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Jimin is sitting by the window when the scream pierces the courtyard. With his knuckles to his mouth, he watches a pink petal drop out of the girl’s mouth. A long-haired girl sobs beside her, shoulders wracking.
“Petals? Must have had it for a looooong time,” Taehyung says, pressed against Jimin. The teachers have rushed outside, covering the scene with lowered heads and escorting, like bodyguards, the girls to the infirmary. Jimin’s fingers seals his lips.
“Looked like sakura.” Seokjin leans against the wall beside the shadowed chalkboard. “What does that symbolize? Anybody have that flower dictionary in their pocket?”
“It means she’s stupid.” Yoongi sits on the desk with his legs hanging off, hands flat between them. He hunches into his scowl. “Should have gone under the knife when they were just seeds.” Jungkook gazes up at Yoongi.
It’s Namjoon who holds out his hands, placating, from the head of the clubroom. “It means she’s innocent,” he says, “and in love.”
Jimin dreams about flowers clogging his throat. Sometimes he can taste the putrid scent flooding from his lungs, spindly roots entangling into his arteries and sapping his aorta and the buds of blood red lilies and hydrangeas and chrysanthemums bursting from his mouth and wispy petals with thin veins damming his trachea until he is breathing blossoms. His hands fly to his neck, fingers digging for seeds inside him, leaving crescent marks against his Adam’s apple.
He drags himself to class with shadows under his eyes. In the clubroom, he rests on Taehyung’s legs and watches the trees lean from the wind, branches entangling to form mazes, thinner twigs snapping to the ground. He naps in short bursts, shaking himself awake like a mangy starved beast, until Taehyung rests his fingers on the nape of his neck and says, “Why don’t you do something this weekend?”
“There was a movie I wanted to watch,” Jimin recalls, sitting himself up. Hoseok’s behind him, steadying him by the shoulders.
“Oh, me too,” Jungkook says. “The one with the singer-actress.”
“That’s the one!” Jimin throws out his hand. He expects laughter for his dramatics, but Hoseok simply pets his head. Jungkook’s mouth twitches into a small smile, his long form silhouetted by the window.
On Saturday, Jimin walks to the park. People meander down the street in small bunches, crossing cafes and bookstores. Years ago, a flower shop had defended the street corner. Jimin could still recall the haunted eyes of the florist, dressed in a plain green apron, who had hung the ‘closed’ sign on the glass door. The disease had yet gained momentum, but the baskets of carnations already resembled disassembled gravestones.
Jungkook sits underneath a laurel tree, the sunlight dappling his face. His long, sturdy form drowns in the folds of his dark hoodie, hands tucked into his pockets. When Jimin approaches, crunching over the autumn leaves, Jungkook stands up and smiles.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” Jimin says. “You look cute today.” When Jungkook ducks his head, Jimin dusts off a dry leaf that had fallen onto Jungkook’s beanie.
He could still remember Jungkook back in middle school, who adopted surly scowls when Jimin complimented him. He had been very cute back then, and he still was cute now, but different. Jungkook had grown into his features with a simple sincerity. Nowadays, he possessed an austere quiet, broken by snorting laughs. Handsome and kind, a deadly combination.
“Not that you’re not always cute,” Jimin adds, a few steps out of the park.
“Just because you say things like that, doesn’t mean I’ll forgive you for being late,” Jungkook says, fingers playing at his hair.
“You didn’t ask if I had good reason to be late.”
“Were you playing on your phone last night?”
Jimin buys the tickets and splurges on popcorn at the concession stand. Jungkook already steals two pieces before they’ve made their way to their seats. The screen rolls advertisements above them, and Jimin clenches his jaw hard enough to hear his teeth. Romantic movies with protagonists holding flowers artfully in their mouths skate by the advertisements, their faces larger than life. His nightmares, manifested tenfold. He wants to dig his fingers into his throat, to touch either the tightness of his larynx or the softness of the petals.
Jungkook clamps his hand over Jimin’s wrist. He doesn’t move, even when Jimin inclines towards him to whisper, “I’m okay.” Instead, Jungkook studies the movie screen and tosses popcorn into his mouth. The movie washes his face in alternating bright white and absolute darkness. Jimin eventually gives up, retiring to his side of the meridian, hands still joined like a bridge.
