Chapter Text
Every year, the flower shop just by their university gets the same order. It's a nice shop, much too expensive for a casual bouquet, but their Valentine's Day offer is too good to refuse. Coins pass across the counter, exchanged for stalks wrapped in ribbon.
They haven't been at the university for long, but it's enough for the beginnings of a tradition.
Every year, on the same day. The order comes in weeks before, and is always picked up at the same time. The same two hands pay, while the other pair keep the flowers close to their chest. The ribbon binding them together is always the same shade of pink.
The same bouquet, a simple combination of two flowers, lives on their kitchen counter until the bright petals decorate the tiles of the floor.
It seems as strong as their relationship. The flowers never last, but the tradition is something that will outlast even the small shop, until an acorn planted on the first day had grown into the most magnificent oak. Simple, but strong.
The workers at the shop expect the order. They know the time it arrives by heart, hands over mouths as they gossip about how cute the couple is. How some things never change, and that the love between them shines as bright and ancient as the stars.
This year, the ribbon is the same. An identical size bouquet to last year, with the same silver coins that they expect to glint across the table. They expect the same order, two flowers, alstroemeria and peonies.
The sunflowers come as surprise.
[-]
Chan is sat on the couch when the doorbell rings. The sound rings out loud and clear in their apartment; although both Minho and him love having music playing at all times, they've only just gotten inside from classes.
Well, Minho had been in class. Chan, in typical Chan-fashion, had not been in class. He didn't have a lecture to attend at that point (at least, he was fairly certain of that, after Changbin had ripped up his timetable in revenge for spilling chocolate milk over his new laptop, after one very late night he'd spent producing) and been waiting outside for Minho to join him. It was the best place to be at that moment, since he was trying to hide from Changbin, who avoided classes like they were the plague as well.
Not even revenge tactics could force the younger boy to come within a three-foot radius of someone who even just looked like they were studying.
Plus, the natural light made Chan's nail polish sparkle rather nicely. He'd gone for a mixture of silver and black this time, matching the chains hanging from his hip, and although he was usually content with plain black, the colour scheme was beginning to grow on him.
Minho, of course, had noticed straight away.
He'd held up Chan's fingers to his own hair, comparing the grey-ish colour, and laughing when Chan had told him he'd done it on purpose. "I don't believe you," he'd said as they made their way back to their apartment, ruffling his hair away from its signature middle-parting, "That would require thought, and you, Mr. Bang Chan, are not the most blessed in the braincell department."
"You'll be begging me to let you share my braincells in a few months," Chan had replied, grin equally as wide, "All that bleach must be starting to sink in by now."
Not that he minded Minho's silvery hair, of course. The colour looked stunning on him, especially when paired with some of their black and silver t-shirts, but he knew all too well what the price of coloured hair was. His own was only just beginning to heal, and that was without Hyunjin's attempt to burn it off with a flame-thrower.
They'd made the rest of their way back to the apartment in relative peace. Chan had thought he'd spotted Changbin at one point and pulled them both behind a lamppost to hide, which had earned them both a few strange looks, but it had turned out not to be him.
Minho opens the door in one smooth motion. He kicks his shoes off and sends them flying to the other side of the room, barely missing Chan as he does so.
"Watch where you're kicking those things!" Chan yells when he doesn't even get an apology. Minho's shoes are well known for not being light and delicate, much like the rest of his fashion sense. Getting hit with one of those in the face would hurt.
"Maybe I'll just have to aim for you next time," comes the only response. Minho is moving from the kitchen to the living room and back again the whole time he's speaking, leading to some very interesting audio effects. Chan frowns. Maybe he should sample that for his next track.
His retort about actually, one of the kids could have been hit dies before it's even left his mouth. Now completely distracted, he stands up, ready to run to the bedroom to grab his microphone. There's the beginning of a melody in his head already, a piano track to mix with the eerie effects of the fading voc-
The doorbell rings, and just as quickly as the song had arrives, it disappears.
Chan pauses. They weren't expecting anyone, were they?
Hyunjin should still be in classes, as he often had full days. Unless Jeongin was skipping high school to visit them (which would be a pretty bad idea, as Chan had been voted the most likely to thwart skiving attempts only a few weeks earlier, although Minho had then prompty been voted most likely to hide the said skiving student from Chan), he would be nowhere near their apartment either. And, checking his watch, it's lunchtime. That would make it right on time for Seungmin's prime hour of scamming students out of money near the fountain.
