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Every year, Taeyong slowly prepares himself for it. Not that it’s particularly taxing on his body, no more arduous than a gasp or a hiccup or a staggered intake of breath, but he enjoys it, this quiet, one-man ceremony before the celebration. It’s a way for him to make certain that there will be enough space, in his home and the rooms of his heart, for what will come.
Furniture is rearranged to accommodate the flowers that will be blooming from his chest on the day of his birth. Jars and glass boxes that will house and show off his friends’ gifts are bought weeks in advance. Books are collected and set aside in a pile in the corner of his living room, in case he fancies pressing some flower petals in between their yellowing pages, to be harvested at a later time.
This sentimental quality of his is one that his friends lovingly poke at, eager to share to anyone willing to hear about the time fourteen-year-old Taeyong cried when his ticket to a local band’s last show was tampered with before he could frame it. Or how he will insist on dragging everyone out for camping at least once a year, because, after all, it was during their middle-school camping trip that they learned they enjoyed each other’s company enough to call themselves friends.
(A few years down the line, they’ll tease him about the dried up petals of what once was a vibrant sunflower, which he stored in one of his journals, for safety and secrecy. An admission he made to himself and those that watch over the universe, not unlike the confessions he penned with his shaking hand, much smaller then than it is now.)
Taeyong can’t help that he cares so deeply. It’s just his nature, just the way that he’s always lived—with a tight grasp on the things he held dear, a kind word resting on his tongue, and his hopeful heart bravely beating on his sleeve. His grandparents, the only parents he’d ever known, who left him jars full of white hyacinths before they passed, liked to tell him that he had a big heart, but he’s not so sure he believes that. Taeyong just loves to love, and he makes certain that there is never any shortage of it, when he is in your life.
It isn’t surprising, then, that when the love he so freely gives in abundance is returned, he makes sure to savor it. It’s why he will keep the otherwise worthless knick knacks, because they’re imbued with memories too priceless to ever forget.
It’s why he will tend to these flowers as best he can. These flowers are proof that he is cared for, that he is loved. And the garden inside Taeyong, the one his friends grow inside his chest, is the most beautiful this time of year.
These are flowers that he knows to expect. From Doyoung. From Ten. From Yuta.
Clusters of alstroemeria, chrysanthemum, and sweet pea.
Thank you, for the joy that you have brought and continue to bring. Your sweetness makes you deserving of only good things, dearest friend.
But if there’s a flower he looks forward to receiving more than any other, that’s for Taeyong to know. (Johnny, too, when it feels right.)
For now, though, this will be just fine. This—the sunflowers that he always receives just a few minutes shy of midnight, not on the first day of July, but on the last day of June. It is as though Johnny wants to be the first to let Taeyong know that he is cherished. He is, after all, Taeyong’s oldest friend, the most constant presence in Taeyong’s life.
Except, this year, instead of Johnny’s sunflowers came the sound of his doorbell, ringing loudly in the stillness of the night.
It’s Johnny, with his hands behind his back, and his mouth forms around a greeting before Taeyong can even think to make a sound.
“Happy birthday, Yong.”
He brings his hands to his front and—
Oh.
Cradled between Johnny’s hands is the most breathtaking bouquet Taeyong has ever seen. Remarkable not for its size or its design, but for what it means.
Sunflowers and red roses.
Johnny and Taeyong.
How wonderful it is, to be adored just as deeply as you love.
“We look good together, don’t we?” Johnny notes cheekily with his disarming smile, because he needn’t ask. There must be a reason why their bodies fit the way they do—why his head tucks perfectly underneath the softness of Johnny’s chin, why Johnny’s body runs warm and Taeyong’s runs cold, why their hands and eyes always linger and leave each other’s skin feeling flushed and feverish.
When Johnny’s lips meet Taeyong’s so they can share their first kiss, it is chaste, it is sweet. It’s a gentle declaration, an expression of mutual affection. They stumble into the doorway just like that, and Johnny finally crosses the threshold of Taeyong’s apartment not as his childhood friend, or lifelong crush, or secret admirer, but as his lover.
They fall into each other on Taeyong’s bed, all trembling hands and tender words, with the moon bearing witness to the culmination of their years-long slow dance.
It doesn’t feel like coming home, because Taeyong has always been home—he’s always been around Johnny. But tonight Johnny lights up every single room in Taeyong’s heart, in a way that no one has managed to before, chasing away any unfounded fears, and casting a gentle light on the grief that Taeyong’s learned to befriend. It leaves Taeyong feeling overwhelmed with an unbridled sense of joy, knowing that he will never have to go another day without this warmth. Because these lights will never go out, he’s sure of it. And should they ever be apart, they will borrow the language of flowers, and the vibrant petals will keep them company, until they can be together once more.
Dawn has just begun to spill into the sky when sleep finds him. His heart is full, and in just a few hours, his chest will be, too.
He dreams about the friends he now calls family, and the gifts that await him when he wakes. He dreams about Johnny, who is pressed against the length of his spine, and the delicate flowers inked on his tan skin. About the sunflowers he’d grown for Taeyong, and the roses Taeyong grew for him, too, over the years. Yellow, then pink, then red; a friendship that was always fated to blossom into something sweeter, as certain as the turning of the seasons, slow but sure.
Taeyong falls asleep with a smile, feeling so incredibly loved. He knows that he is, and he’s got a garden’s worth of flowers to prove it.