Jungkook eats his chicken with dainty fingers while Jimin peels an egg for him. While Jimin rests from his dance classes by sleeping in his room, Jungkook rests by going to the gym, eating healthy, and getting strong.
“I’m sorry about today,” Jimin says, the eggshell cracking beneath his fingertips.
“Why?” Jungkook wipes his hand on a stray napkin.
“I wanted you to have a nice time.”
“I did.”
“I know it’s silly for me to worry so much.”
“It’s not silly.” Jungkook stares at him, fingers lilted and greasy. Jimin holds up the peeled egg to Jungkook’s mouth, and he takes an obedient bite. When he chews, he resembles a rabbit, and Jimin bites back a smile. In their booth seat of the restaurant, they’ve hidden from the world. Over Jungkook’s shoulder, he can still see the servers ferry the marinated barbecues and tofu soups from table to table, but none wander close.
“Taehyung knows about this.” Taehyung knows about most everything, in spirit even if not in words. Just like Jimin would open the door when Taehyung shifted his weight from foot to foot, tears in his eyes, Taehyung would listen to him, too. “You were still in elementary school when the disease started, right? You must have been really cute back then, too.”
“Please focus, Mr. Jimin,” Jungkook says, head bowed. Jimin taps his foot against Jungkook’s shin beneath the table.
“It changed everything,” Jimin says. He starts on another egg, thumb pressing down on the delicate shell and sending a cascade of cracks, like waves, to crash into each other. “Love used to be much nicer. Now it’s all about flowers, and I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“I read that only one in every ten people can even get the disease.”
“But that still might be me.” Jimin’s hand flies to his throat, framing his chin. “I love people, and I might fall in love a lot. It’s cruel and unfair, that once you contract it, you either die with your affections hidden in your chest, or you have to believe that your feelings are returned.”
“Like Yoongi said, there’s always the treatment, too.” Jungkook didn’t have an argumentative tone, lacking the competitive fire. His fingers worked on the napkin, sifting out something.
“I’d never do it,” Jimin says. “Isn’t it worse? To have your feelings taken out?” His skin crawls at the thought of seeds implanted in his heart, stems forcing through his burst veins. But he can’t imagine lying down on the hospital gurney, the lights dashing over his head until he reaches the sterile operating theater. Under the floodlight, the surgeon would reach for the scalpel and flay apart his skin, cracking open the fences of his ribs until they unroot the flowers inside him, parts of him that would never regrow. Even if his love killed him, he couldn’t bear to part with his feelings.
It means she’s stupid, Yoongi had said. Jimin agreed. But he was stupid, too.
“Would you tell someone if you had it?” Jungkook’s gaze focuses to where the pieces of eggshell fall away from Jimin’s hands, falling away like petals.
“Yes.” Jimin holds the egg to Jungkook’s mouth again. “At least, anybody except the person I liked.”
“Because if it’s unrequited, you’ll die,” Jungkook reasons. He takes a larger bite, revealing the crescent shape of the bright yellow yolk.
“That’s true, but you’d die if you said nothing anyway.” The petals clogging his throat, the fragrance cloying and heavy. Unspoken feelings manifested into scarlet petals, blood bubbles dripping from his wet mouth. “I just wouldn’t want them to feel obligated. That would be the cruelest. ‘Love me, or I’ll die.’” Jimin closes his eyes, his back trembling under the weight.
The world behind his eyelids is quiet and cold. The footsteps near and recede, the chatter of people remain a faint din. Night had fallen and the occasional bitter wind gusts through the opened doors. The smell of chicken lingers, and he can smell Jungkook’s faint aroma, hear when Jungkook moves in their leather booth seat, feel his warmth shouldered beside him.
“How can I blame them,” Jimin says into his hands. “I would say yes, too, if it meant I could save someone’s life.”
“You’ve thought about this a lot,” Jungkook says. Jimin lifts his head.
