you trying to seduce me...?” 

“Yunho,” he supplies helpfully. “And, uh, yes, I am trying to seduce you. Only if you want to, though — please don't feel pressured to accept or anything, I totally get—” 

“Sure,” San replies easily. “Get me an Old Fashioned, won’t you?” 

“Oh,” Yunho says, baffled. 

San cocks an eyebrow. “What, you didn’t think I’d say yes?” 

“No,” Yunho says, releasing a sound mysteriously close to a squeak when San moves closer, hand resting innocuously on his thigh. 

“Why not?” 

“Because I’m a mess, and you’re…” He audibly swallows. 

“I’m?” San prompts. 

“You’re really hot,” Yunho says finally. “Really, really hot. Like, drop-dead, flaming, it’s nearly impossible to make eye contact with you kind of hot.” 

“Thank you,” San purrs. “You’re not too bad yourself, big guy.” Yunho looks like he’s going to pass out but his gaze is darkening in increments and oh — San is going to have fun with this one. The hand on Yunho’s thigh squeezes. “You know we can skip the drinking and get to the fun part faster, right?” 

“Oh, okay.” Yunho fiddles with his fingers, skittish. “So can I kiss you?” 

San grins. “Yeah, you can.” When Yunho kisses him, San can’t help but imagine smaller, rougher hands and lips that taste of vodka and misery. 

-----

Dawn is just cresting over the horizon when San wakes, slices of sunlight spilling through open blinds in rivulets of pomegranate lemonade. The sheets are cool against his skin but he’s warm where he’s pressed against Yunho, who still lies sedentary beside him, eyelashes aflutter in an unknown dream. 

Cautiously as to not wake the slumbering boy, San stretches out his limbs, pleasantly sore in various places and yeah, San was right — Yunho was fun. San hisses as he tries to loosen a stubborn kink at the base of his neck, muscles cricking painfully and in the next moment there are nimble fingers massaging at the knot for him, unravelling the tension. 

Yunho chuckles, coarse and low, when San melts into the pillows at his touch, eyes half-slitted in bliss like a fat cat bathing in sunlight. “Feels good?” he asks, voice tinged with the high, tinny notes of amusement. 

“Your hands are magic,” San slurs, too engrossed in the sensation to respond to Yunho’s obvious ribbing. “What time is it?” 

Yunho hums, hands leaving San’s neck to search for his phone. San barely tamps down an embarrassing whine at the loss, grumbling petulantly before rolling off the bed to dress himself. “Barely past six o’clock,” Yunho answers. “Need to go?” 

“Yeah,” San sighs. “Gotta open up the shop.” 

“Cool,” Yunho says, doesn’t ask about what shop exactly San is talking about. One-night-stand etiquette, or something. “Think I’m going to go back to sleep.” 

“Thought you said your pain-in-the-ass boss was going to kill you if you didn’t show up,” San snarks, retrieving his rumpled shirt from the corner of the room. 

“Yeah, well, he’s gonna yell at me either way so why not give him a reason to, right?” Yunho says. He flops onto his back, abnormally long limbs spread akimbo over the blankets like he’s skydiving through miles and miles of open air. A beat of quiet, then, “Last night was good. We should totally do it again.” 

“You weren’t this bold last night,” San comments in the middle of buttoning his pants, corners of his lips twitching upwards. Yunho peers at him from over his arm, features sleep-soft and dusted with cotton candy blush. “What happened?” 

“I’m hungover,” Yunho says bluntly. “Also, I had my dick in your ass. I think the time for formalities is over.” 

“You can’t just say it like that!” San squawks indignantly. He chucks a wadded-up sock at Yunho’s face with a disgust-crumpled expression but Yunho just laughs, dodging easily. (It’s nothing like Wooyoung’s witch cackle, but it’s still nice. San feels some of the emptiness resting beneath his sternum turn into syrupy, liquid warmth.) “‘Kay, you convinced me.” After fishing his phone from the nightstand, he tosses it in Yunho’s direction. “Give me your number, big guy.” 

The radiance of Yunho’s answering smile follows San long after he leaves Yunho’s apartment. 

-----

Choi San 

Hey Yunho

I probably should’ve clarified but I’m not 

really looking for a relationship right now

So if what you’re looking for is commitment…

Then I can’t be that for you

Jung Yunho: 

Hi San! :D 

Don't worry, a relationship is like 

the last thing I want right now 

Kinda lost faith in love after 

getting heartlessly dumped on 

our five year anniversary  

Emotional trauma, am I right? 

Choi San 

… You failed to mention this yesterday night

Jung Yunho 

Did I? 

Oops

-----

It’s late afternoon when Wooyoung storms into San’s shop, looking for all intents and purposes like he’s out for blood. San scarcely has enough time to set down his food before Wooyoung is at the counter, eyebrows drawn together in an infuriated scowl. 

“Where have you been?” he demands. San winces at the callousness of his tone, thinks that he probably deserves it. “I haven’t seen you all week, San-ah, and don't tell me I didn’t try looking. I came here everyday during your break to search for you but you weren’t here. Even Seonghwa hyung didn’t know where you were.” His voice hushes suddenly, a quiet, hurt thing. “Did you even — where were you after my showcase, San?” 

“I was there, I just — something came up,” San says. The excuse sounds weak even to his own ears and reading from the pursed, disappointed line of Wooyoung’s lips, it doesn’t sound all that convincing to him either. 

“I know. Seonghwa hyung told me,” he says flatly. It’s clear that Wooyoung doesn’t believe him. “I don't get it, San. I keep getting this feeling that you’re avoiding me.” 

“No!” San says, hand darting out of its own accord to rest over Wooyoung’s. In his mind’s eye he can picture Seonghwa’s disapproving stare, but all that matters in this moment is that Wooyoung is upset and San has to fix it. “I never meant to avoid you, it’s just… there’s been a lot stressing me out lately and it got too much. I’m sorry.” 

Wooyoung’s hand slips out from underneath San’s to agitatedly run through his hair. “Okay. Okay, I get that, but you don't get to shut me out like that! You don't owe it to me to tell me everything, but I’m — I’m your best friend. It’s not fair.” His chest heaves up and down in vexed breaths. 

San’s fingers twitch on the counter but he makes no move to reach out again. It had been so easy to resolve arguments before, but now there’s an extra layer of hesitance and unsurety before every movement, widening the chasm between them. Everything feels right side up, like he’d been shoved into a box, shaken around and then dumped back out again, forced to reorient himself.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats helplessly, watches as Wooyoung’s shoulders sag in defeat. “Ah, I almost forgot. I had something to give you.” From his pocket he produces a single freesia, holding the flower out like an offering. An apology, hidden within layers of burnt carmine petals. Bewildered, Wooyoung accepts it between careful fingers. “Your favorite.” 

“Thank you,” Wooyoung says softly, tucks the blossom behind his ear like he always does, spluttering flames licking over an endless field of dandelions. Routine. There is bittersweetness tinting Wooyoung’s irises but when he smiles, however small, it’s genuine and San can pretend that everything has returned to normal again. 

San inhales slowly and his breaths come a little easier.

-----

San is seventeen when he realizes going to college is less of a faraway prospect and more of a thunderstorm that’s already halfway upon him, proclaiming his imminent doom. 

“I have no idea what I want to do,” San whines. He’s sprawled on Wooyoung’s mattress, eyes trailing over the hairline crack that spans Wooyoung’s bedroom ceiling like the meandering of a lone brook. One of his legs is slung over Wooyoung’s and the other dangles off the edge, both of their limbs too gangly to fit on Wooyoung’s tiny childhood bed.

“Me neither,” Wooyoung says, flipping absentmindedly through the gossip column of the school newspaper. “I think I’m just going to figure it out as I go.” 

San jolts up in bed, squinting at Wooyoung to try and decipher his expression. It’s just as unperturbed as the motion of his fingers skimming over the page, measured and serene. “But doesn’t it — doesn’t that scare you?” 

Wooyoung spares him a strange look, like San had asked a particularly ridiculous question. “Why would it scare me?” 

“I don't know, the unpredictability of it all,” San says, throwing up his hands. “What if you get halfway through and you realize that this wasn’t what you wanted to do at all?” 

“Then you change,” Wooyoung answers, simple. “Nothing’s set in stone, San-ah.” 

“You are entirely too blasé about this entire ordeal,” San grouses and flops back onto the bed with a pout set on his lips.

“Aw, San,” Wooyoung coos, sets down the newspaper for the first time during the conversation to reach over and pinch San’s cheek. “You’re always overthinking so much. Takes all the fun out of things.” Wooyoung lets go of San’s face and holds his hand instead, thumb smoothing over the hollowed ridges of San’s knuckles. “It’s not like you’re doing this alone. We’re in this together, remember?” 

“Together,” San says, breathed into the air like a prayer. The dust particles suspended in midair swirl idly in response to his words and they look like snowflakes caught in the sunbeams cascading through the window, draped prettily over Wooyoung’s eyelashes, smile soft and endlessly fond. “I’ll follow you wherever you go,” San blurts suddenly. 

It’s a little naive of him, he realizes, to make such a promise, but he’s a little high on the way smiles look on Wooyoung’s petal pink lips, the scent of jasmine green tea Wooyoung’s mom is steeping outside in the kitchen, the effervescence of this moment simmering like champagne. The statement prompts a startled laugh from Wooyoung’s chest, eyes squinting into crescents again. 

“Whatever you say,” he says merrily.

Two months later, San’s mother dies in a car crash. It’s the dead of winter and the roads had been too slick. His father takes the news worse than he does, but he tries his best to act like everything’s okay even when the bills start piling up on the kitchen table and the bags under his eyes have become a permanent fixture, bruised and worn out. 

Together, San reminds himself during that time, and he leans on that promise and the remnants of Wooyoung’s smile, tucked within the crevices of his mind. Except, between the various part-time jobs he has to juggle and the assignments that keep pouring in everyday, the promise slips steadily through his grasp until there’s nothing left but the way Wooyoung’s lips had shaped around the syllables. (Together, San whispers sometimes, and mourns how hollow it sounds.) 

So he sends Wooyoung off, something cloying and horrible in his throat, to university when he’s eighteen and San stays behind, the meaning of together still sitting on his shoulders. Going to university had become an unattainable dream, but at least San still has the shop, a legacy that his mother had left behind and now had fallen at his feet. 

Mine, he thinks a little breathlessly as he stands in the deserted room of the shop, surveying the cream walls, the vacant shelves that would eventually overflow with verdant leaves and blossoms of every hue. 

Wooyoung visits often, eyes alight with exhilaration with stories of a world San has never seen. He speaks of classes which he loves and classes that he can’t wait to drop next year, about the whirlwind of campus life and all the people he’s met, anecdotes that seem too big for the walls of San’s tiny floral shop to contain. 

San listens because he loves the way Wooyoung talks, how he stumbles over his words occasionally in anticipation for the next, and because there’s still a part of him that yearns to go, to experience all these wonderful, undiscovered things for himself. 

Together, together, together. 

Yet another thing he wants but can’t have. 

-----

“I saw Wooyoung the other day,” San says. He’s not sure why it comes out, just that it did and some part of him feels obligated to share this fact. Pausing from where he’s flipping through a book, Seonghwa blinks up at him from over the rim of his silver wired glasses. 

“Okay,” he says, if not a little confused. 

“I gave him a freesia.” San’s feet knock against the wooden bottom of his chair, lips pursing in thought. “I’m sure it was nothing compared to the bouquet he received on the night of the showcase though.” Seonghwa shuts the book, the spine snapping closed with a dusty sigh, yellowed with knowledge. 

“So you saw.” His eyes hold lifetimes of pity. San has to look away. 

“Do you know who gave it to him?” he asks, gaze stubbornly trained on the creased tips of his well-worn boots. 

The response comes slowly, like syrupy sunshine sinking through paper-thin cracks in the pavement, as if Seonghwa is weighing his next words to measure how much grief San can take. Admittedly, it’s not much, but San grits his teeth and bears down. The thirst to know overweighs anything else. “His name is Yeosang,” Seonghwa says finally. “Kang Yeosang. I met him that night, at the showcase.” 

The name sits heavy on his tongue, and San feels an entire wave of resentment capsize over the letters, over someone whom San has never even looked in the face. He sinks back into his chair, eyes slipping shut. “Tell me about him.” 

“Well,” Seonghwa starts, “he has a birthmark, for one. It’s something I noticed.” 

“A birthmark?” 

“It starts at his left eye, then breaks off and appears again on his cheek.” An image materializes in his mind’s eye, a small island the color of soft berry, floating idly over the summit of Yeosang’s cheekbone. “He rarely smiles, and he listens more than he speaks. But he’s polite and from what I can tell, nice. A little awkward.” 

“And Wooyoung?” His voice breaks a little between the spaces. What does he think? San wants to say. Does Wooyoung still look at Yeosang like he did that night? Like he’s a devout worshipper and Yeosang is holy salvation, present before his very fingertips? Like he’s in love? San doesn’t elaborate further, too afraid that the quivering of his voice would betray him, but Seonghwa seems to understand. 

He exhales patiently through his nose, and when he speaks his tone is almost apologetic. “He… he seems pretty taken.” 

“Ah.” San’s throat is suspiciously dry, irritating with its constant itchiness. “I’m glad. He deserves to be happy.” And he means it, he does, but there’s something inauthentic about the statement. Empty, like San’s but a dried husk with his insides already scraped out. It makes him hate himself even more. 

“He does,” Seonghwa agrees. A bout of silence. “You know you deserve to be happy too, right?” 

The words soak into San’s skin like tainted, soiled water. When he turns his head, Seonghwa is already staring at him, gaze painfully hopeful. San smiles weakly and wishes with his entire being that he could believe it too. 

-----

Like some sick twist of fate, San runs into Yeosang next Tuesday. 

He’s wandering through the halls of Wooyoung’s university, footsteps following the invisible thread of music that wafts out from behind one of the studio doors, low and addictive and entirely too distracting — which is why it takes San just a beat longer than usual to process what he sees when he opens the door. 

