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they set the date for three weeks from now.
well.
he says "they", but it's really just him. the only person responsible for organizing the surgery is just himself, after all. the doctors are going to take the flowers out so he can breath, so he can wake up without bloodied petals coating over his tongue, sticking in his throat.
he wonders what it will be like to no longer love.
it's what all the surgeries do: they take the flowers, but they take that affection too. can't uproot the thorns without taking the blooms with it.
he can't sleep that night. did he make the right choice? is it okay to just throw out his love in exchange for the flora to vacate his lungs?
he hopes the band won't be too mad at him. he doesn't know what it'll be like to not care for them, and he doesn't want them to misunderstand.
he hates that the disease has gotten this far. it was only for romantic love at first. couples falling out of love grew petals when they longed to return to each other, decades divorced parents coughing up stems and leaves for the people they already lost.
then it changed.
love for estranged siblings or parents, abusive households that killed in more ways than one. the flowers began to take over relationships between families when it couldn't be repaired. then it took a hold on platonic relationships.
jaewon hates that most of all. the one time, the only time in his life his lack of romance would help, and the damned flowers decide to choke out his only hope. they're so beautiful that it's sickening.
he looked up the meanings once. they say all the flowers have meanings depending on who they're for. he didn't like what they meant.
hydrangeas. anemones. sweet peas.
heartfelt emotions. fading hope; being forsaken. departure after a good time.
he doesn't tell them about the surgery. he doesn't tell anyone except the inner workings of his soul. whatever he thinks will soothe it makes the thorns constrict around his heart.
he coughs up nearly a whole flower for each of them; washing the petals delicately and pressing them in one of his old books.
he goes into surgery with thoughts of the band, those dear friends he has to leave behind. he doesn't know what else they'll take from him.
he doesn't know he doesn't know he dOESN'T KNOW HE DOESN'T KNOW HEDIDN'TKNOWHEDIDN'TKNOWHEDIDN'TKNOW
he doesn't feel.
they wake him up. he expects to feel happy. at least relief.
he doesn't.
he stops by the coffee temple and orders his usual. junsu is there. jaewon expects to enjoy the sugary sweet taste of the coffee, so close to candy; expects that at least he'll get to talk to junsu.
instead, the coffee scalds his tongue. it tastes sweet, but so much so that he can't stand it. junsu asks him what his problem is. jaewon stares blankly at him and tells him that it's not any of his goddamn business. junsu snaps for him to get out of his store. jaewon shrugs, dumps his full cup of coffee into the trash, and does.
he goes to the dorms. maybe to explain himself, maybe to let them know he's leaving. he thinks he'll decide on the way.
they greet him. he expects the emptiness this time. he explains what he's done. they yell at him, tell him he should have talked to them. minsoo shakes him, dongho looks disappointed. he thinks he sees daehyun cry.
he turns and walks away.
he deletes junsu's number from his contacts, then the band's. he stares at the only two people left. his mother and the ceo.
he deletes his mother's number. if he could feel love, maybe he'd feel horror for what he's done. he's never memorized her number though, and they don't talk very often. he accepts it for what it is. he expects to feel something, anything at all as he goes to bed. guilt, maybe. fear?
he doesn't.
wyld becomes the idol for bad boy types everywhere. his name becomes a slur in their mouths. they call for his removal. the ceo calls for more outlandish scandals. wyld completes them without a thought. he gets caught with women, with men, hiding in sleazy back-alley clubs hitting up shady people for whatever is the next big hit. mayhem's popularity skyrockets.
he throws away the pressed flowers in his book: hydrangeas, anemones, sweet peas. dried petals, already dead, already gone.
somewhere, an abandoned medical sheet lies crumpled and dirty. bolded words frame the bottom of the page: WARNING: SURGERY MAY RESULT IN TOTAL LOSS OF POSITIVE EMOTION. BY SIGNING, YOU AGREE THAT THIS IS BEYOND CONTROL AND WILL NOT PRESS CHARGES.
a scribbled signature rests messily on the line, flower petals mixed with teardrops scattered over the page. there was a life before this, yes, but that life is no more.
dried tears, a life already dead, already gone.