“Haven’t you? Aren’t you afraid that someone will confess to you?” With their heart in their hands, petals overflowing. Jimin brushes away locks of hair that had fallen on Jungkook’s eyes. His fingers follow the dip for Jungkook’s eyes, feathering to his cheekbones, landing on his chin where he holds him for a long moment.
“I haven’t thought of it that much.” Jungkook’s voice catches, a trait when he practices too much in his vocal lessons.
“You’re very handsome and sexy,” Jimin says. “If you get into any trouble, come tell your hyung.”
“Are you saying you’ll protect me?” Jungkook’s somber gaze breaks into a crafty grin.
“You don’t think I can?”
“Of course you can,” Jungkook soothes. “I’m sure you can save me from anything.”
The first thing Jimin saves, apparently, will be Jungkook from the bill. But he has no complaints when he pays at the counter. Jungkook has classes early in the morning, so they retire to the dorms. Jungkook is a year below him, so Jimin walks him to his door. His walk back takes him across campus in the autumn cold, even when he shrugs his jacket close around his ears. Enough students have lit the standard lamps in their rooms that he can see them studying, playing games, talking to their roommates. He crosses hallways and climbs the stairs, and thinks, one in ten.
He escapes into dance. He practices his leg swings, his chasses, his aerials. He leans against the metal bar and watches the other students, dressed casual in contrast to their school uniform, practice their moves. In his room, with his headphones clamped over his ears, he listens to the music. In the studio, he lets the music flow through him, not dictated by the beat but conscious, always, of the sounds. Stillness and motion, every move clean and torsional, shoulders thrown back to pop or followed through to the tips of his fingers in effortless flow.
Dancing, to him, meant the details. Motions must be carried through to his toes and the lines must be neat, and if he missed a single detail, then it would change the meaning of the dance.
He watches himself in the mirror. When the music finally finishes into a crackling silence on the bluetooth speakers, sweat drenches his shirt. He shoves his hair from his eyes, and blinks when he sees Jungkook sitting by his backpack.
“Hey,” Jimin says, turning around. “Were you waiting for me?”
“I was just watching,” Jungkook says, offering him the water bottle. Jimin wants to dunk the cool water over his head, but he resists and drinks in deep gulps.
“Do you go watch Hoseok too?” Jimin kneels beside him, laughing at Jungkook’s bashful nod. “I do, too. He’s really good. And so are yours.” He shoves his towel into his backpack, and doesn’t miss Jungkook’s slight smile and hard lip bite.
“Taehyung’s waiting outside,” Jungkook says. “We wanted to make sure you weren’t late for lunch.”
“I’m not late for everything,” Jimin protests. It is another twenty minutes before he’s ready, and another five minutes when he retraces his steps to find his cell phone. Taehyung rolls his eyes and laughs, but he also investigates the classroom until Jungkook finally just calls the number.
“I’ve always thought Jimin was late because he took so much time in the morning, preening in front of the mirror.” Hoseok imitates petting his face, pursing his lips into a false kiss. “Oh, thank you,” he adds, when Jimin has split his cake in half and gives Hoseok the other portion.
“But he also gets lost really easily. I’ve seen him get lost in our neighborhood, where he’s lived his whole life,” Taehyung argues. “He gets lost even though he’s been at this school longer than Jungkook, who’s never gotten lost.”
“I think Jimin just likes looking at the little things,” Jungkook says. “Since he’s so short himself, he can’t help it.”
“I’m not short,” Jimin says shortly. “And I don’t get lost that easily.”
“I found you last week near the basketball court,” Taehyung says. “You were supposed to meet me in my room.” To that, Jimin takes a larger bite of his cake.
“At least he gets there eventually,” Jungkook says, melded to Taehyung’s side with a cheeky grin.
The light striking through the trees turns the leaves amber. Wind sends the dry leaves scuttling across the paved sidewalk, sounding like striking tinder. Beneath the burning foliage, the beige wool coats and knitted mufflers have emerged from dusty closets. The slender white book stands out, the lettering in simple gold foil and the picture of an ambiguous flower on the front. ‘The Dictionary of Flowers,’ a best-seller.