He registers the tousled head of blond hair first — Wooyoung, San’s brain chimes happily — on his knees hunched over before the wall-length mirrors. They follow the length of his arm, hand cradled gently over a sharp cut jaw and that’s when San realizes faintly that there’s two people here, not one. A startling clarity settles over him when he sees a spot peeking out from behind Wooyoung’s fingers, the color of strawberry taffy. 

Not a spot, he thinks. A birthmark. 

Yeosang’s, whose back is pressed against the mirror as he gets kissed silly by the man that consumes the entirety of San’s dreams, waking or sleeping. 

Something inside of him lacerates and he barely feels the way his chest convulses in a distressed attempt to expel petals from his body over the agony of his heart wresting itself apart, the pieces blown away like chaff in a blistery desert wind. The door clicks swiftly shut behind him and the sound makes Wooyoung and Yeosang spring away from each other like a bullet out of a gun, two gazes finding him at the same time. 

The beginnings of embarrassment are scrabbling up Yeosang’s neck in a lovely flush and Wooyoung’s eyes are clouding over with strange murkiness, like a grimy film over a pond, that San doesn’t place as guilt until he’s lying in bed hours later, turning over and ruminating and inspecting the memory despite his will to forget it. 

Both of them sport twin expressions of slight mortification and it reminds San of that one time he’d caught two teenagers making out in the alley behind his shop, hands wandering everywhere they shouldn’t go in public. He kicked the metal trash can squatting in the corner and they’d stared at him with sheepish grins, unblinking like owls. “Scat,” San said, and they ran off giggling into the moonlight, hands clasped between them. 

With a rueful shake of his head, San stepped back into his shop and never spared them another thought. It had been easy then, different since they were strangers. But Wooyoung’s not a stranger, and San has experienced firsthand the dazed look Wooyoung gets after he’s been kissed, the tousled quality of his lemon hair and the bitten tint to his lips. 

Except that had been a mistake, and it still makes San sick to remember the regret that had sunken into Wooyoung’s features not a second after. There’s something far from regret on Wooyoung’s face now; instead rests starry-eyed contentment, sated and glowing. 

It’s Wooyoung who breaks the silence first. “San.” 

“I’ll—” He swallows and the petals in his throat makes the action difficult. “I’ll come back later. Sorry.” His shoe stumbles over the doorstep as he leaves and it sends a nasty shock up his leg but he pushes forward anyway, doesn’t know which direction to go except for the fact that he needs to get as far away from this place as possible. 

“San!” His legs don't stop driving forward but Wooyoung catches up to him soon enough, one hand clamping down on his shoulder and keeping him from escaping. “Holy shit, you walk fast.” Hands on his knees and pants filtering through his mouth, he grins crookedly up at San. “I run faster though.” When San doesn’t smile back, the grin fades into an awkward grimace. “Listen, I’m sorry about earlier.” 

San wills himself to reply even though his tongue has gone leaden in his mouth. “You know you don't have to apologize for anything, right? I was the one who should’ve knocked.” 

Wooyoung eyes him deliberately, a dubious look like he’s unconvinced that San’s telling the whole truth. Which, he’s not, but Wooyoung doesn’t have to know that. “Okay,” Wooyoung says slowly, drawing the last syllable out. “You looked so freaked though, like you had seen a ghost.”

A tendril of panic laces up his neck but the lie comes easily enough. “Yeah, ‘cause I saw my best friend making out with somebody. That’s gross.” 

Wooyoung laughs. “Fair, I guess.” A pause, and another cagey look that Wooyoung thinks San doesn’t notice but he does. “So you’re not mad?” 

Mad? “No.” San barely keeps himself from scoffing, feels a little bit of irrational bitterness well up inside of him like the tumultuous waters of the Nile River overflowing in the late summer rains. “Although I’m kind of mad that you didn’t even tell me he existed before you kissed him.” 

“You would’ve met if you’d stayed after my showcase,” Wooyoung points out. Some of the resentment saps out of him, replaced by the feathery sprouts of guilt. San hadn’t exactly been honest with him either. The petals itching at his throat are a chief reminder of that. “And I would’ve introduced you if you hadn’t dashed out of the studio so fast.” 

“So you… just left him in there?” 

“Yeosang’s waiting for me.” Something rouses to life behind his irises, like the tiny aureate bulbs of fireflies awake during the night, luminescent. If San’s heart had already been torn out of his chest and splattered onto the floor, Wooyoung is trampling all over the remains. “We’re going to grab lunch together later, so if you want something, now’s the time to tell.” Wooyoung glances expectantly at him, at the stillness of his stance and the vague emptiness of his eyes. “You did need something right?” 

“What?” San thinks of the freesias, petals a dazzling fuschia and sitting prettily in its quaint, terracotta vase back on the shelves of the floral shop. He thinks of how he’d clipped one blossom from its cluster and tucked it gingerly into the inner pocket of his jacket so that it wouldn’t crumple. He’d decided to bring one to Wooyoung, both to honor a tradition and as a renewal of his earlier promise to not leave him flailing blindly in the dark. 

The flower seems to flutter gently against his chest now and San’s fingers twitch towards it, contemplative, before the image of Wooyoung kissing Yeosang sears itself into his mind, how tenderly Wooyoung had held his face, the ardent way his fingers had brushed over skin as soft as the gossamer of butterfly’s wings. A cold detachment blankets him again and his hand falls limp by his side. 

“No, I was just passing by and thought I’d say hi,” he lies. 

“Wooyoung!” Yeosang’s head of raven hair peeks out from behind the doorway, curious. 

“Coming!” Wooyoung calls back. “Ah, guess I have to go. Catch you later?” 

“Yeah,” San manages lamely. He watches as Wooyoung runs down the length of the hall, arm shooting out to hook around Yeosang’s neck with an overjoyed cackle. It evokes memories of a time long ago, when Wooyoung and San were thirteen and strangers and Wooyoung had still hugged him, had laughed that same exuberant laugh into his ear. 

San turns on his heel and leaves, the imprint of the freesia smoldering against his chest. 

-----

Sam finds himself tangled within the sheets of Yunho’s bed half an hour later.

There’s desperation etched within his features when Yunho opens the door and there’s desperation in his movements, mindless and distraught. Yunho doesn’t ask and for that he’s grateful, just receives him easily and pulls him further into the apartment, large hands already fumbling at the hem of San’s shirt. 

It’s easy to forget when Yunho’s touching him, easy to forget with each aubergine and periwinkle mark that blooms over the sweat-glistened column on his neck, with the fingerprints that have bruised themselves on his hip bones, the sweltering air passed between parted lips, colored with pleasure so searing hot it whites out the parts of his brain that can remember. 

It’s less easy to forget in the quiet afterglow, harder to forget that San had almost breathed out somebody else’s name into the slick sheets — is imagining somebody else’s touch, somebody’s else’s face, one with a mole on the bottom lip and hair like lemon meringue pie. Harder to forget that Wooyoung isn’t his, but easier to get lost in the motions and the heat and the breathlessness of it all. 

“You look tired,” Yunho comments afterwards, brushing a strand of wet hair out of San’s forehead. There’s mild concern hiding behind his irises and it shows in the gentleness of his touch. “You feeling okay?” 

San blinks and suddenly there’s the pressure of tears stinging at his lashline, something like bone-deep exhaustion settling over him. “Let’s just go to sleep,” he deflects, turning his back to Yunho so quickly that he doesn’t get to catch his answering expression. A moment of stiff silence passes before the bed dips and Yunho’s arm is snaking around San’s waist, the weight of it starting to hold a certain familiarity. 

San closes his eyes and sleeps. 

-----

San doesn’t expect Jongho to be awake when he gets back, but he’s sitting at the rickety little coffee table when San steps into the apartment.

“Jongho,” San says, more of an exclamation than a way of gaining his attention, but Jongho looks up anyway, attentive as always. A wayward glance at the clock tells him that it’s a little over three in the morning. “You’re still up?” 

Jongho gestures sheepishly at the conglomeration of loose papers and cracked-open textbooks before him. “I have some deadlines coming up,” he says. “Lost track of time, I guess.” 

San hums in lieu of a response, shuffling over to slump tiredly into the chair opposite of Jongho. Jongho watches him carefully, round eyes strangely discerning even in the dim glow of the kitchen lamp. The glint is gone before San can place it and in the next moment Jongho is pushing a mug towards him. 

When San blinks up at him, curious and also a little bewildered at the suddenness of it all, Jongho has already returned to his studying, the faint scritch-scratch of his pencil traversing over paper filling the silence. 

The drink inside is an odd mustard color, translucent enough that San can see the little bits of something solid that swirl around the bottom, darker and unknown. It smells wonderfully fragrant though, and when San goes to wrap his hands around it it’s warm under his palms. 

“It’s oolong tea,” Jongho says, and though it’s not an explanation for his actions it seems like that’s all San is going to get. San leans down and takes a little sip of it, feels the warmth spill into his veins like liquid gold. The weight of Jongho’s stare is heavy and earnest. “Hyung,” Jongho says suddenly. “I know we’re not that close yet, but you know you can tell me anything right?” 

His ankle knocks mildly against San’s under the table, a whisper of a promise. “Ah,” San says, his voice slightly choked with emotion. “I’m the hyung. I’m supposed to be taking care of you.” 

“We can take care of each other,” Jongho says.

San taps his fingers against the ceramic of the mug. “Okay,” he agrees softly. 

From across the table, Jongho smiles sweetly at him and San can’t help but think he’s witnessed something precious. 

-----

The end of August comes with a hint of autumn carried on the breeze, brisk and spirited. San steps into Seonghwa’s dorm, hand-knitted scarf swaddled haphazardly around his neck, and sees him sitting at the kitchen table staring blankly into space. 

There’s a crisp vanilla envelope clutched in his hands and something in San just knows . 

“You got accepted?” he asks, breaking through the strange stillness that has befallen the apartment. Seonghwa’s head turns toward him minimally and there’s an absentminded smile tugging at the corners of his rosy lips. 

“I did,” he says. 

Cautiously, San edges toward the table and seats himself across from Seonghwa. “Congratulations, hyung. I know how hard you’ve been working to get in.” Seonghwa hums and there’s no inflection to his tone. “Are you… are you going to accept?” 

The answer comes like it’s from underwater, delayed but firm. “Yes,” he says finally. “Yes, I think I will.” His smile grows and a light flickers into existence in his gaze, a tinge of childlike excitement and the kaleidoscope of possibility. 

San’s heart feels simultaneously overjoyed and heavy, fists clenching in his lap. “You’re leaving,” San says quietly, inevitably. Seonghwa’s smile goes slightly sour, the brilliance of it fading into a melancholy blue. 

“I’ll have to,” he says, an elegant finger tracing over the grooves and divots of a table well-loved. “The university is in America.” 

“I know.” San looks away. “Don't forget about me over there, okay hyung?” 

Seonghwa chuckles, fingers looping over San’s from their limp position on the table. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” 

-----

The night Seonghwa leaves, the air is cold and dark. The ride there, for the most part, is dead silent, the deafening pressure alleviated only by the low hum of the radio in the background and the occasional burst of chatter that comes from Wooyoung. 

His attempts at conversation die quickly enough and eventually Wooyoung just gives up, choosing instead to rest his head on Seonghwa’s shoulder as the other stares out the window at the empty road. San keeps his eyes before him and drives. 

The same odd silence hovers over them when they help Seonghwa unload his luggage from the trunk, as if by staying quiet they could change the fact that by the end of it, Seonghwa is going to be gone. 

It’s not until they step past the main gates that Seonghwa speaks. 

“I guess this is it, then,” he breathes. “Thank you for the ride, Sannie.” He reaches to take a trolley from San’s hands and he lets it go reluctantly, his hands awkwardly falling by his sides with nothing to hold on to. “And you too, Wooyoung, for coming. Although I would’ve been fine by myself.” 

“Yah, are you that eager to get rid of us?” Wooyoung asks, bumping shoulders with Seonghwa roughly. 

“Brat,” Seonghwa bites, though the tinge of fondness to it softens it somewhat. 

“We wouldn’t have let you go alone anyway,” San pipes up. “This will be the last time we can see you in months.” The same horrible silence descends on them again, suffocating. Seonghwa smiles for the rest of them, though it’s not much of a consolation. 

“You should probably go soon,” Wooyoung says. “Don't want to miss your flight.” 

“No, I don't,” Seonghwa agrees. His head turns to survey the rest of the airport, eyes flicking over the hulking overhead lights and the people bustling around, bone-tired but abuzz with a muted flutter of anticipation. “Don't get into too much trouble without me here.” 

“No promises, old man.” Wooyoung grins cheekily at him but there’s an edge of sadness to it. “This is going to be my big break.” 

Seonghwa rolls his eyes, more of an instinct than a true expression of irritation. He hugs Wooyoung first, bundling the smaller boy within his arms before sidling over to embrace San. He still smells of the saccharine tang of cherry wine and lemons, tart yet sugared. “Take care of yourself, alright?” he speaks softly into San’s ear. His grip on San’s arms is firm just like the steely set of his eyes, the usual spark of warmth replaced by a grave seriousness. 

(I don't want to see you dead by the time I come back, they say.) 

San nods, mustering a smile. It feels foreign and unnatural on his lips. “I will,” he says. “Goodbye, hyung.” 

“Goodbye, Sannie.” Seonghwa releases him to sling his backpack over his shoulder, each hand wrapped around the handle of a suitcase. One step, two steps back, halfway turned. “See you both soon.” 

“See you,” San echoes. He raises his hand to wave and from the corner of his eye, he sees Wooyoung do the same. They watch as Seonghwa strides further and further away until his form is swallowed by a sea of other people, nothing more than a speck of black in an identical throng, still waving even as he disappears from their sight. Seonghwa doesn’t look back once. 

-----

San doesn’t know why ringing the doorbell has become such a gargantuan feat but it is — difficult in a way that he doesn’t know how Yunho will react when he opens the door and difficult in the way that San has an overactive imagination and is only anticipating the worst outcome possible. 

