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Nine loves daisies.
Everyone who knew him knew this; all his possessions were covered in some semblance of the frail flower. His phone case, his clothing, even his apartment walls were filled to the brim with daisies. Nobody knew how his fixation began or where it ended, but all of Nine’s friends and family had just grown to accept it as one of his quirks.
He had even gone so far as to get a tattoo; a bouquet of daisies wrapped around his wrist, flowers blooming at the spot where his palm opened. Mill loves to trace the inky lines on Nine’s porcelain skin, to have the smoothness under his fingers and feel his lover shiver with each touch.
Mill prefers lilies.
On their first date, he had brought a fresh bouquet of the most fragrant lilies he could find; he didn’t think any other flowers were pretty enough for the angel he thought Nine to be. Mill knows he had turned bright pink at his date’s praise for the choice of flowers. He still remembers how the lilies’ petals had looked magnificent against Nine’s bare, flushed skin.
The flowers didn’t last very long. It was to be expected, Nine had too many daisies to care for, after all. One would think that someone who could keep an entire wall of flowers alive would be able to sustain an extra vase, but that wasn’t the case with these lilies. They seemed to wither with Nine’s every touch; no matter how much they both tried, they died persistently within three days after Mill brought them.
The first time a bouquet died, Nine cried tears of grief; Mill could feel his heart clench in his chest as he kissed every single warm tear away. His lover had sat there with the withering lilies, brushing his fingers against each drooping petal. Whispering soft words of comfort, he had held on until the moment the flower let go.
Holding his lover in his arms, a thought comes: Nine pours every bit of his heart into caring for each flower; Mill longs to love, and to be loved in the same way.
Nine loves quietly.
For all his boisterous laughter and wicked jokes, he isn’t one to speak words of adoration out loud. His love, Mill found, lay in gentle touches and amorous kisses, in warm blankets on beds and cut-up fresh fruits, in squeezes of the hand and flowers drawn in permanent ink.
Every single person Mill knew felt Nine’s love differently. To Mill, being loved by Nine was like having the sun by his side; his lover’s affections enveloped him in infinite warmth—it was the most heavenly feeling he had ever known. To their friends, Yoojung and Kyubin and Junji and Rie, Nine’s love was more like the flowers he grew—tender and sweet, beautiful to the eyes.
Upon hearing all the analyses, Nine had laughed—a pure sound of happiness that made Mill long to kiss him; it was the only way he could think to swallow up the sound and imprint it on himself forever. His lover brandished a paintbrush, dragging it along the surface of a canvas as he lost himself in thought.
My love isn’t any of those things, he said after a moment. Mill watched Nine’s wrists flick sharply, creating a firm red line in the painting. On his canvas, there was a blood-red rose in a field of white snow. I don’t create love, or give it on my own. My love is just all the love I’ve known in my life, reflected back on the ones who gave it to me.
Mill loves seeing Nine love.
After his lover’s revelation, he watches with fresh eyes; every single sign of Nine’s love was traced back to someone from his past—the cut-up fruit from his mother, the warm blankets from Junji’s laundry techniques, and the plant care techniques from Rie. Every expression of affection makes his heart swell with pride; for in an infinite sea of strangers, he was the one chosen to love this extraordinary being.
Whenever he watched Nine fondly caress the flower’s pristine white petals, Mill felt his breath catch. He knew what it was like to be held in those exquisitely beautiful hands, to be touched as if he was the most precious thing in the world. He knew what it was like to kiss every spot on his lover’s body, to be granted the chance to run his fingers over Nine’s perfect, unblemished skin.
Ever since the two of them began their romance, he made it his life’s goal to understand the way his lover’s heart speaks; to know Nine was to know his own heart, he said. In Nine’s heart, he finds nothing but love, love, love.
Nine is in love with someone else.
Most people are unaware of why Nine loves daisies so much, but Mill knows. There are photographs of his lover in the arms of another man in their apartment; in each one, he sees daisies in Nine’s hair. The man’s jawline is strangely similar to his own.