He glances to Minho, who's frozen in the hallway. "I don't think so," Minho replies after thinking for a few seconds. "We don't have any deliveries due soon, do we?"
There's a pause, and then, "Could it be Changbin?"
Chan shudders. It better not be Changbin. He'd thought he'd successfully fooled him into hanging around the maths halls! "I'm not opening the door."
Minho raises his eyebrows. "Uh, I think you are. It's your own fault for spilling that chocolate milk, and I'm not getting impaled in your place."
"You won't be saying that if Changbin does kill me." But he gets up anyway. There's no use arguing against Minho when he knows he's not going to win. It's just a waste of energy, and he's going to need that in order to run away from Changbin as quickly as possible.
"He won't kill you," Minho calls from the kitchen, "He's like two foot tall. I'd bet on you winning any day, babe."
Chan just rolls his eyes, and eyes the door one last time. Ugh, it better not be Changbin. Although what Minho's said is probably correct, and Chan would be able to win, that means nothing if it's not a fair fight. They never had been able to work out where Hyunjin had gotten the flamethrower from, after all.
He opens the door, ready to dodge Changbin's choice of weapon immediately.
And end up frozen in place.
Standing in front of him is not Changbin. It's a boy maybe an inch taller than him, and a few years younger than Chan himself. He's practically drowning in a massive pale-pink sweatshirt, the edges of which spill out from his pastel blue dungarees. It merges into a collar by his neck, the fabric decorated with pain-stakingly neat embroidered flowers. His hand is still hanging in the air by the doorbell, fingertips barely visible from inside his sleeves.
The make-up around his eyes shimmers slightly in the flickering hallway light. It matches his clothes: delicate shades of light purple and pink that make his honey skin seem to glow. His hair is a light blond and certainly much softer that Chan's had ever been. As Chan tries not to let his mouth drop open, the boy squeaks.
He takes a step backwards finally, breaking both of them out of whatever strange trance they'd been in.
"Oh," he raises his hands in panic, cheeks turning a flustered pink, "I'm so sorry! I thought-"
Chan doesn't hear the rest of whatever the very cute boy has to say. Instead, his mind has broken down, reduced to repeating a single word over and over again.
freckles freckles freckles freckles freckles
There is glitter on the boy's freckles. It had caught in the light as he'd stepped back, glinting a mesmerising silver in the yellow of the hallway. The shade almost matched Chan's nails, and if he wasn't completely frozen to the spot, he doubts he'd have been able to stop himself from taking a few steps forwards and comparing them.
There's a presence behind him. Arms wrap around his chest, pulling him from out of the middle of the doorway. Chan can't fight it. He knows what Minho's body feels like pressed against his, and the younger boy knows him well enough to know he won't take offence at being pushed out of the way like this.
"I'm so sorry," Freckles says again, but he can't stop looking from Chan to Minho and back again. "I really did think this is where he lived. I hope I didn't disturb you."
Minho smiles. "There's no problem," he says, letting go of Chan in favour of leaning against the doorframe, "It's an easy mistake to make. Jisung actually lives in the dorm to our left, but someone swapped the numbers to the doors a few months back."
Freckles' eyes widen. He cranes his neck down the corridor, probably checking that what they're saying makes sense. It does (why would they lie about it? the only reason why they haven't changed it back is because it's too funny to watch Hyunjin enter an apartment full of strangers every time he comes to visit), and Freckles laughs at loud.
It's cute.
Contrasting to his deep voice and soft clothes, and yet so perfectly him that Chan wouldn't expect anything else. Beside him, he feels Minho almost slip of the doorframe. Maybe he wasn't the only one whose heart had just skipped a beat, after all.
"Thank you so much," says Freckles, before turning to knock on the correct apartment instead.
As soon as he turns away, Minho closes their own door slowly. It closes with a click, loud in the absolute silence of the room. All Chan can hear is the beating of his own heart, and Freckles' laugh.
"Holy shit," Minho says eventually, as Chan flops down onto the sofa, eyes wide and still looking shell-shocked. "He kinda looked like a cat. Is it weird that I'm slightly in love already?"
