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Jisung knew that Minho didn’t love him back. That didn’t make the physical reminder hurt any less.
It happened during an extremely long dance practice. He didn’t realize it because his chest always hurt during these. Sweat dripped from his face and his chest heaved. He chalked it up to the choreography being more difficult this time around.
He realized that it wasn’t the case when they took a 30 minute break and even 10 minutes in he hadn’t managed to catch his breath. He was trying to even it out, so that his members didn’t notice him struggling, and his chest was burning. His eyes did a sweep around the room, to make sure nobody was watching him. Seungmin and Hyunjin were in a pile of limbs on the floor, watching something on the olders phone. Felix latched onto jeongin while he complained that it was too hot but did nothing to remove the other man, and Chan and Changbin sat right in front of the huge fan in the corner of the room.
And Minho. He was over there, too. He was lying face down in front of the fan. His cheek was squished against the hoodie he’d put between his face and the floor. Jisung felt overwhelmingly fond. The other man was giggling at something Changbin and Chan were doing and Jisung felt his throat close up. Something was swelling in his chest, it wasn’t comforting like his fondness. No, it was painful and twisting and sharp.
Something was pushing up his throat. It was clogging his airway and he pushed a hand to his mouth to stifle a gag. He stands up on wobbly knees and rushes towards the door before he throws up all over the wooden floor of the practice room. He hears his name being called through the rush of blood In his ears only vaguely, he’ll come up with an excuse later. He doesn’t want to worry them.
He gets to the bathroom after an eternity, barely able to lock the door before pain doubles him over. He doesn’t make it to the toilet before he’s heaving, body locked up as he desperately tries to try to unblock his airway. He didn’t know how long he was curled there, the pain in his chest and throat producing tears that blinded him, before whatever it was finally dislodged and he could breathe again. It takes a moment for his vision to return and the pain to subside. He shifts slightly to look at the mess on the floor. He feels his heart stutter.
There, right in front of him, is a cluster of bright green leaves. They are smeared with blood and saliva, but the vibrancy hasn’t dulled at all. Bile rises in his throat and he scrambles towards the toilet and empties his stomach.
For a few days after that, nothing else happens. He starts to think maybe it was a fluke. Maybe he’d accidentally swallowed some leaves or something, though that wouldn’t explain how fresh and new they looked when they finally came up. He dreamt about it too, though. He dreamt of a rolling field filled with green leaves and beautiful flowers. His body would feel unsettled and he would close his eyes for a moment, only to open them and see the greenery covered in blood. A black cat would stand a few feet in front of him as if daring him to touch one regardless of the blood. It would scrutinize him until he woke up covered in sweat, chest aching a little more than when he went to sleep.
But. He didn’t throw up again. No more leaves came up, so he was safe, right?
Wrong. During the fanmeeting he’d seen a video from his younger self, and Minho had spoken to him so softly it felt like his heart had turned to sticky sweet honey for a moment. But then a pain so sharp he nearly doubled over spread through his chest. His breathing is picking up, he knows this, but there’s nothing he can do. Minho is looking at him with an expression he’s seen many times before, but it only makes the pain worse. He only has a little bit longer before he can get backstage.
His hands bunch on his thigh as he tries to school his expression, as soon as the lights cut he scrambles towards the waiting room. The bathroom is too far, he won’t make it. He frantically looks for somewhere private and spots a closet, he hears the footsteps of his members getting closer so he runs for it. There’s a mop bucket that he kneels over, and it feels like his throat is being ripped to shreds when the plant comes up.
It’s a beautiful deep red, that contrasts with his own blood, and a bright stem. It’s slightly crumpled, but it’s one of the prettiest flowers jisung has ever seen. He doesn’t dwell, though. He safely tucks it into his pocket before making sure no blood is left around his mouth and none on his clothes. He wished that he could just go home now.
When he makes it back to the dressing room Chan rushes up to him.
“Are you alright?” He asks, face crumpled in concern. Jisung honestly should’ve expected that, he did run off without a word.