He’s standing on Yunho’s front doorstep, palms slick with cold sweat but he puffs his chest up and presses the button anyway, a cold feeling of dread coursing through him when he hears the muffled echo of the doorbell through Yunho’s apartment. There’s the dull thump of footsteps against floorboards and then the door is cracking open. 

Yunho’s dressed in sweatpants and a scoop-neck t-shirt that droops just low enough to reveal pretty collarbones. His sleep-mussed expression transforms into thinly veiled bewilderment when he registers the army of plastic bags hanging off San’s arms like jungle vines. San flashes him a strained smile, the sheer effort of it nearly popping a blood vessel. 

“Hello?” Yunho says. The greeting comes out like a question. 

“Hello,” San chirps back. Without waiting for a response, he breezes past Yunho into his apartment, immediately making his way towards the couch. “I thought I saw a Nintendo Switch here the last time I came over. What games do you have?” 

He turns to glance at Yunho, who stands frozen near the still-open door. He’s looking at San like he’d seen a ghost. “Why do you look so surprised?” San laughs, high with nerves. “Didn’t I text you I was coming over?” 

“You did,” Yunho says, slowly shutting the door behind him. He shuffles over wearily, arms crossed over his chest. “It’s just that I didn’t exactly expect you to want to play Nintendo Switch.” 

“Why not?” San asks, busying himself with connecting the game console to the television. 

“Your text read — and I quote — ‘Yunho, I’m bored. You home?’” 

“What’s so wrong with that?” San huffs.

“It sounded like a booty call, San. I thought you wanted to fuck.” 

San gasps. “Yunho, you — how could you! You pervert, always with your head in the gutter—” 

“We’re literally fuckbuddies,” Yunho deadpans. 

“Yeah, whatever. Details.” He seats himself cross-legged onto the couch, remote already in hand. “Now can you sit down and play Mario Kart with me? I brought snacks by the way, if you want some.” Yunho is suspiciously quiet, his presence hovering forbiddingly at the edges of San’s consciousness, but San refuses to look back at him, sitting straight-backed with his eyes stubbornly trained on the screen in front of him. 

He’s about a half second away from giving up when Yunho nudges at his left side to get him to scoot over and relief flows through San so headily that it makes him slightly dizzy. “Hand me the corn chips,” he’s saying, a sort of determined glint to his eyes when he looks at the screen. “I’m so going to beat your ass at this game.” 

San grins. “I’ll hold you to it, big guy.” 

-----

San loves bookstores. 

He likes the smell of crisp, new pages floating up to meet him when he opens a book, likes the labyrinth of shelves and the faint scent of coffee behind every inhale that comes from the little café tucked into the corner. 

The quiet atmosphere is perfect for him, but not so much for Wooyoung — who can’t stay silent for long periods of time and has a voice larger than is fit for his body. Which is why San’s not sure how exactly he landed himself in a bookstore seated across the table from Wooyoung himself. All that he knows is that Wooyoung had asked in a sugar-sweet voice to hang out and batted his eyelashes prettily, and San’s mouth had opened to agree before his brain processed the request. 

A sordid, horrible loss on his part, considering that this bookstore isn’t just any ordinary bookstore, but specifically the one that Yeosang works at. 

Wonderful, San thinks a little hysterically as he watches Wooyoung make googly eyes at Yeosang, who’s working behind the counter, for the seventh time in the past hour. Just wonderful. He has a book laid open before him, something random he’d picked off the shelves so he could at least pretend to be doing something, but he has yet to get past the first paragraph. 

It’s too difficult to focus when he knows Wooyoung had come here for Yeosang and that inviting San had only been an afterthought, a second priority. The realization lances through him like a serrated knife and he turns the page with more aggression than necessary. His throat is itching madly again.  

“What are you reading?” Wooyoung asks, his voice slicing clean through San’s internal monologue of continuous self deprecation and arising bitterness. 

San blinks disconcertedly at him before the question sinks in and he has to take a peek at the cover to recall the title, glaring at Wooyoung when he laughs. “Hamlet,” he answers. 

“Oh, Shakespeare right?” Wooyoung sighs dreamily, propping his chin up on his hands. “I’ve always wanted a romance like Romeo and Juliet’s.” 

“What?” San wrinkles his nose in mild concern. “Romeo and Juliet were teenagers who formed an unhealthy and superficial codependency on each other and they both ended up dead.” 

“Okay, so maybe not exactly like that,” Wooyoung amends, then snickers. “You’re such a nerd, San-ah.” 

“I got it from Seonghwa hyung,” he mutters forlornly, only for it to be ignored. 

“What I meant to say is that I want a romance where we can both understand each other without words. With all the — you know — adventure, the intensity, the thrill. I’m looking for that kind of connection.” 

Wooyoung pauses before dramatically throwing his upper body onto the table, hands clutched over his heart. It catches the attention of a few patrons nearby and San mouths a sheepish apology to them before Wooyoung grabs onto his arm and yanks him closer to stare him dead in the eye. “I’m looking for love.” 

San gulps, his throat suddenly dry as his gaze flickers over the unfaltering glint in Wooyoung’s eyes, down to the mole under his left eye and on his bottom lip. “Have you found it?” he dares to ask, no louder than a whisper. 

Wooyoung releases him to fall back into his own chair and San watches with a sinking stone in his stomach as he slants his eyes towards Yeosang and — as if drawn by a force as indisputable as gravity — Yeosang catches his gaze and smiles, tentative but still undeniably fond. 

“Yeah,” Wooyoung says, as soft as the gentle descent of snow coruscating against feathered eyelashes. “Yeah, I think I have.” 

-----

Two hours later San finds himself bent over the toilet in his own apartment, hurling up petals with a force strong enough to wrack through his entire body in great, harrowing heaves. Once he’s done, he slumps onto the tile bonelessly, head spinning and with wearisome tears dotting his eyes. There’s a migraine budding behind his temples and he rests his forehead against the porcelain bowl, little breaths wheezing out of him. 

He barely has the presence of mind to note that this time had been much worse than usual before his thoughts slip away from him altogether, too exhausted to do anything but sit there and struggle to breathe. 

A knock sounds at the door, hesitant but firm. 

“Hyung?” It’s Jongho’s voice and San’s heart seizes in brief panic before he remembers that he had locked the door. Thank goodness. “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah,” San says, lifting his head slightly. His voice is frightfully scratchy and grating. He clears his throat. “It’s just a cold.” 

It’s a lie, poorly crafted with no conviction and so obviously false that it has San wincing. It’s early September and the weather has been temperate at worst, not nearly bad enough to warrant getting sick. Jongho doesn’t say anything and San almost thinks that he has left when he finally speaks up again. “I’ll go make you a cup of peppermint tea. Come drink it when you come out, okay?” 

San exhales lightly in relief. “I will. Thank you, Jongho-yah.” 

Jongho hums in acknowledgement before his footsteps patter down the hallway and disappear into the kitchen. San lets his head droop again, hand coming up to wipe at the blood that’s beginning to congeal on his chin. His knuckles brush against something solid caught at the corner of his lips, causing it to fall onto his lap. 

He glances down and all his muscles lock at the sight, fingers trembling as he goes to pick it up. The petals are still fuschia but they’re clumped together now instead of separate, pinched together at the top and held together by a small patch of green. 

A bud, San thinks faintly. Not a petal. 

San drops his head into his hands and cries. 

-----

Jung Wooyoung

Hey San wanna come with me to the 

bookstore again today

San 

Saaaaaaaan

Ope too late nvm 

San wanna come over? I’m booored

Why aren’t you answeringggg

Did I do something wrong

I thought we agreed not to keep 

things from each other anymore

I won’t really know if you won’t 

tell me ://

I can see you reading my messages

you know

Fine text me when you’re ready to 

talk again

Just don't leave me hanging again

alright? 

(“Take care of yourself,” Seonghwa had said.)

San clicks out of the chat and shuts off his phone. 

-----

On the way home San ducks into the liquor store next to his floral shop and comes out with a pack of soju clutched within his arms. He downs three bottles by himself and wakes up on the floor the next morning with a wicked cramp in his neck and a skull-splitting headache, but the few hours he was wonderfully, thoroughly inebriated was worth it. 

What a blessing, he thinks to himself, to be able to forget. 

Jongho comes out a few minutes later and discovers him slouched over the kitchen table, feeling like he’d gotten the soul sucked out of him. The empty soju bottles are still knocked over on the carpet but Jongho doesn’t seem to notice it. He pauses under the doorway, takes one look at the unnatural ghastliness of San’s skin, and says, “You look like shit, hyung.” 

San barks out a sharp laugh, pressing the heel of his palms into his eyes. “You might as well have dropped the honorific.” 

“Sorry,” he says, not sounding very apologetic at all. “Are you sure you’re okay?” 

San grins up at him tiredly through his fingers. “I’m fine, Jongho-yah. Why wouldn’t I be?” 

Jongho just stares for a moment longer, lips pursed. “If you say so,” he says softly. He doesn’t press any further, but by the time he leaves the apartment there’s a steaming cup of chamomile tea sitting on the kitchen counter and the soju bottles are neatly arranged beside the recycling bin. 

San buys Jongho dinner as a thank you. 

They don't talk about it after that. 

-----

Seonghwa calls every so often and it’s a relief to see his face even if it’s a pixelated image over a tiny screen. San looks forward to the sound of his phone ringing because it means he gets to hear the soothing timbre of Seonghwa’s voice greet him, morning sunlight highlighting the higher planes of his face while the sun in San’s hemisphere sinks low over the horizon. 

“How are you holding up?” Seonghwa always asks, cheek cradled by the delicate line of his hands as he gazes intently at San. 

San smiles and the customary upward pull of his lips has become second nature, easier and less flimsy though no less insincere. “I’m getting better, hyung,” he lies straight through his teeth, and that’s become easier lately too, to let such falsehoods spill past his lips without ever breaking his facade. 

It’s better, maybe, than to see Seonghwa’s face crumple when San tells him that things are only getting worse, that his relationship with Wooyoung has become horribly strained and it should make him happy but it doesn’t — because how could it when the reality is that San is losing his best friend? He doesn’t tell Seonghwa that the only time he feels truly weightless is when he’s half delirious with alcohol or caught in the throes of pleasure, because he knows Seonghwa’s heart is going to break when he hears it. 

So he lies and watches Seonghwa’s face bloom into a gentle smile because of it. 

“That’s good,” Seonghwa says, and San has to swallow down the guilt every time. 

It’s better this way, he tells himself. 

-----

Choi San 

Yunhoooooo

I’m hornyyyyyy

Jung Yunho 

Aww poor San

You’ll survive

Choi San 

This is the part where you tell me

to come over so I can get fucked

into next year

Jung Yunho 

Dude 

I’m at work right now

Choi San 

Damn 

Jung Yunho 

And now I’m going to turn my 

phone off because SOMEBODY 

couldn’t control himself last time

and sent me nudes 

In public!!!! 

Choi San

You liked it ;)

Jung Yunho 

GOODBYE SAN 

Choi San 

nOOOOOOOOO

-----

Yunho doesn’t return to his apartment until after nine o’clock but San’s waiting for him when he comes back, two bottles of red wine in his hands and a hopefully compelling grin on his face. “I brought you some alcohol,” he says. “I will be expecting repayment through sexual favors.” 

Yunho rolls his eyes affectionately, toeing off his shoes before coming over to press a kiss to the crown of San’s head. “Help me put away these groceries first, will you?” He does. Ten minutes later when everything is stored where it should be, San turns to Yunho expectantly and throws himself into Yunho’s arms. 

“Okay, all done, very cool. Kissing time now,” San says, puckering his lips obnoxiously. 

Yunho laughs, brushing away the loose fringe that hangs over San’s eyes and for once, San isn’t thinking of Wooyoung when he complies. 

-----

The thoughts make their reappearance late into the night, attacking in his sleep when he’s vulnerable and defenseless. He’s jerked to consciousness by some unknown force, the last tendrils of his dream slipping away from him though its wispy residue clings to him stubbornly. All he remembers is the hurt, the fear, the contours of a familiar face from his childhood and a smudge of lemon. 

Suddenly the air brushing against his legs feels positively frigid because for the first time in a long time, San had dreamed of his mother and sometime during the dream, her face had become Wooyoung’s. “Shit,” he whispers, throwing off the covers. The space beside him on the bed is empty but San barely notices, too preoccupied with the sickening clutter of his brain to question where Yunho had gone. 

He makes his way toward the kitchen and the bottle of wine from earlier is still sitting on the counter, unopened. “Where’s the corkscrew?” he mutters to himself as he’s rifling through the cupboards, slamming the drawers shut harder each time he comes up empty handed. 

“Be careful with my furniture.” 

Startled, San glances up. The voice comes from in front of him, past the counter and out onto the balcony where Yunho is sitting on one of the chairs, his back to San. He exhales patiently through his nose, amused, and abandons the wine bottle on the counter to join Yunho outside. The aged wood of the balcony is coarse beneath his bare feet and San lowers himself, slow-moving and weary, into the chair next to Yunho’s. 

High above both of them, the moon sheds her ashen light onto the slumbering city. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” San asks. 

“No,” comes the answer, quiet. Yunho turns his head towards San, the right half of his lips quirked upwards. “What about you?” 

“I had a weird dream,” San says. There’s a cigarette pinched between two of Yunho’s fingers, the butt smoldering with faded orange embers. “I didn’t know you smoked,” he comments, drawing his knees into his chest. 

Yunho chuckles. “I don't, not often. It just helps me calm down when my thoughts get too much.” His eyes are twinkling with mirth when San looks over at him. “I didn’t know you liked to drink in the middle of the night.” 

San huffs out a laugh, a little scathing. “I’m not hoping to make it a habit.” 

“Good,” Yunho says. “That would be concerning.” 

“It would,” San agrees softly. He watches as Yunho lifts the cigarette to his lips again and it’s like Yunho can feel his gaze crawling over him because their eyes meet through the cloud of smoke he breathes out afterward, willowy and dangerous. 

“Shotgun?” Yunho offers with a tilt of his chin. 

San blinks. “Sure.” 