On nights when he thinks Mill is asleep, Nine crawls out of bed to check on his daisies. He talks to the plants, soft sobs stifled by his hands. Mill has heard all his confessions; he knows where his lover’s devotion truly lies. It hurt to see him in pain, but it hurt even more to know that he wanted someone else—to hear another name being called in his sleep.
A name he had once thought of as a sweet term of endearment took on a different meaning after hearing Nine’s tear-filled I miss you’s . Suddenly, Mill wishes he didn’t listen to his lover’s heart so intently. He understands now—he was never chosen to give his love; he was chosen to replace a love that once was.
Mill’s heart has only ever known Nine. In Nine’s heart, he finds nothing but Love, Love, Love.
Mill is still in love with Nine.
Desperately choosing to stay, he clings onto a love that was doomed from the start; for how can a new love exist where an old one still lives?
It feels wrong to experience all of the same things through these new, cracked lenses Mill has put on. All of the love that he once sought to imprint on himself forever now feels foreign. Every single kiss is acidic, burning the very skin it touches. Their touches are less tender now—they are harsh, possessive, and almost violent.
One night in bed, Mill turns to Nine, watching the rise and fall of his lover’s chest. He knows every single inch of skin that lies underneath the blanket they share; their close proximity feels nauseating—suffocating, almost.
Nine meets his eyes, both expressions unchanging. Mill sighs, You do know I’m not him, right? With a weak smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, Nine nods and looks away. No more words are said.
Nine can’t let go of Love.
Daisies are poison; Mill knows this better than anyone. They are meant to symbolise purity and innocence, but the way they snake around Nine’s wrists make them look more like shackles. They’re beautiful, but he hates seeing the man he loves chained to another. Every single time he looks at the inky vines, it serves as a painful reminder that he is, and will always be, second place.
All the flowers in their apartment thrive. Nine waters them religiously, refusing to skip even a day of care for his beloved plants. Mill desperately wants to tear them apart; his hands so eagerly long to know the feeling of the soft petals being crushed between his fingers—as if by crushing the flowers, he’d be able to be rid of the bond Nine still held with his ex-lover.
Mill is tired.
Spending years convincing yourself that you are loved despite all the evidence proving otherwise is more difficult than one would think. It is taking its toll on the man, and he is exhausted.
The two of them are stuck in a cycle now. Ever since Mill started to lash out at Nine, they’ve hurt each other in more ways than they could count; whether they were angry words yelled over dinner, or hands landing too harshly on someone’s body—if it could pierce their armour, it was done.
Every single fight always ends in angry sex, with tears falling over both their faces and soft apologies whispered under the moonlight. Their bruises are there, barely enough for anyone to remark on, but the exhaustion in their eyes is unmistakable. Mill’s eyes are always swollen from crying; Nine’s eyes have prominent bags underneath.
Did you ever love me? Mill asks one night after a fight, eyes teary. A crushed paper crane lies on his stomach, its wings torn. Nine stands by the window, unsure as to how to respond. The older man nods and turns to lie on his side, allowing a single tear to fall. Nine sighs and runs a finger down the cool glass of the window. I do love you. Just not in the way you want me to.
Mill watches his lover move, watches the way his eyelashes catch the light—breathtaking as ever. The younger man moves to lie beside him, trapping Mill in the warmth that once brought him to life. Leaning in to press a hot kiss to the older’s neck, the daisies on Nine’s wrist burn into Mill’s skin. The searing heat feels like he’s being branded, but he moves closer to let the pretty daisies strangle him.
Everything Mill knows about floriography is a lie. Daisies were designed by the gods to deceive, to make one believe in the idea of purity. After all—if something is pure and beautiful, it couldn’t possibly hurt you, right?
Wrong. It was the beautiful things in nature that suffocated, that consumed all other life.
Love is a cruel thing; it consumes and empties a person of all emotion until all that is left is bitter, ardent desperation for something that does not exist. Love gives you daisies as a pledge of their undying devotion. Daisies poison and take life, giving nothing back.
Nine loves daisies.