He hates lying, especially to Chan. The man is always checking on him, soft squeezes to his thigh in reassurance and gentle words helping pull him out of his head. But he can’t tell him this. Not right now. Chan’s been so weighed down lately that this can wait just a bit longer. Besides, he’s not even exactly sure what’s happening. So, until he knows it should be all alright to stretch the truth a bit.
“Ah, yeah!” His voice is squeaking in the way that it does when he lies, he clears his throat. “Just, you know.” He gestures vaguely in the direction of the restroom.
Chan nods, and a small smile graces his face. “Oh, okay. Let me or a staff know if need anything, okay?”
“Thanks, hyungie.”
He doesn’t notice Minho looking at him.
He scheduled an appointment at a clinic outside of the JYP circle shortly after that. He tells his manager that he needs transportation to the building but not what exactly for. He’s thankful that he doesn’t have to disclose that. He lies to Chan again and says he’s going to meet some of his friends who are in town for the day. He easily accepts this, but guilt swirls in his gut.
He has a small plastic bag in his backpack, filled with flowers and leaves. They haven’t wilted even a bit since he forced them up.
He’s got a locked note on his notes app filled with his symptoms. He’d noticed that the pain in his chest always starts with Minho. He coughs up more when he’s touched by the man, a bit less when it’s just words. He’s done a lot of research about this. He thinks he knows what it’s gonna come up as, but the words choke him up the same way the flowers do. When pulled up to the building he told his manager to stay in the car, he’d be out in a bit.
He’s checked in quickly. They take his weight, height, and blood pressure. They take note of his symptoms and let him know the doctor will be in shortly. Jisung picks at the skin of his thumb, the silence like a blanket suffocating him.
“Han Jisung-ssi?” He startles slightly when the door opens. He bows his head lightly in acknowledgment.
The doctor wastes no time. He asks him when this started, asks him how long his chest has hurt, and if he’s ever been rejected when he confessed. He’s then asked if he has any of the plants with him.
He pulls the bag out of his backpack. The red carnation glows brighter against the sterile white of the hospital room. He almost doesn’t want to hand it over. He’s certain he won’t get it back and, as fucked up as it might sound, it’s comforted him to know it was there.
But he had to know, so he looked away when he handed it to the doctor. The man smiles reassuringly at him and tells him to come back in two hours for results.
“Um, before I go, will- uh, will I get the flowers back?” He stutters through the question, embarrassed.
The doctor looks at him for a moment, “Do you want them back, Jisung-ssi?” The question is not unkind or assuming, but he feels anxious when he nods anyway. The doctor nods back at him.
“Then we’ll make sure you get them back.”
He and his manager get something to eat while they wait. He can’t get it down, but he tries regardless. Minho sends him a selfie with one of his cats sleeping on his chest and he excuses himself to the bathroom quickly after.
“We’ve run the tests.” The doctor starts, voice reminding Jisung of Chan when he has to deliver bad news to the group.
“We are confident in saying that you are suffering from something called Hanahaki disease.” Jisung feels his stomach drop. He’d known it would most likely be that- Hanahaki. But there’s a difference between thinking and knowing.
“And from the tests,” the doctor continues carefully, “we believe you have hit stage three.”
He pulls a piece of paper with a detailed chart.
“Stage one is when the seed is planted so to speak. There aren’t many physical symptoms in this stage, and most people won’t even catch it. But this is where the either explicit or perceived rejection will take hold.” He pauses, watching Jisung's reaction. He doesn’t really feel anything at all. His hands are numb, and his ears are ringing. He wants to run. But he gives a nod for him to continue.
“Stage two starts the physical symptoms. Headaches, nausea, fatigue.” Jisung thinks maybe he should’ve known. “There will be chest pain, this is because the flowers are starting to grow. Obviously, human bodies are not meant to house plants hence the physical symptoms.”
Jisung wants to cry. He wants to scream and throw something. He doesn’t.