Yunho smiles to himself, taking another long draw of smoke before leaning over. San meets him halfway and one of Yunho’s hands finds its home in the hollow underneath his jaw, the other snaking into his hair, as he breathes the smoke gently into San’s parted lips. 

He inhales shakily, feels the quivering warmth of Yunho’s mouth and the acrid severity of cigarette smoke blanket his tongue. San’s nose wrinkles at the unpleasant taste, a displeased noise escaping him and if the laugh that vibrates against San’s lips is any indication, Yunho has noticed. Unbidden, San starts to laugh too, airy chuckles turning into bright peals of laughter pressed against each other’s mouths, wretchedly beautiful. 

Yunho draws back first, dropping the burnt nub of the cigarette onto the floor and snuffing it out with his foot. “We’re pretty bad for each other, aren’t we?” he asks. 

San spares him a half smile before turning his gaze back to the moon. “Just a little bit.” 

-----

The first text he receives from Wooyoung in weeks is a birthday invite. 

It’s short and simple, maybe even distant — an address and a date. Five minutes later, there’s a new text right under it. 

Jung Wooyoung 

I really hope to see you there, San-ah

San’s fingers tighten around the device and before he knows it he’s typing out a reply, an assurance that he’ll be there. He receives a smiley face in response and it’s enough to keep San going for days.

Like all things Wooyoung, the party is loud and obnoxious. San arrives at the door fifteen minutes late, the muffled thud of music shuddering through the ground even from where he stands outside, nervousness chewing him up from the inside out. Before he’s able to psych himself out of going in, the door swings open to reveal an unfamiliar face, eyes already dopey with intoxication. 

“Hey, come in!” the stranger says with a grin, dragging him in by the shoulder. He’s overly friendly in a way that has San bristling but he smiles anyway, a small part of him relieved that the person who’d greeted him hadn’t been Wooyoung. “Alcohol’s by the counter,” he yells into San’s ear before clapping him on the back roughly and disappearing in the crowd. 

San stares after him, slightly disoriented. With a shake of his head, he pushes through another closely-knit throng of people to reach the alcohol, pouring a generous amount of vodka into a plastic cup. He takes a sip and the drink is lukewarm, slightly watered down and overall remarkably disgusting in the way that all vodka is. 

It doesn’t take long to find Wooyoung even though the dorm is jam-packed, easily identified by the laugh that’s somehow still audible over the music. He’s seated on the couch, surrounded on all sides by people that San doesn’t recognize. It should come as a shock but San isn’t surprised in the least; Wooyoung has always been a social butterfly, magnetic in his energy and his affability extended to anybody who crosses his path. People are naturally drawn to him and San embraces the fact because he’s always known that Wooyoung is like the sun, bright and brilliant and beautiful. 

San is just another one of the countless planets caught helplessly in his orbit. Wooyoung is meant for greater things, to move forward and blossom and shine while people like San, who are only spluttering sparks to Wooyoung’s raging inferno, are overshadowed. (From the first moment, there was never any doubt that he was meant to be left behind, anyway.) 

So San watches Wooyoung from a distance, like he had when they were thirteen, and tries to wash down the flower buds welling in his throat with the alcohol. The first cough is mild, a warning before the more brutal, hacking coughs surface and overwhelm him. San covers his mouth and extracts himself from the crowd, stumbling down the hallway and into the adjacent bathroom. 

He barely reaches the toilet before the buds come tumbling out, grating up his esophagus and sticky with specks of blood. There’s not much this time — only a mouthful — but it hurts just as much, leaves him weak and trembling and crumpled on the floor like a puppet whose strings have been severed. Groaning, his fingers tug over the flush handle and the last of the evidence swirls down the toilet not a second before the door creaks open. 

San glances up and his heart drops when he sees Wooyoung standing there, staring impassively down at San. A flicker of hurt and hesitance flits over his features before something in his eyes shutters and closes, face going perfectly blank. Jerkily, San’s hand wipes over his mouth, searching for any traces of blood. They come away clean. 

“Are you… okay?” Wooyoung asks. 

“Yeah,” San says eventually. “Drank too much, I think.” 

“Oh,” Wooyoung says, mouth forming the single syllable before snapping shut again. He doesn’t seem inclined to say anything more and San stays frozen on the floor, uncertain. He hates this new undercurrent of tension between them, the discomfort and unfamiliarity that he's never been forced to navigate before — not with Wooyoung. ( Do you still recognize me, or have I become a stranger to you again? ) 

San watches as Wooyoung’s lips twitch, flatten, and then part in a frustrated sigh, seeming to win whatever internal war he’s been waging against himself. In two strides Wooyoung has crossed the seemingly cavernous distance between them, latching onto San’s stiff arm and lifting him up swiftly. “Come on,” he says to San, who’s too dumbfounded to manage anything but a stilted nod. He allows Wooyoung to drag him out of the restroom, down the hallway, up the staircase and into a room. 

San only recognizes it as Wooyoung’s bedroom from the scent — fresh cotton and a seaside breeze and Wooyoung . He seats himself on Wooyoung’s mattress, eyes wordlessly tracking Wooyoung’s every movement as he rifles through his backpack. After a while, he unearths himself and tosses a water bottle in San’s direction. 

“Drink that,” he orders, his tone leaving no room for argument. San’s distinctly aware of Wooyoung’s burning gaze on the side of his face as he gulps down the liquid, his pulse fluttery and erratic. “I didn’t see you all night,” Wooyoung says when he’s done, voice shaky and a little rough. He looks small in the dim light of his desk lamp. “I thought — I thought maybe that you hadn’t come at all.” 

“Of course I came,” San says, and it’s embarrassing how desperate he is to prove himself. “I just… I saw you with your friends and I didn’t want to interrupt.” 

“Interrupt?” Wooyoung’s tone is almost scandalized and his eyebrows knit together as if he couldn’t possibly fathom why San would feel such a way. “San, you’re not — you wouldn’t be interrupting anything. You’re my best friend. I’d choose you over them any day.” 

(Would you?) 

San clenches his fists in his lap and says nothing. “Oh, um, I brought you a gift.” The way Wooyoung’s eyes light up at the sentence is devastating, has San’s fingers fumbling clumsily as he reaches inside his inner jacket pocket and emerges with a small, velvet box. Handing it over to Wooyoung feels like a confession, sacred and tentative. “Happy twenty-first birthday, Young-ah.” 

Inside is a ring, a simple silver band that glints against the lamp’s auburn glow. San knows the exact moment when Wooyoung catches sight of the words engraved on the inside because his eyes soften, mouth forming a noiseless ‘O’. “Ad amicus aras,” he reads, nothing more than a wonderstruck breath. 

San holds up his own hand, where an identical ring rests. “So we’ll always have a piece of each other wherever we go,” he explains. 

“Oh,” Wooyoung says. “Oh, that is  — that’s the cheesiest thing I’ve ever heard you say to me.” Without preamble, he launches himself off the chair to wrap his arms around San, tucking his head under the crook of San’s chin like he always does. The clean scent of cotton and seaside breeze is entirely too strong and it has San melting because this — this is where he feels the most at home. “Thank you,” Wooyoung whispers, voice a little choked. 

“Ah,” San says softly. “You really don't have to thank me. I would do anything for you.” 

San wonders if Wooyoung knows how much he actually means it. 

-----

“I met someone.” 

The statement attracts San’s attention immediately, has Jongho turning on his heel from where he was about to retreat to his room. He darts over and promptly engages San in a rough-and-tumble tussling match for possession of the phone. 

“You met who ?” he says after he’s wrestled the phone from San’s hands, sounding entirely too gleeful about his victory. San rolls his eyes and shoves his cheek against Jongho’s in a valiant effort to appear in the frame, sticking out his tongue childishly when Jongho makes a vague noise of displeasure at the physical contact. 

Together, they watch with matching grins, teeth gleaming, as Seonghwa grows fidgety behind the screen, dropping his head into his hands. “I regret everything,” he intones, mournful and smothered. 

“No, no, hyung, you mentioned it so now you have to tell us,” San says adamantly. Jongho nods in solemn agreement beside him and it has Seonghwa muffling another long-suffering groan into his palms. When he lifts his head again, his cheeks are garlanded with a carnation flush. 

“We’ve only talked, like, twice,” he says. His hands flap around him in panic, like a flock of pigeons taking flight in a flutter of pebble gray feathers. “It’s not even — I just see him around campus and he has blue hair and likes to wear berets and skirts and…” Seonghwa glances up, voice petering out once he notices the twin Cheshire grins that stretch across both Jongho and San’s faces. “Oh, shut up.” 

“Hyung has a crush!” San crows, throwing up his hands in celebration. 

Jongho narrowly avoids the safety hazard that is San’s flailing arms, taking the chance to shove him away. “What’s his name, hyung?” he asks, blinking innocently like he hadn’t just sent San careening down onto the kitchen tile. 

“That’s — that’s not important,” Seonghwa huffs. 

“It is important!” San insists. “We have to make a ship name, first of all, and I’m thinking we can print your faces on t-shirts, maybe?” 

“Please don't do that,” Seonghwa says, blanching. 

“Name, hyung,” Jongho cuts in impatiently. 

Seonghwa sends them another glare but it’s defeated and halfhearted. “Hongjoong,” he says sullenly, and the name sends Jongho and San into another round of obnoxious hollering and raucous cheers. “Both of you are making this a much bigger deal than it needs to be,” he says flatly. “He’s just a fashion major that I think is cool.” 

“Hyung, you’ve barely even looked at another person in years,” San points out. “I think this is a pretty big deal.” Jongho echoes his sentiment with another sage nod, and then both of them are nodding at the phone like two broken bobbleheads on the dashboard of a car that’s trekking over a particularly bumpy road. 

Seonghwa sighs. “Insufferable beings, the two of you.” 

“You’ll never get rid of us, hyung.” A cheeky smile. “So do you like the ship name Seongjoong or Honghwa better?” 

San snorts unattractively and Seonghwa hangs up the call. 

-----

The next day San nearly passes out while he’s brewing his coffee.

He’d woken up this morning finding it hard to breathe, but he’d just chalked it up to bad air quality — pollution, he reasons, Seoul is a dirty city — and switched on the air purifier in the living room. He’s not awake enough to realize that the difficulty isn’t coming from his sinuses, but rather from his chest, tight and deflated like somebody’s stepped on it. 

He’s breathing relatively easily at first but when he goes to take the next breath something lodges in his throat, abruptly cutting off his next inhale. One moment he’s upright stirring a spoon leisurely to cool down his drink and the next second his fingers are scrabbling, distraught and terrified, over his throat to displace whatever is obstructing his windpipe, his mug crashing to the floor. 

If this is the end, I’m going to be real fucking upset , is what he thinks before a bud forces its way out of his mouth, falling with a dull thunk in the sink. The petals have become slightly unfurled, like the lace frills at the end of a petticoat. 

His legs give out from under him and suddenly he’s staring up at the ceiling, dark spots dotted around his vision, splotches of ink from the tip of a fountain pen. The coffee pooled on the floor is soaking into his cotton pajamas, soppy and uncomfortable, and San distantly mourns how much of a pain it’s going to be to get the stains out when Jongho’s door clicks open, followed by a frantic patter of footsteps. 

When he cracks open his eyes again, it’s to the upside down sight of Jongho hovering over him. San grins crookedly up at him, lifting his fingers in an approximation of a wave. “Good morning,” he croaks, sounds like he’s been dragged through the seven levels of hell. He must make a funny picture right now, a mess of ungainly limbs resting in a puddle of rapidly cooling liquid and ceramic shards, his eyes glassy and not fully present. 

Jongho sighs, resigned. “I’ll get you some paper towels,” he says, already shuffling away. “Don't move, you might hurt yourself.” 

“M’kay,” San mumbles. It’s too much of an effort to open his mouth and reply properly so he waits, eyes half lidded, until Jongho comes back with a roll of paper towels, kitchen rags, and a broom. 

“I really don't think this is just a cold, hyung,” Jongho says as he’s helping San sit up. 

“It’ll pass, Jongho-yah,” San says, smiling weakly. “Don't worry about it—”

“How can you say that?” Jongho interrupts, and it’s so splintered, so shaken that it has San’s gaze jerking up in alarm. “How can you tell me to — to not worry about it when I see you coughing yourself half to death all the time? Sometimes — sometimes you look like you’re about to collapse even when you’re just standing there.” There’s something inexplicably frightened in Jonghos’s eyes and San realizes that this is the most vulnerable he’s ever seen him.  

( How long have I burdened you with a fear that should’ve only been mine? ) 

“I’m sorry,” San whispers. 

Jongho stares at him, defeated. “Don't be sorry,” he says. “Just — promise me you’ll go see the doctor soon, okay? Maybe they’ll be able to figure out what’s wrong.” 

“Okay,” San agrees readily, even though he knows the doctor can’t tell him anything that he doesn’t already know. 

A relieved smile blooms on Jongho’s lips. “Thank you,” he says, grateful. San doesn’t know how to tell him that he shouldn’t be. 

-----

Jongho insists on driving him to the hospital. San doesn’t argue against it because he knows it will just be a waste of energy, something which seems to be steadily running out of supply lately. He does manage to convince Jongho to stay in the waiting room and, although reluctantly, Jongho obeys.

“You’re on your second stage, San-ssi,” the doctor says with a sigh. “Time is running out.”

“I know,” San says. He leaves the private room after turning down a series of medical scans, knowing that the results mean next to nothing to him if they all point towards the same thing: his imminent and fast approaching death. 

Jongho shoots to his feet immediately once he sees San appear at the end of the hallway, darting to his side as they pass through the large double doors into the crisp morning air. “What did the doctor say?” he asks. 

“He said that all I needed was a little medicine,” San says. “I’m going to be fixed in no time. No more coughing for the rest of my life.” 

“That’s really good, hyung,” Jongho says, watching with hope so sweet and transparent in his gaze that it makes the lies on San’s tongue curdle and turn bitter. San has to look away. 

-----

Park Seonghwa 

I kissed Hongjoong. 

Choi San 

WHAT

Choi Jongho 

WHAT THE FUCK HYUNG

Park Seonghwa 

Language!