All Chan can do is smile back.
The conversation dies down after that. They'll talk through it later, but only once they've processed the experience on their own. It's important to talk, the first few awkward months and lack of communication had taught them that, but it's equally as important not to rush into things. They tread carefully.
Minho returns to the kitchen, even if Freckles remains on his mind. Chan kicks his feet up into the air, lying backwards on the couch. The last few chords of the song are still ringing in his head, a melody improvised. He'd thought he'd forgotten it, and maybe he had, but Freckles' face just won't leave his mind. The sight turns into a song, just as it always does.
Maybe he should have been more careful with Changbin's laptop. This is the best inspiration he's had in a while, and the couch is already miles behind him. For now, he's locked in his room, the keyboard and half-assed producing set in front of him blending into hour after hour.
He doesn't rest until the song is finished.
And from there, it lies forgotten. Slowly, Freckles faded into the background of their lives. Every so often, they catch a glance of someone reminding them of him: the pastel clothes, the glowing skin, the very edge of a sentence as Minho runs to his next class in the rain.
The world keeps turning. Chan and Minho don't have the time to be chasing sunflowers.
[-]
Chan picks up a black shirt, and holds it against his body. "What do you think?"
Minho squints at the fabric. Really, it's just another black shirt. It looks the same as the rest of Chan's black shirts, right down to the low v-cut neck. He almost contemplates giving in and saying it's fine, but who is Lee Minho if he's willing to give up that easily. Stubbornness is practically his middle name. "How is that any different to the last shirt you bought?"
"This one has silver buttons," Chan says, rolling his eyes. But he looks back at the shirt again and sighs, putting it back on the rail.
Minho scoffs, but it's not mean. They've already got a bag filled full of new clothes between them, but it's well known that this store will always be their favourite. It's pretty hard to locate, tucked behind a few side-roads that look like shady alleys upon first glance, but the clothes are so much better than anywhere else nearby. Just the right mix of vintage and alternative, gender-neutral, and most importantly, full of items support their e-boy lifestyle perfectly.
"Try it on," he says. Chan looks up in surprise, as if he hadn't still been glancing longingly behind him every five seconds.
"Really?"
"It's your money," Minho takes the shirt back off the rail and hands it back to Chan. He's got to admit that at a second glance, there's much more intricacies in the shirt than he'd first thought. The fit is quite nice as well, and it would suit Chan well. "It's nice. The buttons match your nails." He waggles his eyebrows, "Good for a strip tease, even"
Chan rolls his eyes to hide his grin. "Shut up."
He takes the shirt, taking care to run his fingers over Minho's knuckles. The fabric passes between them, and he walks off towards the changing rooms. Minho watches him as he goes.
He'll be a while. He always is. Despite how easily he buys similar clothes, Chan is incredibly meticulous when it comes to what he wants to wear. Every outfit is coordinated, thought through how well it fits with the rest of his wardrobe, how it makes him appear from every angle. It's what made him stand out so well on the internet, in a world so obsessed with how things appear.
Minho turns back to the clothes on the rail next to him. They're quite formal, much more suited to Chan's taste than his, but he's been needing a new shirt for a while now. As much as he'd prefer to go his whole life in black-and-white striped sleeves under t-shirts, job interviews disagree.
A pretty slither of fabric catches his eyes. Sliver, matching his hair, Chan's nails, the buttons on Chan's shirt, and he pulls the clothes on the rail apart to get a better look.
Someone stares back at him through the clothes.
Minho takes a step back out of shock. It takes a while for his beating heart to slow down. There's someone standing on the other side of the rail, he just hadn't spotted them before. They must have pulled the clothes on their corresponding sides back at the same time, and-
Freckles?
Now that the boy has also stepped backwards, Minho can see his face clearly. It is Freckles, his cheeks just as rosy and eyes glittering with just as much life. He must recognise Minho as well, by the look on his face.
Minho smiles, not expecting anything back.
Freckles smiles back at him.
This time, however, Minho's not being pushed to the side. There's no apartment door digging into his back, and Chan still hasn't emerged from the changing rooms, so he's not trying to stop him from embarrassing himself.
When Freckles smiles back this time, it's just for Minho.