“And, the third stage. This will be when the plants start to outgrow your body. They will push into your throat and that’ll cause vomiting and shortness of breath. The stems and vines will start to wrap around your ribcage and heart, and you will see rapid weight loss and weakness in your body.” The doctor takes a deep breath before continuing.
“There is one last stage, Jisung-ssi,” he says gently, “stage four is one that nobody survives. It is, for lack of better words, terminal. This is when the plants have left no room for your vital organs. It becomes impossible to breathe, eat, or even move. When you get to stage four it’s an extremely rapid decline. Most patients will die within one week.”
Jisung feels a tear slip down his cheek. He’d been told all of his life that he felt way too much, way too strong. His mother had said it was a strength, and he’d chosen to believe her despite what everyone else said. He supposes he shouldn’t have.
The doctor gives him a tissue, and Jisung knows that the look is one of pity. He’s a professional so he will never say it, but Jisung knows.
“Fortunately you are in the early part of stage three. You have some options.” He shuffles the papers to get the one he needs. “One option would be the pill we usually give to patients with this disease. It will get rid of the plants, but any feelings you hold for this person will go with them. You would have to start it right now as it won’t work after you hit a certain point in stage three. The second option is one we don’t like to use but I am obligated to let you make your own decision, a surgery. It would be through your stomach and we would have to find the source of plants. Once we remove the seed the feelings will be gone, but so will any memory associated with the source of your affection. This means friends, experiences, and even family would be forgotten. We usually only do this if a patient hits stage four and we have no other option.”
Jisung already knows he wouldn’t do that one. He doesn’t want to forget. He can’t. His entire job is based on his relationships with those around him. And, he loves them too much. He just couldn’t.
“The final, and safest option, is to confess if you haven’t already. The only problem with that option is if you are to be explicitly rejected, your disease will progress rapidly. I will not fault you for whatever path you decide to take.” The man says. “But with the stage you are in, I implore you to choose quickly. You are young, you have a lot of life left.”
That was almost two months ago now. He hadn’t been back to the hospital. His condition was slowly worsening. He had a constant headache these days. Sometimes even looking at Minho sent him running to the restroom. He didn’t keep the flowers anymore.
There are some days when he feels like he can breathe again. Where his head only slightly pounds and he can manage to be around his friends. They know something is wrong with him. They don’t say anything. They probably assume he’s anxious again, and that he’ll come back as he always has. He lets them.
He decided against the pill. He couldn’t do it. His feelings for Minho are something he never wants to give up. It may hurt more than anything else in the world, but it also comforts him more than anything. They’re steady and reliable and pure. Even when his hands are stained red and his throat is torn raw he would never give them up. He loves Minho too much to think about that just being gone.
Besides, it’s too late now anyway. The doctor had told him he’d needed to start right then but it’d been months now. They wouldn’t work. The surgery is obviously out of the question. He can’t forget his members. Can't forget Minho. They are everything that he has.
That leaves confessing. He can’t do that either. Minho has had to claw his way to where he is now, and if he happened to feel the same, any relationship would put all of that in danger. Jisung is fairly sure that he doesn’t though, so confessing would just speed up the inevitable. He wants to spend as much time as he can with them, even if it hurts. It’s easier not to know.
He’s lying on the couch, staring mindlessly at the TV. Everyone is out right now, he remembers Felix’s wavering smile when he’d said he was too tired. He’s so achy now that it hurts to stand most times. He barely makes it through dance practice, doesn’t actually, most of the time. He does enough. He can’t do any more than that. Minho is all over him now. Hugging him, sleeping in his bed. He makes him food that Jisung desperately wants to choke down but only manages a few bites of. He’s gotten good at coughing into his sleeve and disposing of petals without anyone noticing.
When Jisung feels good enough to go out, Minho holds his hand. It’s times like those that he wishes he could just tell Minho. But he wants this to last. He doesn’t want to die with Minho refusing to touch him.
He vaguely hears the door open, but it only registers when a mop of blonde hair appears in the doorway to the living room. Felix.