Choi Jongho

Sorry, WHAT THE F*CK HYUNG

Last time you updated us about him 

you and Hongjoong had only talked 

twice before

Park Seonghwa

Yes, well, those talks have become much

more frequent.

I don't know, it just… happened? 

Choi San

So are you dating now or what

Park Seonghwa

We haven’t really discussed it yet. 

I’m a little scared, to be honest. But 

if I’m going to do this, I want it to be with 

him. I trust Hongjoong more than anything.

Choi Jongho 

Aww

That’s so gross I threw up in my mouth 

a little

-----

Yeosang and Wooyoung fit together. 

It’s one thing that San notices after he’s seen them together, a fact both glaringly obvious and incontestable. 

The observation first comes at a faint niggling in the back of his brain, something he’s always brushed off until he starts to pay attention to all the little details, narrow paths that squiggle together towards a singular destination. 

San sees it when Wooyoung laughs, falling into Yeosang with a cackle loud enough to stun any other person but Yeosang only takes it in stride, silently adjusting himself so that Wooyoung tucks into his side comfortably, head dropping into his shoulder. 

San sees it when they’re engaged in conversation together and Wooyoung, easily excitable and talkative, keeps his fingers firmly intertwined with Yeosang’s own, who’s more withdrawn and quiet. Wooyoung rubs his thumb against the skin occasionally as a reminder that even though I am pulled in so many different directions by so many different people, I have never forgotten you. 

San sees it in the unbridled joy that permeates every inch of Wooyoung’s being when Yeosang buys him his favorite chocolate bar and in the fond smile that unconsciously overtakes Yeosang’s lips whenever Wooyoung brushes a chaste kiss against his cheek. 

San sees it in the perfect balance between Wooyoung’s unrestrained exuberance and Yeosang’s untouchable calm, sees it in every action and every word uttered or left unspoken. 

“I think I love him,” Wooyoung tells him one night. 

San releases a slow breath into the stagnant air of the bedroom, hand finding Wooyoung’s in the dark. It feels like a punch to the gut even though he’s been expecting this for a long time now. “You should tell him that,” he says quietly. 

“I will.” There’s a pause and San can tell that Wooyoung wants to say more. “Do you think he loves me, too?” 

San laughs and squeezes Wooyoung’s hand. “I know he does.” 

-----

In hindsight, San should’ve seen this coming. 

‘This’ being Jongho, standing at the end of the kitchen with an open bag of trash in his hands, staring in undisguised horror at the bloodstained flower buds that sit on the top. It was only a matter of time — they live together and besides, it’s been getting harder and harder to hide the evidence when the petals seem so adamant in introducing themselves at the most inconvenient of times. 

“Hyung,” Jongho says, face pallid and voice quivering. “What is this?” 

San sinks heavily into a chair. “Sit down, Jongho-yah,” he says wearily. “It’s time I stop lying to you.” Slowly, as if emerging from a decade of sleep, Jongho obeys. “Do you know what the Hanahaki Disease is?” He nods. So San tells him everything — about Wooyoung, his best friend, and Yeosang, the beautiful boy with the birthmark. He tells him about Yunho, somebody who’s grown to be a friend, and about Seonghwa, who cares about San more than he cares about himself. 

He speaks of pain and longing and secrecy and for the first time, San sees Jongho cry. 

-----

“This week has been so boring at the shop, hyung, so I decided to pick up crocheting as a hobby because DIY stuffed animals, right? But I tried to follow the instructions and the yarn still wasn’t working with me, so I gave up. I don't know how the old ladies do it.” 

There comes an aborted chuckle from the phone, which lies face-up on the counter while San bustles around the apartment cleaning. San straightens up, slanting a dirty look at the device even though he knows Seonghwa can’t see him. “Are you laughing at me, hyung? That’s so mean.” 

“Not laughing, Sannie,” Seonghwa says, sounding for all intents and purposes like he’s trying to smother another giggle.

“Whatever,” San mutters glumly. “What did you do this week?” 

“I’m packing.” 

“Packing?” San bends down to sweep the dust bunnies out from beneath the couch. “Like for a trip? Are you on break, hyung?” 

“No, I’m packing everything so I can return to Korea. For good.” 

“What?” San asks faintly. He abandons the sweeper on the ground, rushing towards the phone. “What do you mean you’re coming back? The semester hasn’t even ended yet.” 

“Ah, I was supposed to tell you earlier,” Seonghwa says. “I’m not completing my course. Hongjoong and I — we’re both coming back to Korea.” 

“But — but what about your degree?” 

“I mean — I just don't think graduating is such a big deal, you know? I don't need some fancy piece of paper to do what I want to do, and neither does Hongjoong.” His voice is calm and collected, like he hadn’t just sent San’s thoughts into a tailspin. “I want to write, and Hongjoong wants to make music. He knows people in the industry already.” 

San just gapes, mouth dropping open and then snapping immediately shut. The silence stretches and Seonghwa says, “Do you… not want me to come back?” There’s a note of hesitance in his tone that wasn’t there before. 

“No, no! I do,” San says. “I just didn’t expect this, that’s all.” 

“Me neither,” Seonghwa says. “I can look after you better when I’m in Korea, anyway.”

San rolls his eyes, picking up the sweeper again. “You don't need to look after me, hyung. I’m not a baby.” The words come out more acerbic than he intended and perhaps Seonghwa hears it, because his next words work to smooth balm over the wound. 

“I know you’re not a baby,” Seonghwa says. 

“Then why — why do you keep hovering around me? Ever since the beginning, hyung, it’s like you never trusted me at all.” San’s eyebrows knit together in a frown and he starts sweeping more agitatedly. 

“I do—” 

“I’ve told you time and time again, I can take care of myself.” 

“Can you?” Seonghwa says abruptly. San freezes.

“What do you mean by that?” he asks very slowly, very carefully. 

“You’re on the second stage of the disease, aren’t you?” 

“How do you know that?” The other line stays silent and realization dawns on San gradually. “Jongho told you,” he says flatly. It’s less of a question and more of an affirmation, solidified by Seonghwa’s lack of denial. “God, I told him everything and the first thing he does is go and tell somebody else. It’s — it’s not his place.” 

“Maybe it isn’t,” Seonghwa interrupts. “But the point still stands, doesn’t it? No matter how much you want to insist that you can take care of yourself, you’re getting worse, not better.” 

“So what?” San snaps. “You’re going to come back to Korea just to — to look after me and complete your one good deed or something? I’m not your fucking charity case, hyung.” His fingernails dig painfully into his palms, the stinging pain a welcome distraction from the tears that crowd his vision. 

“San—” 

“Something just came up at the shop,” San says, swiping over his eyes with the back of his hand. He feels disconnected from his body, like it’s another person who’s commanding him to open his mouth and speak. Processed and mechanical, not his own. He crawls to his feet and his eyes have dried. “Talk to you later, hyung.” 

“San, please—”

The line goes dead. 

-----

Wooyoung is nineteen when he watches The Fault in Our Stars for the first time. 

San doesn’t remember the contents of the movie except for a few basic plot points, but he does remember that Wooyoung was in tears by the end of the film. San had to pat his back while he ugly sobbed into his shirt. 

“It’s so unfair,” Wooyoung blubbered. “Why did he have to die like that? It’s so unfair.” 

Augustus had been nothing more than a character that existed solely between the cramped margins of a popular novel, brought to life behind a screen, but Wooyoung had cried over his death like it was a death of a loved one. 

San wonders if Wooyoung would cry for him, too. 

-----

“I think we should stop doing this.” 

“What, smoking? Drinking all our problems away?” San cuts a wry grin over his shoulder, gently clinking his wine glass against the balcony railing. “I know.” 

“No, I mean this. Fucking around.” 

San whirls around. “What?”

“I met a boy.” Yunho leans casually against the doorframe, but his feet are planted on the ground with a gravity that San knows he couldn’t begin to displace. 

“A boy,” San repeats, stilted. In wonder, almost. He raises the glass to his lips, huffing a disbelieving scoff into the rim before draining its contents. The red wine slides down smoothly and San finds himself wishing for something that would burn, to ignite him from the inside out until he can’t remember his own name.

Yunho is silent, regarding San with something resembling pity and it makes him bristle, hackles raising defensively. 

(And San is tired. Tired of feeling worthless, of being the second choice. He’s tired of being tossed to the side, tired of chasing after people that were so clearly out of his grasp. He’s tired of stomaching all the pity he never asked for, tired that even his closest friends treat him like glass, in danger of shattering at any moment. He’s angry too — of course he is. His fingers itch to destroy, to tear things apart because of how incredibly unfair the world is. But even anger requires energy, and at the end of the day, San is so, so tired.) 

“What’s this?” San smiles without any real humor, setting the wine glass down with more force than necessary. “Jung Yunho, self-proclaimed enemy of romance, throwing away all his promiscuity for one pretty boy.” He smirks. “Must be a hell of a good fuck.”  

Something in Yunho’s gaze shutters off, rendering his expression unreadable, and San finds himself staring at a stranger. “Don't speak about him like that.” he says, voice a blank slate and oh — that won’t do. San wants Yunho to snap , for his fury to crack like a whip against his skin and make it hurt so he can feel something other than this bone-deep exhaustion. (Most of all, San just wants to forget.) 

“Oh, you’re already so protective over him, how cute!” San trills, a laugh clawing its way out of his throat. He strides forward until he’s toe to toe with Yunho, disregarding the sudden wave of dizziness that slams into him like a freight train, the world whirling on its axis. “Tell me Yunho,” he sneers with a subtle quirk of his head, “While we were fucking, did you fuck this boy behind my back too?” 

Yunho’s features pull taut with rage, warmth seeping out of his eyes until they’re bottomless pits, and San is terrified. “Fuck you,” Yunho spits, one hand reeling back for a punch and the other fisting in the collar of San’s shirt, dragging him closer, closer, closer. San shuts his eyes and prepares for the blow. 

It doesn’t come. 

One Mississippi. Two Mississippi, three. 

The grip on his shirt loosens and San flits his eyes open, mouth parted in bewilderment. Defeat curls around Yunho like a song and its silence is suffocating in the pitch black of night. 

“Aren’t you going to hit me?” San manages to ask. Yunho’s gaze is searching, unrelenting in its intensity and suddenly San feels stripped naked, every inch of him exposed under the eerie wash of moonlight. 

“You’re drunk, San,” Yunho says finally. “I’m not going to hurt you for something stupid you said while you were drunk.” He takes a step back, mustering a reassuring smile because even after everything, Yunho is still so frustratingly kind. “We can talk about this tomorrow when you’re sober, okay?”  

No. No, no no, nonono. 

His hand shoots out to latch onto the tail of Yunho’s jacket. “Wait, you’re leaving?” Desperation bleeds into his tone like spilled ink against stark white parchment, painfully obvious. (This is what happens when you let people get close, a sinister voice in his head whispers. They always leave you in the end. Always, always, always—) “I meant everything I said,” San blurts as a last resort to make him stay. 

Yunho’s lips curve into a half-moon smile. “I’m sure you did.” 

“I meant it when I said that—” He can’t remember. Why can’t he remember? Don't leave me alone, please. “When I said—” 

Panic seizes him by the throat, closing its rigid fingers around his windpipe with a sudden detachedness that leaves him reeling. Fear cracks its whip in his ears and it’s a deafening sound, drowning out everything except the blood roaring in his ears. San doesn’t know where he is but he stumbles backwards in an attempt to escape from the panic that threatens to swallow him whole. In the real world, his shoe catches on the uneven step in the doorway and it sends him crashing to the floor, hip colliding roughly with the floor but it’s barely a blip on San’s radar. 

“—San? San, can you breathe for me?” Hands, soothing over his face and linking through his fingers. The dull throb of pain in his hip, sure to bruise by tomorrow. The hazy silhouette of a figure, muffled words that faze in and out of San’s ears in crackling waves of static. Sharp, aborted breaths chopping through his lungs. The sensation of tears hot against his flushed cheeks. 

San cracks open his eyes and for a split second, he sees Wooyoung. 

(“There you are,” he says. There is a smile on his lips, soft like the elusive first rays of dawn. “I lost you for a second.”) 

He blinks. Yunho is crouched before him, open concern flitting like shadows across his face. It melts into relief when he registers the sudden clarity in San’s eyes, a tentative smile playing across his lips as he breathes, “Hey.” 

“Hey.” The word is sandpaper dry, grating against his throat. Then, meeker, “I’m sorry.” 

Yunho says nothing but the way he gathers San into his arms feels like forgiveness. 

-----

“Tell me about him.” San fiddles with his fingers while Yunho collects his words, a gilded warmth scintillating behind his irises like caramel sunshine in the faded glow of the late afternoon. 

“His name is Mingi,” Yunho starts with a laugh, “and he’s the biggest idiot I’ve ever met.” 

San listens, a ball of warmth alight inside of his chest, as Yunho talks about a boy with fire engine hair and smiles for eyes, a boy who sees the world with unfettered wonder through wire-rimmed glasses, a boy who towers over a crowd but still makes himself small. The light in his eyes doesn’t dwindle once and San wonders if this is what he looks like when he talks about Wooyoung — enamoured and radiant and in love. 

-----

Three days later San finds himself seated across the table from Yunho and Mingi, empty plates of tteokbokki and beer bottles scattered over the surface like massacred bodies on a battlefield. Mingi is laughing loud enough to wake the dead and the only reason why they haven’t been kicked out yet is because the restaurant owner, a kindred ahjumma with road maps of smile wrinkles gathered around the corner of her eyes, considers Mingi the son she never had. 

Mingi’s wearing frayed jeans and a checkered flannel to match the fading sunset hues of his hair and San learns that Mingi’s incredibly timid in every situation except for when he’s laughing. When he laughs it’s vibrant and unrestrained, head thrown back and mouth open in a broad grin to reveal adorably crooked teeth. 

Smiles for eyes, Yunho had said. San gets it now. 