"I didn't think I'd be seeing you again this soon," he says, pulling the clothes on the rack slightly further apart and revealing more of his pretty face. Minho almost drops the bag he'd been holding. From the impression he'd had outside their apartment, Freckles had seemed pretty shy. But now, having given up holding the clothes back, he comes around the side of the shelves, armed with conversation and delicate make-up.
Minho smiles back. His mind is working on auto-pilot. "You seem to know your way around this shop better than the dorms. Is this where you've been hiding the whole time?"
Freckles laughs. He comes closer, finally resurfacing from the end of the shelves, and Minho's breath is stolen away in one fell swoop.
This time, he's wearing a cropped lilac sweater over a pink t-shirt, accompanied by light blue jeans. The bottoms of his trousers are rolled up, revealing pink socks and matching pink vans. And now that Minho is closer, he can pick out the same intricate details that he'd noticed on Freckles' last outfit.
The lace hem on his rolled-up trousers. Tiny sequins sewn onto the jeans’ pockets. All tiny details, but with enough individuality that Minho has no doubts Freckles had put them there himself. Even now, as they get closer, there are the same flowers of the collar of this lilac sweater that had been there before.
Sunflowers. Embroidered by hand, no doubt, as each bright yellow petal is a slightly different length, the stitches not quite at machine perfection. And yet the skill is still remarkable. The colours are beautiful, almost the exact shade as the real thing, and they practically light up Freckles' skin.
"They're sunflowers," Freckles' voice breaks Minho out of his thoughts, only now making him realise that he must have been silent for quite some time. He hadn't meant to stare, he really hadn't, but there was something about the delicate stitch-work that had drawn him in and not let him go.
"I know," he says. And then - oh no, that sounded kind of rude, he doesn't want Freckles thinking he hates flowers or something - "I mean, they're pretty distinctive. Whoever did them must be really skilled."
Freckles goes bright red, confirming Minho's theory. "They're not that good," he says, hands going up to tug at the hem of his sweatshirt, "There's more than a few mistakes, and none of the petals are the right size, and I accidentally sewed the fabric together the first time so you can still see where the needle went through-"
"They look perfect."
Freckles freezes mid-sentence. He looks at Minho again, as if just seeing him for the first time. The embarrassment on his face turns to shock, then to curiosity, and then splits into a smile. "Thank you."
His voice is quiet, making it hard to hear with quite how deep it's gone, but so incredibly sincere. The shop seems to fade out into the distance. For a heartbeat, they both stare at the embroidered sunflowers in silence.
Then-
"Min!"
Chan's voice carries well, considering how lost Minho had been in his thoughts. The shop comes back into focus in a roar of sound, the conversation of people all around them dragging whatever was left of the moment they'd just shared away. And yet, as Freckles glances back up, he looks just as startled as Minho feels.
"Do you think these trousers would fit Hyunjin?" Chan continues. Far enough away that he doesn't realise what he's interrupted - although, Minho doesn't know what to call what he's just interrupted either. "He's been looking for a pair like this for a while, and I know it isn't his birthday for months but-"
"I should be going."
Freckles' voice tears Minho back. He's picked up his bags, bags that he hadn't even noticed he was carrying, and is already moving towards the exit of the shop. There are more than a few people in his way, but he dodges them effortlessly. Minho wonders if he's ever taken dance classes. He's got the natural air of a dancer, talent that Minho could spot a mile away.
He wouldn't been in any of Minho's classes, but maybe Hyunjin would know him. They look around a similar age.
Then again, even if he's never taken a dance class in his life, he might still know Hyunjin.
The younger boy has a tendency to work his way into every social group, even if none of them quite knew how he got there. None of them got on that well with him either, and Hyunjin's good looks tended to keep people wanting to only watch from a distance, but he still managed to keep on top of all the gossip at college. It wouldn't be surprising if Freckles' knew Hyunjin, or maybe even if Hyunjin knew Freckles' real na-
"Can I get your name?"
Minho calls. He'd forgotten in the heat of the moment, too caught up in thoughts and fantasies to make it back to the real world in time. And even now, as he calls out, Freckles is already gone. The door to the shop closes with a mocking ring of a bell, and Freckles' outline fades into the crowd of people outside.