The other man walks over to him, hoists his upper body into a sitting position, takes the spot he’d been occupying, and then pulls Jisung into his lap. He’s too weak to fight off the affection, and he finds that he doesn’t really want to.
“Sungie,” Felix whispers, hand smoothing down his back. “What’s going on?”
The dam breaks. He sobs into Felix’s chest. It feels good, but it also feels like he’s being taken apart from the inside. Like by crying he is showing Felix everything. Things he never wanted anyone to see.
His sobs finally die down, but he makes no effort to answer the question.
“Min has been really worried about you, jisungie,” Felix says quietly, rocking him back and forth.
He knows that, obviously. Even without romantic feelings, Minho has made it clear that he cares about Jisung. The way he’s been desperately trying to cheer him up is a clear sign.
“We all are. We’ve been watching you waste away and nobody knows what’s going on.” Guilt. Horrible, all-consuming guilt.
Petals are pushing at his throat again, he swallows them down painfully.
“I’ll be better, Lix. I’ve just been tired recently.” He’s been lying so much lately.
“You don’t have to do better, we just want to help you.”
He’s lying in Minho's bed right now. He’s thrown up three times, but he comes back every time. There were two new flowers today. One was a cyclamen, apparently meaning resignation. The second time it was a marigold. That one meant grief and Jealousy. An encyclopedia of flower meanings is always open in his browser now.
He knows why the Marigolds decided to show up today. Minho is out with his friend right now. The one whom he so often joked was his boyfriend. It made Jisung sick when he stopped to wonder if they were actually together. His brain would supply unhelpful images of Minho holding the other man. Kissing him or hugging him. Maybe even leading him up to a room in a hotel and-
Fuck. He can’t breathe again. He retches into the toilet, body seizing.
Hyacinths, he finds out. Jealousy, a desire for forgiveness.
He gets his body back into Minho's bed somehow. Surrounded by the man's scent and so many of his favorite belongings soothes him, at least for now. He knows later he will pay for it. He doesn’t care.
Chan and Changbin have been constantly asking if he’s okay the entire practice. Changbin usually doesn’t touch him, but today he has been. It’s almost as if he thinks Jisung will slip away if he doesn’t make sure he’s physically there. He tells them he’s fine as he wobbles on his feet.
Minho is treating him as normal. He’s been teasing and doting. He brings Jisung water and snacks, keeping his face carefully impassive when he notices he hasn’t touched any of it. Jisung thinks he’s beautiful.
Sweat frames his face and sticks to his hair. He reaches out a hand that Minho doesn’t hesitate to take. The facade breaks for only a moment, and he sees the olders face crinkle in emotion before he schools it again. He feels the stems pushing again. Every inhale feels like wind blowing through a tall field of grass. He rips his hand away and tries to stand, but it proves to be too much too fast, and he’s falling.
He doesn’t hit the ground. Instead, he’s pulled closer to a warm body. Minho is cradling him. His scent is a small comfort.
The boys are crowded now. Minhos touch seers him. He feels the telltale seize of his stomach and scrambles to get out of Minho's hold but he doesn’t let him. He folds where Minho's arms rest on his stomach and dry heaves onto the floor.
Chan is ordering the other boys to do things he can’t quite hear. He thinks it’s Seungmin who slips a towel under him, presumably to catch what they think will be vomit. It’s probably Hyunjin who’s on the phone with their manager.
Minho is rubbing his back, he doesn’t know he’s making it worse.
‘This is how they’re gonna find out’ he thinks through the thick haze. He wasn’t stupid enough to think he could hide it forever, not really. He’s surprised he even had this long.
As if they want to show off to a new audience, more and more petals fall from his lips after the first one. So many different colors and types. He can’t see. His vision is blackening at the edges, it doesn’t stop.
It’s painful. It hurts more than any other time this has happened. Blood and saliva cover the towel and the petals. Maybe this is how he dies.