“I don’t think it’s accurate,” Jungkook says, flipping through his worn copy. Taehyung’s copy has been dog-earred, Hoseok’s copy pristine. Jimin bought a CD and a biography for Namjoon at the bookstore instead. Still, the dawn’s light permeates through the park and he leans over Jungkook’s shoulder.
The watercolor of flowers wisp through the pages. He brushes the back of Jungkook’s hand when he wants to pause on a page, withdrawing to his stark wrist when he finishes skimming. The blooms cascade from royal azure to poignant gold, but most petals do not survive unscathed, stained with blood from being pushed through the vise grip of the heart. Only after the petals have been bathed in warm water does the scarlet violence fade, leaving wet hands to parse through the book.
The ultimate cruelty of the dictionary, though, remained that full flowers meant death would come in days. Spitting out seeds was a warning, petals the sign, and blossomed flowers the peak. Those who perused the pages, frantic for meaning, would have a short span of a day before they wilted like the flower before them.
“I should go study something that actually matters,” Jimin says, but does not move. “I thought you usually went to the gym now.”
“I don’t have to go,” Jungkook says, finger slipped as a bookmark in the Q’s. “Are you going now?”
“Well,” Jimin says. “I don’t have to go.”
When the sun faded into darkness, the street lamps lit the pavement in soft circles of light. The way they lined the street made them appear like stages of the moon, the crescent of their transparent globes fading in their descent. The book had been long abandoned, replaced by Jimin’s bluetooth earbuds. He shared one with Jungkook and played music on his phone, one ear free to listen to the rustling leaves while he watched the stillness of the night.
He dreams of blood petals dripping from his mouth. Jaws clenched, the pistils and calyx push against his teeth. Metallic blood gushes down his chin and the strong aroma surrounds him. He spits out the bruised flower into his hands. So much blood runs through his fingers that the flower resembles a heart. His heart, chewed up and taken out of him.
When he awakens, with a sudden start, his cell phone displays that it’s only three in the morning. He has a text from Jungkook about the game he showed him, which he reads with numb eyes. The dark room menaces around him, and he toes on his slippers to stumble into the bathroom, door part way closed to not wake Hoseok sleeping on the next bed. In the mirror, with shaking hands, he pulls on his mouth to stare at his tongue. His fingers explore his mouth until he dry heaves into the porcelain sink, tears dripping from his eyes.
He jumps at the touch to his back. Hoseok’s sleepiness has not been rubbed away from his eyes, but he combs through Jimin’s hair.
In the main room, Jimin sits on Hoseok’s chair while Hoseok brings him a cup of cool water. He has turned on the desk lamp rather than the ceiling light, leaving most of the furniture in gloom. The water breaks upon his throat with relief, like how Hoseok’s fingers had been calm against his sweating brow.
“I love you,” Jimin says. “I wish that wasn’t such a scary thing to say.”
“It’s okay.” Hoseok yawns against his fist, sitting on his bed. The blankets had been thrown to the side, his pillow mashed beneath his arm. “You’re afraid of falling in love easily. That’s reasonable.”
“It was so much better before the disease,” Jimin tells the mug. The water ripples when he lowers his head to take a sip, the undulations crashing into stillness.
“I think so, too,” Hoseok says. “But don’t get me wrong. People have always died from broken hearts, it just came in different ways.”
Jimin rubs his fingers against the hard ceramic mug.
“I don’t know if this will help or make things worse, but.” Hoseok scratches his head, his bedhead vertical. “I got the surgery, too.”
“What?” Jimin nearly spills his water. He grapples onto Hoseok’s bed, hands pressed against his chest to feel for scars through the thin pajama top. His hands run over the buttons and the soft silkiness of the fabric, but he can only feel smooth skin and the warmth from Hoseok’s pumping heart.
“It’s modern nowadays,” Hoseok says. “Got it through the mouth. They still made incisions inside me, really small ones, but you can’t see them. Isn’t that cool?”
“No,” Jimin says. Hoseok laughs, leaning back on his bed.