The question dies in the warmth of the shop, and the last few yellow sunflower petals fall to the floor.
Chan appears from behind him, warmth against the cold. Not quite a sunflower, but just as bright. "Who was that?" he asks, when he sees Minho staring out into the glass, "What do you think? They might be too short, but it's the largest size they have that's not going to be too wide."
Minho turns. He doesn't even glance at the jeans, but instead takes Chan's free hand, holding it tight. "They look perfect."
[-]
The weather gets colder. The picturesque hopes of a white Christmas are long gone, but the dark clouds that hang over the city certainly haven't. The temperature plummets, the roads freeze over, and Felix's breath hands cold and white in the icy air.
The snow falls.
It's thick. Almost all at once, the sky seems to open up. The grey clouds shake with anger, before crying pale tears, burying the flowers of spring deep back beneath the ground. The soil will be frozen solid soon anyway, judging by how his shoes crunch on the frosty grass.
There are hardly any cars out on the road at this time. It's not particularly late, Felix even checks his watch just to make sure he hasn't been thrown forward in time a few hours, but the blinking face displays exactly what he'd expecting. The sky is so dark that it could be midnight. The snow is falling so heavily that he can barely see three feet in front of him.
It's cold.
Curse his dedication to fashion, Felix is not suitably dressed for a blizzard.
He looks cute, but that's practically a given when it comes to him (not to be biased, of course, but he's had enough people hitting on him to last a lifetime). His baggy jeans aren't doing much against the cold. The light blue sweater is too big, and the wind whistles through the holes in the woollen fabric. He's wearing his pink Dr Martens, so at least his toes aren't in danger of freezing off any time soon, but his fingers aren't so lucky.
Whose great idea was it for him not to wear a coat?
Felix snorts to himself. He rubs his hands together, trying to at least keep his body and mind active. Jisung was the one who'd taken the coat, of course, and it was more that Felix was the idiot for letting him borrow it. But Jisung’s eyes had been so big, and the reason that he'd lent his own coat to a cute dance major was too pitiful to ignore.
It was an added bonus that he got to see Jisung drowning in Felix's already-too-big coat. The material looked huge on Felix, but he managed to play the look off, the pastel tones matching the glitter on his cheeks and shoes. Jisung looked more like a child playing dress-up.
It had seemed like a good idea at the time.
But now, every step hurts. Felix's fingers are so cold that they've become warm. The pavement in front of him is beginning to become indistinguishable from the road, and he doesn't recognise this area of the city at all. The lights shouldn't be on this early, and the snow has blanketed every distinguishable feature he had been relying upon.
It's cold.
Felix is shivering. Where is he going again? Jisung's apartment- no, that can't be right, he's just left. His own apartment? The thought makes his insides freeze a little more. His apartment might be just as cold as the snow outside, and it certainly isn't any less lonely. His apartment has peeling wallpaper, a shower that barely works, plastic cutlery, and most importantly, low rent prices. It may be a dump, but it's all he can afford. Most of his money goes to clothes, in a desperate attempt to keep up appearances. The feeling of looking pretty warms his heart every time he sees himself in the mirror.
If he shines bright enough, maybe he can block out the sight of his world crumbling in around him.
Right, he's going to his apartment.
His hands have gone down to his jeans' pockets on instinct, running the pads of his fingers over the flowers he'd stitched there. Sunflowers, to be specific. Bright yellow, shining just as bright as him, and they're soft underneath his hands. They keep him grounded, keep him looking up and making his way through the maze of stree-
He steps into the road.
The sunflowers under his fingers don’t move. The snow beneath his feet sinks slightly further, and he’s so cold. The wind is so strong. His fingers might be turning blue for all that he knows, but he can’t see them anymore. The dark sky is now a swirling black, not even being able to kid himself into thinking it’s still grey.
The world is covered in a blanked of white, so thick and so heavy. The sunflowers he planted in the park near his house might not come up this year, he thinks. It’s so cold, and the ground is frozen over.
This is no weather for sunflowers.
Felix keeps walking. The road might have ended, but it might have also just begun. His clothes are soaked through. His fingers are so numb that he can’t feel the stitchwork any more.
There are no cars. He'd been so sure there were no cars.
So why are there headlights coming right towards him?