It isn’t. It finally stops after what seems like an eternity, and his body slumps over. Minho's hold had loosened in his shock, so his body slipped to the floor. It doesn’t hurt. He doesn’t feel a thing beyond the rawness of his throat.
He can’t open his eyes, he is too tired. But he doesn’t hear any noise. They aren’t moving. Aren’t speaking. He doesn’t ever hear breathing.
If he didn’t feel Minho's warmth he’d have thought he was alone. He wouldn’t blame them, now they know. They’re probably furious with him now. His consciousness slips and he dreams of the cat again. Of the blood-soaked fields. The cat is closer this time, and he is not afraid anymore. In fact, he opens his arms welcoming the creature. He never gets to see if it comes to him.
Jisung wakes up in a sterile hospital room. It smells like chemicals and it’s so bright his eyes burn. The boys are all around his hospital bed. Seungmin and Jeonging are asleep on the reclinable chair, and Felix, Hyunjin, changbin, and Chan are all asleep on pushed-together benches. And Minho-
Minho is on a chair, slumped over the bed asleep on his curled arm. He’s holding Jisung's hand tightly despite being fast asleep. Jisung smiles and squeezes his hand gently. Minho’s hand is smaller than his own, but it is so warm and comforting against it. They’re slightly rough, and Jisung adores the way it feels. He doesn’t even mind when the force of his affection causes him to double over again.
His coughing wakes the boys. Chan immediately jumps up and calls a nurse. She gets there quickly, holding the pan up to his face as he heaves. She rubs his back comfortingly until it finally stops. She helps him lie back down and tells him she’ll get a new drip for him.
It’s then that he realizes he’s hooked up to a few IVs. He looks away quickly.
“Jisung…” he heard someone say. Changbin. “ why didn’t you say anything?”
He can’t look at anyone in the room now that they’re awake. He could lie again. He could tell them that he didn’t know it would get this bad, but that doesn’t seem fair. He thinks they deserve an explanation.
“Jisung-ssi?” Someone interrupts before he can find the words. He turns towards the door and recognizes that it’s the same doctor he went to when all of this started. He bows his head in shame. There’s really no hiding it now.
He forces a smile, “Hello Doctor Jang.” He says sheepishly.
“Before I say anything, do I have your consent to speak in front of everyone here ?” He sweeps a hand around the room. Jisung really doesn’t have anything to hide, not anymore, so he nods.
“When you originally came in, you were in the beginnings of stage three,” he starts. “That was around six months ago at this point. After doing more tests today, you are at the tail end of stage three. This means that your body is making a last-ditch effort to save itself before stage four. I noticed in your chart that your weight has dropped dangerously. When you came the first time, you were around 60kg whereas now you are around 43kg.”
He pauses to read his chart further. Jisung keeps his eyes cast down. He wasn’t being unkind but he felt he was being scolded regardless. Like he should’ve been better now. He probably should’ve, he’d had so many options back then.
“You were severely malnourished and there may be some irreparable damage to your stomach and throat, but that does not mean all is lost. Given that you have lasted six months, I’m going to assume you haven’t told this person how you feel yet. Seeing as how you didn’t even want the pills, I won’t suggest the surgery. Know it is still an option.”
Silence. Complete and utter silence.
“Jisung-ssi, you can recover from this still. If you do not take the risk of telling this person the nature of your feelings, you will die. And looking around this room, I see that you have so many reasons to want to live.”
He’s back home now. The doctor was hesitant because at least he could be comfortable if he decided not to do anything more about his situation. He only has about a month left. It doesn’t really scare him. He’s happy he got to love Minho at all.
He is guilty for leaving his members behind. He’d been put on an indefinite hiatus by the company, but that’s all the fans knew. He supposed they’ll release another statement when he’s gone.
When. What a strange word. It’s a given that if you are alive you will die. But knowing that it’s coming eventually and waiting for it inevitably are worlds apart.
Felix was angry with him for all of a day before he broke down and cried on Jisung's chest.