“Guess not.” Hoseok grins at the wall, eyes half-closed. “It didn’t ruin my life. I know you’re afraid, and that’s A-OK. But just because you’re really, really afraid, that doesn’t make it real. Not everything you fear will come to pass, so don’t let your fear blind you to the real things.”
“I’d rather have you alive, more than anything,” Jimin says. “But why didn’t you tell me? I would have been there for you. How did you do it? Do you miss your feelings?”
“I guess it left a flower-shaped hole inside me.” Hoseok widens his eyes for a silly face, but drops down to his calm expression again. “I want you to live, too. But I understand why you, and especially you, wouldn’t want the surgery.”
“I’m glad you’re alive,” Jimin repeats.
“Me too. But I didn’t tell you this because I want your sympathy, though it’s a nice perk.” Hoseok studies him. “Jungkook and Taehyung are really worried about you. Especially Jungkook. You wear your heart on your sleeve, so when you hurt, I think he hurts, too.”
“Oh.” Jimin takes his phone from the desk. Though the hour is late, he texts Jungkook and includes a smiley face. He hasn’t even let go of the phone when the reply hits back, sending the phone into a hasty vibration. Even in the dark room, he has to smile at Jungkook’s bright response.
“I’ll sleep in your bed tonight,” Jimin tells Hoseok. He pads across the room to flick off the switch, and hears Hoseok murmur, “Yeah, it’s fine now.”
The bed had not been made for two, posts drilled into the floor so Jimin cannot push the beds together. They are crimped together, Jimin’s forearms flat against the wall. But he presses his head against Hoseok’s chest and listens for his breath.
“I’m sorry this happened to you.”
“It’s fine. Like I said, it’s fine now.”
“Does it ever hurt?” Jimin asks.
“No.” But Hoseok’s hand drifts to hold Jimin’s shoulder, light enough that Jimin could think this was his imagination.
“I miss when love was just nice,” Jimin murmurs. He drowses away, half-hearing Hoseok’s deep inhale that crests and fades.
“I don’t think love was ever kind,” Hoseok says in the darkness. “I think you’re kind, Jimin. But there’s a difference.”
He’s still sleeping in Hoseok’s bed when he hears a knock on the door. Light streams into the room in patches, touching on the empty floor. He shivers from the morning cold, not bothering to shrug on a jacket before he opens the door a crack.
“Good morning,” Jungkook says.
“Good morning.” Jimin rubs his arms for warmth while Jungkook pushes into the room. “Are you looking for Hoseok? He has early morning classes today.”
“No, I was looking for you.”
“Me? Is everything okay?” Jimin shivers while he folds the blanket on Hoseok’s bed, fluffing his pillow and tucking in the edges. Jungkook recovers a jacket Jimin had casually slung on his chair a night ago, and places this around Jimin’s shoulders.
“I didn’t want to go to class today.”
“That’s fine,” Jimin says. “Did you want to stay here in case the teachers check your room again? I have a new game that you can play.”
“I wanted to go into town. Did you have anything important to do?” Of course Jungkook would ask that, first. Jimin leans against his cluttered desk.
“Nothing could be more important than you,” he says. “But I should probably water the plants before Hoseok comes back.” He owns a row of budding succulents, far enough removed from bright flowers that he can stand to tend to them. They sit on the windowsill, the winter light subduing their greens into a pastel minty phase. Jungkook crowds around him, curious, while he unearths the horse-imprinted watering can from the shelf.
“Are you going to trim that one?” Jungkook asks, pointing to a gangly succulent, bottom leaves already withering while the top stretched for the window.
“I probably should,” Jimin says. “But I don’t know if I can.” He softens his voice, embarrassed, at the end. Jungkook nods, expression delicate. The winter has bleached him too, until he resembles a statue with porcelain veins, the only color on his red mouth. When he feels Jimin’s gaze, he tilts his head with a goofy grin that sends Jimin reeling, laughter bubbling out of him and nearly falling to the ground, save for Jungkook’s hands gripping tight on his elbows.
He expects the gym, a cafe, or even the swimming pool. He has sat with his legs in the water, watching Jungkook front crawl through the cerulean water. The way Jungkook slices through the waves, pulling himself forward through his long arms, red-and-white lane dividers bobbing up and down, does make this an enjoyable time for Jimin. Especially the end, when Jungkook turns around and snaps his goggles to his forehead, slicking off the water from his hair.