Mingi’s laughing at his own joke, practically howling into the humid air, and Yunho is trying to wipe away a smidge of sauce that’s gotten caught on Mingi’s chin. It takes a minute or so but eventually he gets rid of it, a sigh too fond to sound irritated escaping him as he cleans it with a napkin, Mingi’s chin pinched between his lithe fingers. 

San kicks Yunho hard on the shin underneath the table, grinning roguishly when Yunho glares at him. He’s perfect for you, San says with a blink of his eyes, jerking his head in Mingi’s direction. He’s laughing again, guffawing so violently that his glasses get knocked straight off the bridge of his nose, bent over and breathless. 

Yunho’s lips quirk upwards as he watches, completely and utterly besotted. I know.  

-----

“You didn’t come home last night.” 

Jongho has his fingers curled firmly around a mug, knees drawn to his chest in a desperate attempt to retain warmth. Early December has befallen the city of Seoul swiftly yet silently, the frigid fingers of winter leaching out warmth from the earth in creeping intervals. Snow has yet to fall but its promise hovers in the air, indistinct but there. 

Sitting alone at the rickety, coffee stained table and swimming in a sweatshirt, Jongho seems perfectly harmless. San knows better though. 

His eyes are sharp, unblinking as they watch San unlace his boots and shed his coat. San smirks, sidling over to pinch Jongho’s cheek with a high pitched coo. 

“Aw, were you worried?” 

“No,” Jongho scowls. “Wooyoung was, though.” 

San’s smile stutters. “Is he here?” 

Jongho swats San’s hand away irritably, rising from the chair to pour the remnants of his drink down the sink. “He came looking for you in the morning. I told him not to wait up but he stayed anyway. Fell asleep in your bed.” There’s something rigid and abrasive in the cadence of Jongho’s tone and it sets off alarm bells in San’s brain.

San sighs. “You didn’t say anything, right?” 

Jongho turns around slowly, mouth set in an unhappy line. “I didn’t, hyung.” 

“And you were polite?” 

“Yes,” Jongho says, stressing the syllable. San stares at him until he relents, glancing down into the mouth of his empty mug. “Okay, so maybe I wasn’t exactly friendly, either.” 

“Jongho,” San says, exasperated. Jongho looks up again but San can’t find an apology in either of his eyes. 

“I know he’s your best friend,” Jongho intones carefully, “but I just — I can’t look at him and not see him as the reason you’re dying.” 

San inhales a sharp breath and when he speaks, it’s hurt and beaten. “It’s not his fault,” he whispers.  

“Who are we talking about?” The new voice makes San’s shoulders go rigid. Wooyoung’s standing in the kitchen doorway when he spins around, small in his oversized sweater. His hair is sticking up in a million different directions and there’s a pillow crease lining the length of his cheek. Uncertainty creeps into his gaze like a shadow the longer Jongho and San remain silent. 

“Good morning, Young-ah,” San says finally. Behind him, Jongho places his mug in the sink and slings his backpack over his shoulder. 

“I’m heading off to class,” he announces. Without another word, he exits the apartment and the door swings forcibly shut with a resounding slam. Wooyoung watches him go and San’s smile twitches dangerously on his lips. 

“He doesn’t like me very much, does he?” Wooyoung asks. He phrases the question like he already knows the answer. 

“Ah,” San says, chuckling sheepishly. “Jongho’s just like that.” 

Wooyoung arches an eyebrow. “Is he?” 

San bites his lip. “So,” he voices, unnaturally bright and animated, “do you want coffee?” 

-----

Seonghwa comes back the day of the first snow. 

There’s a knock on the door early in the morning and when San opens the door Seonghwa is standing there, dressed in a knee-length wool coat with a newsboy cap shoved haphazardly over his head. He has just enough time to yank his hands out of his pockets before San catapults himself into Seonghwa’s arms, fingers grasping desperately at the fabric as if to prove to himself that Seonghwa is really here.

Underneath the layers of clothing, Seonghwa still smells of lemon and cherry wine. 

“Hyung,” San breathes, tears already stinging at his eyes, “hyung, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it, I swear. I didn’t mean anything I said.” 

Seonghwa presses his lips to San’s hair. “I know,” he says. “I forgave you a long time ago.” 

San gives Seonghwa one last squeeze before he draws back, hand wiping surreptitiously at his tears. “Um,” he sniffles, “where’s Hongjoong hyung?” 

“Back at my apartment,” Seonghwa says. “He’s probably rearranging my furniture as we speak.” 

San laughs. “What’s wrong with your furniture?” 

“Apparently I have the interior design instinct of a caveman,” Seonghwa says with a fond shake of his head. “At least that’s what I think he said.” 

“I want to go see him,” San says, already pulling a thick jacket over his shoulders. “I haven’t seen him in so long.” 

San remembers the first time he met Hongjoong. He’d been on a video call with Seonghwa and Hongjoong had popped in momentarily with a rather blinding grin, hair the color of an electric blueberry. He lifted his hand to wave hello — tiny fingers, San notes faintly, with his thumb tucked slightly towards his palm — and planted a chaste kiss on Seonghwa's cheek. 

“‘M heading off to my first lecture,” he says. “Goodbye to both of you!” 

San had sat there, stupefied by the glittering sunset orange of his eyeshadow and the assortment of silver chains that dangled from his ears like ornate chandeliers, for an indiscernible amount of time as Seonghwa kept chattering on obliviously about his week. 

(“How the heck did you manage to bag somebody like Hongjoong?” San demanded later when he snapped out of his stupor. “He’s so pretty it’s unreal. And you have no game.” 

“Hey!”) 

Now, Seonghwa clicks his tongue and pulls the collar of San’s jacket up so it’s covering his neck. “Don't tell me I’ve been replaced as your favorite hyung.” 

“Please,” San sniffs, nudging Seonghwa with his shoulder as he flounces outside. “You’ll always be my favorite.” 

“Good.” Seonghwa catches up to San in two long strides. “I kept my promise, you know.” 

San blinks up at him, confused. “What promise?” 

“I didn’t forget you,” Seonghwa says with a soft smile. The first snowflake falls and tangles itself, gently and gracefully, into the ink black strands of Seonghwa’s hair. 

“No,” San says, looking up at the sky. The air is dotted with a million small, white speckles and San feels warmth blossom in his chest like the flicker of a flame. “I suppose you didn’t.” 

-----

San sees spring arrive within the walls of his floral shop, the way petals start to unfurl out of their beds towards the sun, strawberry gold instead of silver mercury for the first time in months. 

They celebrate Seonghwa’s birthday in early April and when he blows out the candles on the cake, Hongjoong grabs him by the collar and kisses him square on the lips while Wooyoung, Jongho, and San fake gag in the background. 

Wooyoung manages to smear frosting onto all of their faces and gets tackled to the ground for his efforts, shrieking for mercy when they tickle his sides until he’s breathless with laughter. San smiles so big his cheeks get sore, feeling somewhat like liquid gold’s been injected into his bloodstream. 

He can’t remember the last time he’s been this happy, not since the time Wooyoung had dragged him to the riverside at midnight when they were fifteen and made them lie down in the dew-damp grass, pinkies linked as they traced constellations with their eyes. 

(There Wooyoung had called San his best friend for the first time. San let the words burrow and coruscate in his chest like stardust, incandescent and real.) 

And it’s not perfect — far from it, actually. Jongho still looks at Wooyoung with something guarded and shuttered in his gaze and at the end of the day, San is still a dying man. But he’s here now, surrounded by the people he loves most and ah, San thinks, this is the happiest I’ve ever been. 

-----

San has imagined tens of thousands of times what would happen if he told Wooyoung he loves him. Countless hypothetical situations nailed down to the very last detail in a desperate attempt to control the future, or at the very least, to anticipate it. 

I’ll tell him when we’re older, San thinks. When the roots of Wooyoung’s hair are speckled with salt and pepper and age has carved itself into the riverbeds of wrinkles around their eyes, long after the petals have stopped plaguing San’s every breath. 

“Did you know I used to be in love with you?” San would say, and Wooyoung would laugh and put a gnarled hand over his. 

In the end, it turns out nothing like that.

In the end, Wooyoung is twenty-one, his hair still a stunning lemon blond, and he sees San cough up a bud in broad daylight. The sunlight streaming through the glass windows of the cafeteria makes the blood splattered over his trembling fingers glitter like rubies. Garnet and jasper over petals of mulberry wine, and the scent of fear over it all. 

Wooyoung is staring at him from across the room, eyes wide and horrified. 

San’s eyes drop to his lips, lingering just long enough to see them form silently around the characters of his name. 

(You’re not safe here anymore.) 

San shoots to his feet, the chair knocking over with a raucous clatter that’s barely audible over the rushing of blood in his ears, the panic thick in his throat. 

“San,” Wooyoung says, louder now. He takes a step forward. 

San turns tail and runs.

-----

San runs out of the room and into the hallway. His shoulder slams painfully into the door when he turns the corner but the pain doesn’t register, fading to a dull throb in his consciousness. He just runs and runs, away from Wooyoung and the secrets that still taint his skin.

The petals welling up his throat make it difficult to keep going so he stops, propped on the brick wall like a boneless rag doll. There’s nowhere to hide, San thinks a little deliriously, hand shooting out to steady himself when he lurches forward dangerously. I can run now, but for how long? Wooyoung will always be able to find me. 

The iron tang of blood is sharp on his tongue and San knows it won’t be long before he’s unable to keep the blooms from spewing themselves out of his mouth. A series of heavy footsteps echoes from down the hall. San lifts his head up to see Wooyoung running full speed towards him. “San!” he shouts. 

“Shit,” San breathes, pushing himself off the wall and willing the petals to stay down for just a while longer. Just long enough for him to find a bathroom, or even the secluded alcove beneath a flight of stairs. 

It’s gotta be one of these, he thinks, eyeing the doors that line the length of the hallway. He sends a prayer to the heavens that the doors aren’t locked and picks a random one, bursting into the room just as the first of the flower buds slip past his lips. 

It’s a blur from there — the same old routine of bone-rattling coughs that wrack through his body until he’s dizzy and the greyish purple spots that crowd his vision. He barely hears the sound of the door opening again but he does hear the gasp that follows just a second after, dread prickling at every one of his nerves. 

When he slowly opens his eyes again, Wooyoung is stuck near the doorway, eyes flickering between the blossoms in the sink to the blood dribbling from San’s lips like he can’t decide which one to look at first. San’s knuckles turn sheet-white over porcelain. 

“Surprise,” San says in an effort to lighten up the mood, but it comes out flat, his voice cracking embarrassingly at the end. 

“Surprise? Surprise! You must be fucking crazy,” Wooyoung says, eyebrows drawn together in fury. “San, you have — you’re—” A helpless sob wrenches itself out of his throat and he sinks to the floor. “You’re dying,” he whispers. “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“What would I have said?” San asks with a weak scoff. “There’s nothing you could’ve done that would have helped.” 

“But I could’ve at least been there for you,” Wooyoung spits out like bitter vitriol. The heat with which he says it licks over San’s skin venomously. “And I — I don't know — I would’ve figured out something if you would just tell me something for once instead of running away. I thought we were best friends.” 

“Oh, that’s real mature. Playing the best friend card.” 

Wooyoung looks away with a scowl. “So who is it?” 

San shakes his head, staring stubbornly at his reflection in the fingerprint-smudged mirror. “I can’t tell you that.” 

“Why not, San?” Wooyoung scrambles to his feet and he sounds furious, rage rolling off of him in waves. “Can you give me a reason for that? Or can you explain the reason why you kept this from me for so fucking long, San, I never even knew—” 

“Because it’s you, okay? I’m fucking in love with you!” San shouts. The silence that ensues afterward is suffocating, interrupted only by San’s infuriated pants. Wooyoung’s face has lost all its color, honeyed caramel replaced by a ghostly pallor. (Like the first and last time San has ever kissed him, he looks horrified.) 

“What?” he says, small. 

The itch in San’s throat has returned but he can’t stop now. “I’m in love with my best friend,” he says, voice quieter now, defeated. “And I know I shouldn’t be but I’ve been in love with you ever since we were thirteen and things have never changed. Every time you smile at me, or touch me I feel — I can’t help it, okay? It’s sick and I fucking hate myself for it, is that what you wanted to hear?” 

He can’t tear his gaze away from Wooyoung’s face, drunk with the desire to press his thumb into ripped open wounds and see how much pain he can bear. “You never even looked at me once,” he says brokenly, and he knows it’s a shit thing to say but he revels in the way Wooyoung’s glassy eyes jerk up to meet his, lips parted to let out words that haven’t yet formed.

Shock, regret, a thousand emotions in between. 

“I’m leaving,” San announces, blinking quickly to stave off the tears that rise like the tide. He shoulders past Wooyoung roughly, who stays motionless. “Don't look for me anymore.” 

-----

San hasn’t seen Wooyoung for two weeks. 

It’s what he should’ve expected, he supposes, when he told Wooyoung not to look for him anymore but that’s not what he really meant, is it? (“Don't look for me anymore,” San had said, and he’d walked out of the building counting every slow step because what he really wanted was for Wooyoung to chase after him.) 

Since that day, his disease has grown exponentially worse. 

He wakes up every morning with a migraine thudding at his temples and he can’t walk long distances without the appearance of black splotches creeping at the edges of his vision. Sometimes he has to sit down and force himself to breathe, eyes cinched tightly shut with the strain of it. 

“This can’t go on, Sannie,” Seonghwa says one day when they’re out walking with Hongjoong in the park. San is bent over the surface of a picnic table, harsh breaths wheezing themselves in and out of his chest. The world is rocking around him like he’s stuck on a small dinghy in the middle of a storm, winds buffeting him from all directions. 

“Is he okay?” he hears Hongjoong ask faintly. 

“It’s just asthma,” Seonghwa answers before he crouches down by San’s side again. His hand smooths over San’s back tenderly, palm warm through the thin cotton of his shirt. 

“Hyung, I really don't feel so good,” San whispers, swallowing down the nausea that’s surging up in his throat. 

“It’s okay,” Seonghwa says. “You’ll be okay. We’re calling the hospital right now. Just lie down first.” 