Minho is there now. He’s lying on jisungs chest, the weight is comforting. He’s thrown up more times than he can count but he refuses to let Minho move. There’s a bucket next to him, and maybe it’s a little gross but Minho doesn’t complain so Jisung won’t either.
“Sungie,” he starts slowly, dragging a finger up and down his chest. “If you had a chance all those months ago, why didn’t you take it?”
Minho flattens his palm as if to feel Jisung's heartbeat.
Jisung thinks for a moment, trying to find a way to explain without explicitly saying what he really means.
“The way that I feel for- this person is something that is so deeply ingrained in me that I honestly don’t know what I would do without them.” He starts, “And, well, they aren’t a bad thing. Not really. I didn’t want them to just disappear. Even now, I am probably going to die, and I do not regret my decision. I can’t imagine myself loving anyone but him and getting rid of those feelings would feel like I was forcing away a part of myself.”
He shifts his neck slightly to look at Minho again. His eyes are rimmed with tears, his cheeks and ears are flushed red. Jisung pulls the bucket closer as his body forces up more petals. Minho rubs his back through the whole thing.
When it stops he speaks again. “Is the reason you won’t confess because the person you love is a man?” His voice is curious, a little sad, and a lot strained.
Jisung shakes his head, “No. I’ve long since come to terms with the fact that I am gay.” It’s not a complete lie. That’s not the reason he won’t tell, at least not because he’s ashamed. It’s more of the fact that that type of relationship will never be accepted in their society.
“I think the main reason I can’t tell him is because this feeling is so precious to me, that I don’t think I could handle rejection. That and he’s tried so hard to get where he is now, even if we both wanted more it would be too risky. I couldn’t do that to him.”
Minho looks at him for a moment. Jisung knows he’s said too much. Gotten too close to the truth. He closes his eyes tightly, willing the anxiety away.
“And did you let him make that choice? Or did you just decide on your own?” Minho's voice is rough with something Jisung has never heard. He wills his eyes back open.
“I can’t be that selfish, Hyung. If I told him now and he said couldn’t return my feelings I’d be dead within the week and I know he’d blame himself for it.”
“You didn’t even give him a choice! Either way, confessing and getting rejected or not confessing at all you are going to die. Why not give yourself at least some chance? You have people here who need you- who love you and you won’t even try. You say you aren’t being selfish but you didn’t even think about us! About me!” He’s pulled away now. He’s openly sobbing into his hands and Jisung wants so badly to reach out and touch him again.
But Minho doesn’t cry like this. He didn’t cry like this when he was eliminated, didn’t cry like this when they lost a member, didn’t cry like this when they almost lost Hyunjin. He doesn’t know if he should touch him, as tears start to fill his own eyes.
“I sound selfish now but how can I not be? Did you even think of Chan and how he’d react to losing his first kid? Or changbin who already hates even seeing you cry? What about Hyunjin, Felix, and Seungmin? The four of you are best friends, what would they do? Oh, and Innie too. He looks up to you so much. He loves you.” Minho takes a deep, unsure breath. “What about me, Jisung? We always said we were soulmates, what am I supposed to do? Find another one? The whole point of a soulmate is that the universe only gives you one. We were supposed to grow old together and raise cats and live somewhere quiet because that’s all we’ve wanted for so long.”
And Jisung is weak. Seeing Minho cry, along with the vivid images of the two of them old and wrinkly, sitting on a rocking chair in a house somewhere away from the city makes something snap within him. He pushes himself up on weak knees, spurred on by the thought of a black cat weaving between his legs as he stares out into a field on a crisp autumn day and Minho by his side.
If he’s wrong, that’s fine. He’s tired of the weakness in his bones. He’s tired of the fatigue that he can’t sleep away. He tired of his throat being ripped raw and the concerned, sad looks of the people he holds most dear. As if they’re mourning someone who’s still alive. If he’s wrong it won’t matter because he won’t be around to see it anyways.