But Jungkook takes him across town. He coughs a few times from the cold, sending hot vapors steaming into the air. They pass a cathedral, modeled in a psuedo-Gothic fashion, that offers sanctuary on its fading signboard. A hospital has a bulletin board stationed closer to the street, stating surgery was recommended even at the seed stage, that blossomed flowers meant death was near. They wander further out, beyond where the florist had once decorated their shop full of foliage and greenery. Not until Jimin spots the crest of a Ferris wheel that he realizes the destination.
The amusement park had been closed for as long as Jimin remembered, a relic of happier times. From the distant hill, the skulking shapes and twisted metal resembled giants of the past, dragging their heavy clubs behind them and crushing towns in their wake. Up close, the cheer of the amusement park remains visible despite the thin layer of grime. The large iron gate remains almost pristine, and Jungkook takes him to where a bush has hidden a hole in the fence.
Rather than a post-Apocalypse decay, reclaimed by nature, the bright colors have only been muted by years in the sun and rain. The mascots have scars, but smile from their stands. The swinging pirate ride has halted, waves frozen in mid-crash. In the center, the yellow-and-blue top of the merry-go-round has been beaten and weathered, but the white horses dance beneath twisted gold poles, reflective paint wilted to reveal dark patches. Jimin touches a bright red sled, but Jungkook takes him by the hand and drags him further into the park.
They reach an enclosed building, the sign broken and faded without electricity. Jimin steps over puddles to reach the door, where Jungkook pauses to snap on his face mask, secured over his nose.
“Did you come here alone?” Jimin asks. “That’s dangerous.” But he spins on his heel, marveling at the Ferris wheel, which towers over the abandoned city.
“No, I came with some others. Taehyung, too.”
“Let’s go to a real amusement park one day,” Jimin says. “I mean, one where we can ride the rides. You can go on the roller coasters and I’ll hold your things.”
Jungkook’s smile reaches his eyes, crinkling their corners. He opens the door, which murmurs from the rust. Light streamed from the higher windows, and Jimin fumbles to hold Jungkook’s hand, eyes wide and mouth ajar.
A field of pale flowers have reclaimed the building. They are beautiful and pristine, even more for the juxtaposition against the caricatures of amusement park paintings on the wall. Jimin would not be able to count them even if he had the entirety of the day, and he finds himself stepping into the field with a wondrous disbelief. His fingers brush over the sea of flowers, the galaxy of blossoms. He’s careful not to tread on the plants, but he bends his knees to inhale the light aroma. When he kneels, he can see the thin veins on the petals, curled delicate to protect itself. He can touch the vibrant green stem and hold the leaves between his fingertips. But when he raises his head, the sight is whole and complete, a garden rooted in the smell of fresh dirt.
“It’s pretty,” Jimin says. He turns. “It’s pretty, Jungkook.”
Jungkook nods, arms crossed at his chest and leaning against the door. He seems happy, though the mask hides his mouth and nose.
“Oh, your nose,” Jimin says, hurrying back. “We shouldn’t stay here long.”
“It’s okay,” Jungkook says. “I’ve dealt with this for a while. You should go play a little.”
“I don’t need to do that, this is pretty enough.” Jimin strokes Jungkook’s hair, and he thinks Jungkook leans into his palm. “If it hurts, you should say something sooner.”
“It doesn’t hurt. I’m happy. Go play.” Jungkook grins, which Jimin could tell from the stars in Jungkook’s eyes. “I’ll hold your things.”
Jimin has to be prodded, but he returns to the garden. The bed of flowers beckon to him, and he runs his fingers along the soft petals. He thinks he can understand some of Jungkook’s reasoning to take him to this place. His fear of flowers seem ridiculous when he steps through the plot, feeling the softness yield to him. To see the plants rooted in dirt, natural and persistent, makes him feel like he could grow, too. He could bloom.