San releases a noncommittal noise, letting Seonghwa adjust him so his head is pillowed on Seonghwa’s lap. “Wooyoung knows,” he slurs when they’ve stilled, and even half-awake his voice is urgent and torn. His fingers clutch onto Seonghwa’s shirt like a lifeline, the last thing keeping him from toeing over the line of consciousness. “Wooyoung knows and I think he hates me for it.” 

Gently, Seonghwa’s hand brushes a strand of hair off his forehead, making a hurt noise. “Wooyoung could never hate you,” he says, and San wonders if it really could be that simple. “But we’ll worry about that later, okay? Rest for now.” 

“M’kay,” he murmurs. He lets his eyelids flutter shut and he slips under to the sensation of Seonghwa’s fingers threading through his hair.

It’s the most peace he’s had in months. 

-----

San gets assigned a tiny room at the end of a hallway. 

The doctor says it’s best if he stays here for a few days so they can monitor his situation. 

A few days turns into a few weeks, and before he knows it one or two months have passed before his very eyes, slipping through his grasp like sand through the narrow waist of an hourglass. San watches the softness of spring flare into the dazzling warmth of summer from behind the window of his patient room, clothed in the baby blue of his hospital garb.

(The world really does go on without you.) 

And still, Wooyoung stays but a phantom memory from the past, haunting all the pale monochromes of his dreams. 

-----

San doesn’t realize his birthday has come until Seonghwa, Hongjoong, and Jongho tiptoe into his room with a strawberry cake in hand. Seonghwa gifts him a hand-crocheted blanket, something his mother used to make him every year until she passed away. The lavender yarn is littered here and there with tiny holes, courtesy of Seonghwa’s inexperienced fingers, but San still cries when he receives it, overwhelmed and unspeakably grateful. Hongjoong gives him a pair of painted shoes and Jongho buys San an entire crate of tea leaves. 

They explode into cheers when San blows out the candles and San smiles when they spoon-feed him bites of the dessert, smiles through the itch in his throat and the shallow up-and-downs of his chest, smiles through the gaping absence of one person who should be here but isn’t. 

It’s the first birthday San has spent without Wooyoung since he was thirteen. 

Amidst the laughter and the pried-open presents and a cake frosted watercolor pink, San has never felt so alone. 

-----

San wakes up sometime in the middle of the night to the feeling of the hospital cot dipping under some foreign weight. His eyes crack open in the dark, and for a sliver of a second, he’s struck with the preposterous fear that somebody has broken into a hospital full of other patients to murder him specifically. 

Then his eyes finally adjust, and something in his left rib cage skips a beat when he sees Wooyoung propped on the edge of his bed, blond hair silvery under the moonlight. There’s a cupcake cradled between his palms, the flame from a single candle flickering over the planes of Wooyoung’s face, hopeful and tentative. 

“Hey,” he whispers. 

“What—” San scoots back on his bed to make room for Wooyoung to sit more comfortably, tongue numb in his mouth. “What are you doing here?” The clock blinking on the stand beside him tells him it’s just past two o’clock in the morning. “It’s way past visiting hours.” 

Wooyoung shrugs. “I pulled some strings,” he says vaguely, brushing it off. “Don't worry about it.” He pushes the cupcake into San’s hands. “Here, chocolate. It’s your favorite.” San stares down at it and suddenly his mouth is ashy with unshed tears. “Well, what are you waiting for? Make a wish.” 

San blinks up at Wooyoung, hesitant, but Wooyoung only returns his gaze insistently, nudging him to go on with his foot. So San shuts his eyes and wishes for things he knows he cannot have — things like having Wooyoung beside him forever, just like this, warm and familiar and together . 

The flame is extinguished in one breath and Wooyoung claps in celebration amid the thin smoke that snakes from the end of the burnt wick like a silk ribbon. “Happy birthday, San-ah,” he says. “I’m sorry I took so long to come find you.” 

“It’s fine,” San says. It’s not, but he’s too exhausted to argue so he just looks down and swipes a finger through the frosting, sticking it into his mouth. “I really dropped a bomb on you.” 

Wooyoung laughs. “You did.” The smile drops off his lips as fast as it had come. “San, I’m — I’m sorry, but I can’t—” 

“I know,” San interrupts. “I know. You have Yeosang.” He attempts to smile but it’s a poor imitation of Wooyoung’s earlier grin, effortless and beaming. “Speaking of Yeosang, how is he?” 

Something in Wooyoung’s eyes goes soft, lips hooking up at the corners without even knowing. “He’s doing well,” he says. “He bought me more freesias the other day.” 

“I like him,” San declares suddenly. “He makes you happy.” He picks at the loose threads on the mattress of the cot, eyes downcast. “You’ll need somebody who can make you happy. He’ll take good care of you when I’m gone—” 

“Stop,” Wooyoung says harshly. “Stop. Don't say that.” 

San falls silent. Abruptly, Wooyoung yanks at the cupcake in San’s hands, reigniting the candlewick with a lighter from his pocket. 

“What are you doing?” San asks, bewildered, when Wooyoung presses the cupcake back into his palms. 

“We’re going to wish that you’re going to recover from this disease,” Wooyoung says. The orange glow illuminates his face with a sort of fervent passion, hard and resolute. “And once you blow it out we’re going to light it again. We’re going to wish and wish for the same thing so many times that the universe is going to have no choice but to listen.” 

He folds his fingers together and drops his head, glaring at San when he sits unmoving. The wax dribbles from the top of the candle onto the frosting with a hiss. “Come on, San-ah. Close your eyes.” 

San does, and at Wooyoung’s cue he blows out the candle again. His heart pangs with something unknown when he watches Wooyoung bring out the lighter to revive the flame, desperation reflected in the way the wishes quiver out of his lips near-silently. 

(Can’t you see I have given up already?)  

The candle dwindles to nothing more than a short stump and San falls asleep curled around a boy with hope too big for his body, burrowed deep within his arms as though it would keep Wooyoung from drifting away. 

-----

“I want to be discharged from the hospital,” San says.

Seonghwa looks up from his notebook, the tinge of blue San has learned to associate with pity glimmering dully in his eyes. Don't look at me like that, San wants to snap, but instead he just clenches his fist in the thin bed sheets covering his legs, biting his lip hard to stay quiet until he feels blood rise to the surface. 

“I’m not sure that would be a good idea,” Seonghwa says. “Isn’t it better to be here where the doctors can tend to you if anything happens?” 

“But nothing has happened,” San argues. “Besides, it’s not like they’d be able to keep me from dying. There’s no cure.” Seonghwa doesn’t say anything, just stares pensively at some invisible spot on the opposite wall. At his silence, San gingerly crawls out of bed to sit next to Seonghwa on the bench, curling up by his side. “I just — I feel like I’m wasting away in here,” he says quietly, hands folded between his knees. “My condition doesn’t change outside of this hospital but at least it doesn’t feel like I’m dying.” 

A heartbeat passes before Seonghwa sighs, resigned and wilted, dropping his head to rest on San’s. “Okay,” he agrees softly. The way his thumb brushes over the back of San’s knuckles is just as tender. The skin there is nearly translucent, a spider web of veins traversing over the bumps and ridges and it reminds San of just how little time he has. “I’ll go talk to the doctors today.” 

They bring him the papers in the afternoon.

San is back in his own apartment by the time the sun rises the next morning. 

-----

The phone rings a total of two times before the person on the other end picks up. 

“San?” comes the first word, raspy around the edges with the dregs of sleep. The voice has a film of tears blurring his vision already and San is launched back to a time when things were simpler — when the worst pain came from the scrapes that decorated his knees and his dad would still tell him stories before bed, spun entirely from his imagination but so real in San’s eyes. Laughter and wonder and love so pure it lit San up from the inside out. 

(It sounds like home.) 

“Hey, dad,” San says wetly. “I’m sorry it’s been a while.” 

“It’s okay. You’re here now,” he says. There’s a bit of shuffling from his end before he speaks again. “Are you okay, son? You don't sound so good.” 

“Yeah, um.” San swipes away the tears that are caught on his cheeks like diamonds, exhaling shakily. “A lot has happened since the last time I called you.” The next words get stuck in his throat and San wonders when it became easier to lie than to tell the truth. “I have the Hanahaki Disease,” San forces out, and even miles away he feels his father’s world stop in its tracks. “I’m nearing the last stages and I don't think I’m going to recover.” 

His head drops and the tears fall onto the table in uneven thumps. Hiccuped breaths and disbelieving silence. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, over and over again like a prayer, because he doesn’t have anything else to say, doesn’t know how to soften the blow. 

You lost your wife, San tells him, and now I am going to make you lose your son, too. 

-----

Objectively, San knows Hongjoong is a good person. 

He smiles at random strangers on the streets and leaves generous tips for restaurant waiters because he’s been in their place before — knows how hard it gets. He never failed to visit San in the hospital even if he wasn’t entirely sure what illness San was suffering from, and he never asked questions either. 

Seonghwa wouldn’t date him if he were a dick, San knows, but still. Still. 

There’s no way a person can be that perfect, San thinks, watching as Hongjoong makes funny faces at a child standing outside of the coffee shop. The kid seems delighted, her pudgy hands meeting in uncoordinated claps before her chest when Hongjoong sticks his tongue out, sacrificing his dignity just to make her laugh. He has to be curious, right? Maybe he did some digging by himself, but he has to have asked Seonghwa at least once before—

“San?” San startles at the sudden call of his name and Hongjoong chuckles, one eyebrow arched elegantly. A glance out the window reveals that the girl is gone, already halfway across the street with her parents. “Do you need something?” Hongjoong asks. San’s face must do a funny thing at the query because Hongjoong only laughs again. “You’ve been staring at me for the past five minutes,” he elaborates. 

Oh. 

Immediately a multitude of questions rush to the forefront of his mind, whirlwinds of disconnected words and rushed sentences. Do you know? San wants to ask. Do you know that the reason I couldn’t leave Wooyoung was because I was afraid, afraid of being left alone? Do you know that I’m practically killing myself, that the flowers are choking me from inside, that I’m dying by the second? 

Did Seonghwa tell you about how pathetic I am, or did he tell you about how unfortunate my situation is? If you knew, would you pity me, too? Poor Sannie. Poor, poor, poor—

“San?” Hongjoong’s grin has melted at the edges. 

San smiles. “No, hyung,” he says. “I don't need anything.” He stands abruptly, struck with the sudden need to get far away from this place. The papers get crinkled in his haste to pack up but he zips the bag up anyway, slinging it over his shoulder. Hongjoong watches his hurried movements, flummoxed, with his straw caught halfway between his teeth. “Tell Seonghwa hyung I have to take a rain check on today’s hangout. I think I’m gonna go to the shop.” 

San feels the prick of Hongjoong’s stare long after he leaves the cafe. 

-----

It’s late in the afternoon when he hears somebody knock on his door and from the smothered giggles that sound from the other side he can already tell that it’s Yunho and Mingi. He lets them in and immediately they’re sandwiching him in a bone-crushing hug that squeezes all of the air out of him, trapped between their too-gangly arms. 

“What are you two doing here?” he wheezes from between them. 

“To see you, of course,” Yunho says, like it’s obvious. “You’ve been gone for so long and we missed you.” 

“We brought Mario Kart,” Mingi chirps from behind him. “We also brought snacks.” 

“Just like old times,” Yunho adds, and something warm spills into San’s empty cavern of a body, like a river between the chasm of a poppy-hued canyon. 

“Just like old times,” he whispers to himself, but the words are lost in the flurry of activity that follows after. Yunho goes to set up the game console and Mingi prances into the kitchen to find a large bowl for the chips, finally allowing San some space to breathe. 

“Do you think I can beat both of you in Mario Kart?” Mingi calls over his shoulder as he shuffles through San’s cupboards. 

“No,” Yunho replies from the living room. He’s made himself comfortable on the carpet, sitting cross legged while leaning languidly on the couch. “You literally suck.” An indignant squawk sounds from the kitchen and Mingi launches himself at Yunho, who only laughs and catches him with open arms as they tumble on the floor. 

(How lucky you are to find somebody that feels like home.) 

“San,” Yunho calls, and when San blinks again both of them are staring expectantly at him. Yunho looks like he did the first time San met him at the bar, sweet and effortlessly young, something earnest in his brown eyes as he lies there with Mingi on top of him. A curious smile tilts upward at his lips. “Are you coming?” 

“Yeah,” San says eventually. Mingi and Yunho tug him into the vacant space between them, so close their knees knock together with every small movement. 

“I’m going to beat you all,” Mingi declares, popping a salt and vinegar chip into his mouth. “You’re going to regret ever belittling me.” 

“Sure,” Yunho says. 

San learns that Mingi is even worse at Mario Kart than he is. Yunho beats both of their asses every round without fail but he still celebrates by dancing whenever he finishes first, as if it were ever a competition in the first place. 

Like this, San can pretend that they’re all college students gathered together for a hangout — that Yunho’s the ridiculous guy who cracks horrible jokes in the middle of a lecture and Mingi’s just a friend he made in class. He can pretend like his biggest worries aren’t the petals in his throat but the midterms he has next week, and he’s slammed with a feeling of want so heady and intense it makes him dizzy. 

“Thank you,” he blurts out of the blue, and it’s quieter than Yunho’s obnoxious cheers and Mingi’s shouts of disapproval but they hear it anyway. The sudden attention makes the tips of his ears heat.

“For what?” Mingi asks with a half-smile. 

For everything, San thinks. For giving me a semblance of normalcy when everything else seems so blatantly out of my control. For being a source of familiarity in a world that wants to make me a stranger. “For being here,” San says instead.

“Oh, well,” Yunho says, “isn’t that what friends are for?” He bumps San gently on the shoulder. “Hey, wanna play another game?” 

They don't leave until after midnight. 

-----

That night San dreams of Wooyoung.

He dreams of the taste of strawberry milk on his tongue and of laughter as effervescent as sparkling champagne, of hair like spun gold and hands calloused from years of dancing. He dreams of serpentine smoke ribboning from the end of a candle, the scent of a white-capped sea colored emerald and navy, the glint of a ring under light glowing umber and bronze, embedded with a promise that stretches farther than the horizon. 