He sits down on his knees in front of Minho's shaking body, reaching a hand up to cup his face. He gently pulls the man’s hand away from his face, silently willing him to look. He finally does. Jisung swallows and clears his throat.
“I want all of that, too. I want to grow old with you. I want to raise cats with you in an old farmhouse that we decorated. And I want to invite the boys over for a housewarming party. I want to have multiple guest bedrooms for when they stay with us. I want to keep winning awards with you- with them. I want to keep singing and writing. I don’t want to die.” This is the first time he’s voiced these things out loud, and he finds it isn’t as scary as he’d always thought it’d be.
“Do you remember that song I made, volcano?” He pauses and Minho nods his head. His hand gripping Jisungs like a life line. “I wrote it from my own experience. I know I lied and said it was inspired by a drama, but I don’t think anyone really bought that.”
Here comes the part that is as scary as he thought it’d be. His hands shake slightly where Minho holds them.
“But… I wrote it about you, hyung. I feel so much for you that it hurts sometimes. Well, most times now. But I don’t really care that it hurts, because loving you is something that I’m lucky I even get to do. Even if you don’t love me the same way. This is me trying not to be selfish anymore. I love you.”
Minho is looking at him. His eyes are wide and tears spill but he doesn’t move. Jisung feels dread swirling in his stomach, is this the final rejection? He guesses that Minho would still tell him he loved him even if he didn’t mean to try and save him, but it doesn’t work that way. His body would know.
But then, he slowly reaches a hand towards Jisung's face. He cups his cheek, and Jisung notices that his hands still shake. “You really didn’t know?” He sounds breathless “That I love you too?”
Suddenly his body is wracked with pain, he’s knocked over with the force of it. He clutches his stomach, he feels Minho slide to the floor in urgency. This has to be the most excruciating thing he’s ever felt.
Petal after petal. It keeps going until a whole flower dislodges from his throat, and he coughs up roots and stems. There are some leaves, he hasn’t seen those since the first time. He’s panting when it’s over. Minho is holding him against his body. His own is shaking, Jisung doesn’t blame him. That was probably scary.
He looks at the pile of bloodied plants and sees the one he was secretly desperately hoping for. A bright yellow daffodil. Hope, joy, new beginnings.
He turns Into Minho’s hold. Nothing is pushing at his throat. No urge to keel over, no urge to gag until he can breathe again. His breath no longer feels like whispers of wind through a field. It just feels normal.
Minho is looking at him like he’s done something wrong. He hasn’t done hours of research like Jisung has. He doesn’t know that the pile of plants on their living room floor spells Jisung's freedom. He means it. Minho really meant it. He loves Jisung, just like Jisung loves him.
He surges forward and connects their lips. Minho only hesitates for a moment before he’s pressing into him. He can feel tears on his cheeks, he doesn’t know if they’re his or Minhos. His hand slides into Minho’s hair, gripping firmly as if to keep himself grounded, to remind himself that this is real.
His breath is probably metallic with blood but he doesn’t seem to care. Minho’s hand rests on his jaw, the other on his hip that he holds with a bruising grip. Jisung whines and pulls him closer, Minho bites his bottom lip asking for entrance that Jisung gladly gives him. The wet slide of his tongue against his own sends Jisung reeling.
They pull apart only when can't go any longer without air. Jisung takes in Minho's appearance. His lips are kiss-bitten and slick with spit. His pupils are blown wide, and his ears are flushed a deep red. He’s beautiful. So, so beautiful.
“You love me.” He’s breathless. He can’t believe Minho loves him, but he also should’ve known all along. “You really love me.”
Minho looks at him like he can’t believe this is real, either. Perhaps he too never let himself believe they could be anything more. It doesn’t matter now anyway, Jisung will take a while to physically recover, but he will. He’ll gain the weight back and they’ll figure out how to heal his throat. He’ll be able to eat so he won’t be so tired and weak. And Minho will be right there with him.
Minho slides his thumb against Jisung’s cheek, soft smile spreading across his face.
“Of course, Jisung. Of course, I love you. I always have.”