But some of Jungkook’s reasoning still mystify him. When he turns, Jungkook has his phone out and records him. He throws his hands up and spins around, play-dances amongst the flowers and laughs, and he can tell Jungkook smiles, too, even though he stands distant across the field of flowers.
“Is this fun for you?” Jimin asks.
“If it’s fun for you,” Jungkook says. He flips through his videos. From his angle, the screen has been tinted to darkness, but Jimin can still see several video clips.
They sit at the sled at the merry-go-round, the metal cool and indifferent under their weight. Jimin sits with his chin resting on his crossed arms. He had actually liked the florist, who had wreaths and posies, flower crowns and bouquets to sell. He’d forgotten about that.
“The world is so big,” Jimin says. “Do you ever think of that?” In the darkness, the stars scattered above their heads.
“You’re very romantic,” Jungkook says.
“I think it’s very nice. I like loving someone. I like being in love. I like being loved. I like all of that, even if Hoseok’s right. It isn’t always nice.” Jimin gazes up at the sky, velvet and expansive. “But I can’t stop, even if I wanted to stop it. And I don’t.”
“I’m glad that you feel better.”
“Really,” Jimin says, turning towards him. “Who taught you to be this caring?”
“What if I said it was you?” Jungkook tilts his head, and accepts Jimin’s weight when he collapses on him with laughter. Jungkook still smells like flowers from the field, and Jimin rests with his feet hanging outside the sled.
When his phone buzzes, he barely wants to answer it. But Jungkook’s phone buzzes, too, a group message. Jimin foists his phone from his pocket while Jungkook digs through his cargo pants. A quick text. ‘Taehyung, hospital, petals.’
His body is cold. His heart thrums in his ears, his hands, his feet. He climbs out of the sled and his legs are giving out beneath him, trying to grasp the pole to steady himself, but he cannot feel it. Taehyung. Taehyung, his soulmate and best friend, with petals overflowing in his throat. He tries to swallow, but his throat is dry and he gulps pockets of hard air.
“Jimin,” Jungkook says. His hands are heavy on Jimin’s shoulders. “It’s okay. It’s only petals, we have time. They haven’t bloomed yet.”
“I have to go,” Jimin says. “We have to go. Who does he love? He has to love them back. Or he has to get the treatment, he has to do it.” His head swims and he allows Jungkook to push him back into the seat. Jungkook looks haunted, his phone in his hand and his head bowed. Jimin extends a numb hand to touch Jungkook’s face, to offer some comfort, but Jungkook’s face crumples.
“Why didn’t he tell me? He would have told me,” Jimin says to himself. “If I wasn’t like this, he would have told me.”
“No.” Jungkook kneels beside him. “This isn’t your fault. He can’t help who he loves. We’ll help him, and it’ll be fine. It’s not your fault.”
“If I wasn’t so afraid, he would have told me.”
“He didn’t tell me, either,” Jungkook says. “It’s not on you to save everybody.”
“Who does he love?” Jimin holds his head in his hands. “He didn’t tell me anything. I haven’t noticed anything. We have to make sure it’s requited.”
“What if it’s you?”
Jimin turns his head, his neck muscles tense and straight, to stare at Jungkook. Despite his long stare, Jungkook holds his gaze with an unreadable expression in his shining eyes.
“What?”
“If it’s you. Would you say that you loved him, even if you didn’t?”
“I tell him I love him all the time.”
“Jimin.” Jungkook’s hand clamps around his wrist, but Jimin pulls away. He stumbles away from the merry-go-round. In the dark, he almost trips over the metal bumps and hits the ground harder than he thought. The reverberations echo into his bones and he pushes his hair out of his face, trying to see more than the vague shadows.
“He would have said something if he loved me that way. So that can’t be it. It’s probably someone else, so it doesn’t matter,” Jimin tells the darkness.
“Would you lie to him?”
“I don’t know what you want me to say!” Jimin throws out his arms. The moon hangs over them, low and looming, sliced in half from the arched Ferris wheel. “Everything’s cruel, I know that! I’ve always known that! But my best friend is sick, and we have to go see him, we have to, we need to save him.” Because he does not feel vindicated that his worst fears are manifesting, nor did he feel like he had prepared. His nightmares of worrying had not protected him from the cold sinking in his stomach, the sandpaper throat, the empty ring in his head. A bitter acidity wells up from his esophagus, his reward.