He dreams of himself, his reflection in a fogged-up mirror, the macabre sallowness of his skin and the haggard set of his eyes, like the sickness has dug into his body and built a home there. Nothing more than a bag of bones, a breathing skeleton with a heart nearing its expiration date. He blinks and Wooyoung is standing in front of him, just a few feet away with a lopsided smile ready on his lips. There are flowers surrounding him on all sides, the overgrown stalks brushing against his legs as they sway gently in the wind.

“There’s something coming,” Wooyoung voices, eyes fixed on a point behind San’s shoulder. He turns to look and there’s a fire licking at the ends of the field, devouring land that was once rich with merlot and heather and butterscotch blossoms. San moves to run towards him but his feet are lodged within the earth, immoveable. 

“You’re stuck,” Wooyoung observes, tilting his head sweetly. “Hm. Well, you’ll be fine, won’t you? You’ve made it this far.” There is a roaring in his ears as he watches Wooyoung start to slip away, further and further until suddenly they are universes apart, the distance between them unbridgeable. The smile is ever present on Wooyoung’s face but something about it is sinister and dark. “Byebye, San-ah.” 

San’s world goes up in flames. 

-----

San wakes up unable to breathe. 

He’s able to squeeze in a few short gasps before it cuts off altogether and he’s stuck, terrified and trapped, with lungs that won’t function. 

Jongho, San thinks, staggering off of the bed and into the hallway. I need to find Jongho. He slams open the door to Jongho’s room but it’s empty, blankets neatly folded in a pile at the end of the mattress. Panic trills through him, high pitched and piercing, when he sees the absence of Jongho’s shoes by the front door. 

No, he thinks wildly, taking a few unsteady steps backward until his back hits the wall and still, he can’t breathe. His fingers scrabble in his back pocket for his phone, shaking as they punch in Seonghwa’s number and God, he can barely see through the static crackling through his vision but he hopes he got it right. 

So he waits, heart pounding frantically with a dizziness so violent it prompts him to collapse onto the floor like a house of cards, as the line rings once, twice, three times. There’s something holding him back from keeping his eyes open and his lashes flutter, drowsy and delirious, against his cheeks. 

(Is this what defeat feels like?) 

There’s the distant click of the call connecting but San’s too far gone to respond to it, hands twitching against the cold tile of the floor. 

“Sannie?” 

It hurts, San wants to tell him. I just want it to be over, and then, will you tell Wooyoung goodbye for me? 

Dying, San figures out, feels a lot like falling. 

-----

The door to San’s apartment clicks open twenty minutes later and Seonghwa peers in curiously, eyebrows lifting in fond bemusement when he sees San curled up on the floor near the hallway. “You’re dirtying your clothes, Sannie,” he scolds gently, kicking the door shut behind him. “Want to come help me unpack the food? You can tell me why you called over breakfast.” 

He sets the plastic bags on the dining table, fingers working to disentangle the knots. “I’m not sure why I couldn’t hear you over the phone. Maybe your audio cut out?” A huff of frustration escapes his lips when the knot refuses to unravel. “Help me to undo this, Sannie. You’ve always been stronger than me.” 

Seonghwa turns, only to see San in the same position as before. “Sannie? Why are you still lying there?” His eyes flicker over San’s form and a chilling disquietude washes through him when he registers the unnatural stiffness of his posture, how motionless he’d remained from the beginning. The one step he takes forward seems to echo in the stillness of the apartment. 

“San?” He drops to his knees, a strangled gasp tearing itself out of his throat when he flips San onto his back. There is blood smeared over his mouth and there is blood coating the petals of the flowers in full bloom, blood pooled on the floor where he was lying. 

(If this were one of Seonghwa’s novels, he’d write about how the pieces of sunlight slanting through the windows look like shards of a shattered goblet over spilled wine, a delicacy fit only for kings. He’d write about how San’s flowers feel like velvet sheets against bare skin, translucent with networks of veins traversing over fuchsia-tipped petals. He’d write about how it looks as if San has finally found peace. 

But this isn’t another storybook. This is reality, and the reality is that San is dead.) 

“No,” Seonghwa murmurs. His fingers are trembling when he presses them under San’s jaw, desperately searching for a pulse even though he knows San’s already somewhere far beyond his reach. Nothing jumps beneath his fingertips and Seonghwa crumbles. 

“No, no — San.” He shakes him by the shoulders. “San, I brought you the chocolate waffles from that stand down the street that you like. You can’t — you have to eat them while they’re hot. You always said they’re only good if they’re hot, remember?” 

There’s something wet spilling over his cheeks — tears, when did he even start crying? — as he shakes San again. “You have to eat quickly because there are customers waiting for you at the shop, Jongho’s waiting for you, Wooyoung’s waiting for you, oh God—” He breaks himself off with a wretched sob and it hurts when he brushes his thumbs gently over San’s cheekbones, deathly cold where they should be warm. 

“I promised you I wouldn’t let you die,” Seonghwa says. “I promised — wake up, Sannie. For fuck’s sake, wake up!” 

The sun rises higher in the sky and it bleeds over the horizon, rouge and smoldering. 

-----

Wooyoung shouldn’t be here. 

Well, technically, he should. He’d received the invitation in a shiny, embossed envelope with his name on the back in wet black ink, read it over and over until the words had lost all their meaning. Unmistakeable, unavoidable. 

That’s not the issue. 

The issue is that he shouldn’t be here, twenty-one years old, hovering at the peripherals of his best friend’s funeral like he’s a stranger. He shouldn’t feel like an unwanted guest, and yet he feels distinctly out of his element in his black suit that’s too stiff around the collar, hands stuffed down the pressed pockets of his slacks to hide how violently he is shaking. 

He shouldn’t be watching people give grand speeches about how much they’ll miss him, shouldn’t be watching other people cry when his own eyes are dry, but he is — because this is who he is now. An outsider. A coward.  

(In his mind, San is still waiting for him. In his mind, Wooyoung will go home after this and San will be there, alive and beautiful as ever, with dimpled cheeks and a maple syrup sweet smile.)

There will be time to cry later, he figures. He doesn’t deserve to cry now, not when he’s the reason San died in the first place. 

He steps forward only when he is called, at the end of the service where guests walk up to the front and talk to a shut chestnut casket like the dead are still here, living and breathing among the rest of them. Last words, or something — Wooyoung doesn’t know. (He had plenty of time to say things when San was still alive, but he’d lost that chance long ago.) 

He’s blinking rapidly down at the flower-garlanded casket when the first shout of warning comes, too engrossed with repressing his tears for the sound to pierce the fizzing static of his brain. It’s only when his name cracks through the air like a gunshot that he looks up, doesn’t even have a chance to question things before a fist connects with his jaw, sending him hurtling to the floor. 

Jongho stands over his fallen body, chest heaving with tears. There’s open hostility in Jongho’s eyes and he’s never been shy about his dislike for Wooyoung but it’s startlingly clear now, has Wooyoung reeling for a reason other than the pain erupting along his jaw. In a split second Hongjoong is there, one hand over his chest as he tries to restrain Jongho from rushing forward. 

Wooyoung watches all of this distantly, feeling terribly disconnected from his body like a shrouded mist has blanketed him in all of its detachment and gloom. This isn’t happening to me, he thinks, a hand cradling his jaw where a dull ache is starting to spread. It’s not, because this is just another scene in those coming-of-age movies San likes to watch. Just another bad dream that I’ll eventually snap out of when the night ends. 

“You killed him!” Jongho is yelling, and Wooyoung is wrenched unforgivingly back into the present, swept away by a wave of grief that ripples through him like a shockwave. “You don't deserve to be here, you — you didn’t deserve him at all—” 

“Jongho, stop!” Hongjoong pulls him back by the arm but Jongho just shrugs his grip off, storming out of the building. Hongjoong hurries after him with a frantic call of his name and their sudden departure has left the room dead silent, suffocating in its intensity. Wooyoung feels like a small town devastated by the force of a vicious tempest, hollow and destroyed and so, so hopeless. 

There’s a whisper of a touch on his elbow and Wooyoung tilts his head up to see Seonghwa behind him, a sad smile playing on his lips. His eyes are gentle but so inexplicably tired, like beaten-in leather shoes. Too much too soon. 

The image blurs and suddenly Wooyoung is crying, everything that he’s been locking up in his sunken hole of a chest spilling out in a torrent of near-silent sobs. “Hyung,” he says, wrecked.

Something in Seonghwa’s gaze goes soft, honey and amber and comfort. “I know,” he says. Another barely-there tug to his arm. “Come on, let’s go.” He allows Seonghwa to drag him up, up, up, leaning heavily on him as he leads him to a wooden bench nearby. The pain under his jaw has faded to a persistent throbbing now, flaring when Seonghwa prods at it gingerly to assess the damage. “Sorry,” he says automatically when Wooyoung releases a hiss through his teeth. “I’ll ask Hongjoong to get you some ice after he comes back.”

“I don't think he’ll be back for a while,” Wooyoung says wryly. Seonghwa’s eyes flicker to his momentarily but he says nothing, lips yanked down in a pinched frown. The expression is foreign on him, skin stretched taut in all the wrong places and Wooyoung already misses when Seonghwa’s gaze would glimmer with unbridled warmth instead of stone. 

“Jongho shouldn’t have done that,” Seonghwa says. “I know he’s grieving like the rest of us, but—” 

“He was right,” Wooyoung interrupts, stubbornly staring down at his fingers. “I killed him. All San ever wanted was somebody to love him and I — I killed him, hyung.” A shuddering inhale rattles through him and Wooyoung’s never felt more fragile. “He didn’t deserve to die like that. He didn’t — I don't deserve to be here. Not after everything I did.” 

“That’s not true,” Seonghwa says. Wooyoung doesn’t know how Seonghwa continues to have so much faith in him when he ripped somebody precious away from him, too. “I know for a fact San would have wanted you here.” 

“You don't know that,” Wooyoung snaps. 

“I do.” The answer is firm, unshaken by the millions of doubts that plague Wooyoung’s every thought. His next words are softer still. “You’re wrong, you know? San never needed you to love him back. He just needed a best friend.” Wooyoung’s gaze jerks up in surprise, lips parted. “Before all else, you were his best friend first. It’s why San loved you more than anything.”

Something hot rushes to his eyes and brims over, and Seonghwa catches the tears that fall like stars with the pad of his thumb, the knuckles that brush against his cheek. “You should do well to remember that.” 

Wooyoung averts his eyes and they get caught on the portrait of San sitting atop the casket. All sky high cheekbones and crescent eyes scintillating with a light that can’t be frozen within a golden frame. (What use are photographs if they can’t capture the brilliance of your smile?) His throat is clogged with something thick and perhaps Seonghwa can sense that he’s unable to form a response because he simply rubs his thumb over the jut of his jaw, over the area that’s bound to bruise. 

“I’ll go get you some ice,” he says quietly, rising from the chair and in a second he’s gone, the tip-tap of his fading footsteps a metronome for his heart. Wooyoung is left alone in an empty building with the scent of pearl-white lilies curling around him, San’s smile just a preserved memory trapped behind a thin sheet of glass, lost to age. 

-----

Wooyoung is twenty-two when he finds San’s letter. 

He doesn’t notice it at first, is lying on the bed staring at the ceiling when Yeosang shifts suddenly, making a curious noise before plucking it out from behind the bed. 

“It’s for you,” he says, handing the envelope to him. Wooyoung frowns at it; he can’t remember ever seeing such an envelope before, can’t possibly imagine why it would end up sandwiched between the bedpost and the wall either, but he takes it anyway. 

Wooyoung’s heart stutters in his chest when he flips it over, recognizing the scrawl as San’s just from the way its written. Boyish, slightly messy even though San spends more time than the average person trying to make every letter as neat as possible. It’s only his name but Wooyoung already feels shaken. 

The doorbell rings. “It must be the others,” Yeosang chirps, oblivious to the silence that’s descended on Wooyoung like a dark fog. He slips off the bed to answer the door and Wooyoung is left alone in the room, staring blankly down at the letter in his hands. The spillage of voices into the apartment is what prompts him back to life, tearing open the seal. A single piece of paper rests inside and Wooyoung’s fingers tremble as he unfolds it. 

Dear Wooyoung , it reads, if you’re receiving this letter, it means I’m already gone. 

What a cliché way to start my letter, right? I realized a lot of my life was pretty cliché — especially with the whole falling in love with my best friend thing, or being part of the one percent that contracts the Hanahaki Disease in the first place. 

I’m sorry I never told you about it. I guess I was just afraid to lose you, but then you disappeared for those few months and I realized that I would lose you either way. I wonder if you ever hated me for it. 

Ah, I’m getting carried away. 

I don't want you to apologize for being unable to love me back. You tried on my birthday and I wanted to take your words and shove them back into your mouth. And in return I won’t ever apologize for falling in love with you either. 

I don’t think either one of us owes the other an apology, but maybe we do owe each other a promise (one unbroken, this time). 

You have to promise to allow yourself to live, and to love, and to be happy. I know you, Young-ah. We’ve been best friends since we were thirteen. You’re obsessed with the idea of making things your fault when they’re not. And I’m here to tell you to let it go, because I can’t think of somebody else that deserves happiness more than you do. So go and find it in the world outside, in the crevices of your bedroom, in the things you love and in the people, too. 

And I’ll promise to wait for you here, however long it takes. 

Thank you for being my best friend, Young-ah. I love you more than anything else in the world. 

Yours, San

“Oh, San,” Wooyoung whispers. There are tears pricking at his eyes but for the first time in a year Wooyoung feels warmth solidify within his chest, like the tiny flowers that blossom from hairline cracks in the concrete roads of skyscraper cities. 

“Wooyoung?” Yeosang is standing in the doorway, hands curled around the frame. Seonghwa and Hongjoong hover over his shoulder, and Jongho stands behind all of them, lips tentatively tilted upwards in the smile that San used to love so much. “Are you ready?” 

“Yeah,” Wooyoung breathes. He folds up the letter and tucks it beneath his pillow. “Yeah, I think I finally am.”