The snow must have fallen for a while, invisible flecks that melt into rivulets on his jacket. They waltz and twirl in the darkness, melting on his hot cheeks and entangling into his eyelashes. Jungkook stands on the platform of the merry-go-round beside the prancing white horses. He blends into the darkness except for the red logo on his sweatshirt and his hands, pale and dropped to his sides, too heavy to hold.
“Come on,” Jimin says, voice a quiet murmur through the consoling creaks of the buildings. He holds out his hand. Eventually, Jungkook takes it.
Jimin squeezes his hand once, and turns to find the crested exit. The flashlight app on his phone spills only enough to see the snow, like static, falling to the ground. He does get lost easily. He cannot remember the pathway back. But he drags Jungkook behind him and focuses his compass towards Taehyung, who must have suffered and coughed the bloody petals alone. His limbs freeze, crooked, when he thinks how Taehyung must have cried to see blood-soaked seeds bloom.
A wet, heavy cough. A cough familiar from his nightmares, a memory and reality. Jimin’s hand flies to his throat, but he finds nothing but the expanse of his neck. He turns to Jungkook, who stares at him.
Jimin reaches for the mask.
Jungkook pushes him away. He is strong and limber, hidden behind the way he usually touches Jimin, like he has been crafted from glass. But now Jungkook shoves Jimin hard enough that he stumbles back, losing grip on the ground. Jimin launches himself back with a dancer’s integrity, twisting in his grasp and fighting like an angry cat. He digs in his fingers into Jungkook’s arms and stretches out a hand, even while Jungkook knocks his forearm away. Jimin attacks again, and Jungkook loses his footing and falls to the ground. Jimin claws to grip the elastic strap, fingers sliding against Jungkook’s cheek, until he manages to snap one off the ear and the mask falls to the ground.
All that remains is their heavy breathing and the small white petal sticking from Jungkook’s clenched teeth.
Jimin presses his fingers into Jungkook’s face, fighting Jungkook’s weak shoves. He yanks apart Jungkook’s mouth, fingers tight against his jaw, and the flower drops out. He recognizes the white flower. Queen Anne’s lace. He saw that in the dictionary. It means Jungkook is dying.
Jungkook must have been swallowing the flowers throughout the trip because he chokes, his hand gripped tight against Jimin’s arm to leave bruises beneath his skin. He pounds Jungkook’s back, and Jungkook coughs up the intricate, lacy flowers, their stalks entangling like a maze.
They come, one after another. They arrive into the world with their small clusters of white, their feathery leaves, landing into Jimin’s outstretched hands. The latticework of the flowers entangle together, delicate and layered filigrees that seem too complicated to have been woven inside a human being. But they emerge, dropping in quiet, frantic chokes, until they spill from Jimin’s hands. The tufted leaves do not hurt him, nor do the bundles of flowers that resemble snowflakes falling to the blanketed snow, the petals curled.
Jungkook hurls one last time, and then he is silent, save for his heaving, desperate breath. The last flower has no complicated needlework. A white rose, simple and pure.
Jimin cannot move. He is bruised, eye swelling from a stray elbow and a tender pain from his arm. The intricate map of vessels have burst inside him. He sits on his knees and his hands have been filled with flowers. Jungkook is quiet, his cheek wetted. The tip of his nose and the rims of his eyes burn a dull flushed red. Guilt plays over his face. Shame, sadness. He stares down at the flowers, and then raises his head and stares into Jimin’s eyes.
“Love me, or I’ll die,” Jungkook says. His mouth quirks, like he’s telling a joke, but he drops his head into his hands. His eyes are wet, glimmering. When he blinks, a cold tear trickles down his fingers and onto the pale bouquet.
The flowers are quiet and cold, and hold no weight. Jimin could hold them all in one hand. He could release them into his lap. He could weave a thorned crown. He could tie the yielding, pliant stems.
He could press each blossom down his throat and swallow them whole, feeling their heavy sweetness filling him inside.