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Today, everything is as it always is. Wenjun is sitting behind his counter, organising his orders, and Zhengting is sitting on the counter purely to annoy him.
“Please get off,” Wenjun says, an argument well-worn already; his voice sparks with amusement even as he frowns at Zhengting over his file.
“No,” Zhengting replies cheerfully, and continues to swing his feet from the counter as he takes a bite of his sandwich.
Wenjun moves on to a different topic as his gaze catches on Zhengting’s lunch. “Are you sure you’re eating enough?” He asks. “You dance the whole day, I’m sure you should eat more—”
Zhengting pulls an apple out of his bag and presents it to Wenjun with a flourish.
“That’s not what I meant,” Wenjun sighs.
“Your parents really drilled the proper Chinese meal thing into you,” Zhengting says: again, an old argument. “Relax, I know what I’m doing, I know myself.”
“Of course,” Wenjun concedes. Zhengting reaches into his bag again and sets a bottle of juice onto the counter, then another. “I got one for you, too. The strange brand you like.” Zhengting likes it too, but it’s funny to see Wenjun’s eyebrows scrunch in silent defence of his favourite juice brand.
“Thank you, Zhengting,” Wenjun says patiently, clearly aware of what he’s trying to do. He sets down his file of orders and reaches for the juice, unscrewing it before taking a sip—
This is when the first incident happens. As Wenjun lowers the bottle and Zhengting moves on to his apple, Wenjun coughs; his shoulders shake, and the juice barely keeps from spilling over the counter as he sets it down, his other hand going to his mouth. When he uncovers it, he reveals a light blue petal held between his index and middle finger.
It’s not grand. Later, Zhengting will think it should have been.
Apple forgotten, Zhengting peers at the petal, then at Wenjun’s oddly blank face. “Are you… alright? Was that in your juice or something?”
“Blue baby’s breath,” Wenjun says, instead of answering. He’s taken on the tone it sometimes does when he talks to his customers; the ones who come in looking for love. This explanation sounds familiar. “It represents love that’s pure. Simple. Blue has the alternate meaning of sincerity, or love as vast as the sea. There’s a way of describing it: a love that’s willing to play the supporting role.” His voice grows more and more concerned as he goes on.
“I’m confused,” Zhengting says plainly.
“Zhengting, I think I’m in love,” Wenjun says, and well. That’s how it starts.
They’ve been like this for years, the two of them. Zhengting has never known anything else. He had danced through his childhood, taken off during university to find his footing elsewhere, but he had come back. Now he teaches at the local dance school and bothers Wenjun during his lunch breaks. Wenjun had grown from the florist’s son, shy and sweet, to the owner of the little shop in his own right, parents long since retired.
And Wenjun being in love doesn’t change anything; he’d dated the same boy for three years in university, and Zhengting, along with everyone else, had thought they were going to make it. Zhengting has been through his fair share of whirlwind relationships himself, though not as much since he’s come home. This doesn’t change anything.
So Zhengting sits back, blinks, and asks, “What brought this on, exactly?”
Wenjun holds the petal up to examine it more closely . “Long story,” he says.
Zhengting glances at the clock mounted on the wall. “We have time.”
Wenjun nods absently. “Well,” he starts, then stops, then tries again. “Well, have you ever heard of hanahaki?”
“I don’t speak Japanese,” Zhengting reminds him, even more confused than he was before. What does that have to do with being in love?
Some of the teaching undertone slips back into Wenjun’s voice. “Hanahaki is a disease, though never a fatal one,” he explains. “It affects people who are in love with someone, but haven’t said anything to the object of their affection. The main symptom is coughing up petals, or flowers; those come from flowers growing in your lungs, though no one has figured out how exactly that happens yet. It’s not dangerous.” He pauses for breath, and Zhengting jumps in.
“So you think you have hanahaki, and therefore you’re in love with someone. And you weren’t aware of this before,” he concludes.
“Basically,” Wenjun agrees. He clears his throat again, reaching to rub at it, then meandering his fingers down to rest over his heart. “It… prickles, sort of. This is interesting.”
“And you’re not worried at all,” Zhengting says flatly.
“The only purpose of hanahaki is to say what you can’t,” Wenjun says. “The meanings of the flowers often reflect what hasn’t been said. So. I must be in love with someone. I think that’s the bigger issue here.”
“...You must be,” Zhengting says, even more flat, “which means you don’t know. Wenjun.”
“I don’t get out much,” Wenjun admits, not that Zhengting doesn’t already know. He’d always preferred staying among his beloved plants over talking to people outside his parents and Zhengting. “I don’t think I’m in love with anyone. I don’t know.”
“How can you not know,” Zhengting says, though they both know the exasperation in his voice is utterly amused. “Wenjun! How am I supposed to help you now?”
“I’m sorry, you were helping?” Wenjun asks, mock-surprised.
“You would have come running to me anyway,” Zhengting says. It’s not even exaggerated, it’s just true. Wenjun sighs, but he doesn’t argue. He tucks the baby’s breath petal away in his pocket.
“You know, in Chinese, they’re called man tian xing,” he says thoughtfully. “A sky full of stars.”
Wenjun had presented Zhengting with a bouquet of flowers after his first dance recital in secondary school. It was held together, Zhengting remembers, with a sprig of baby’s breath. You’re gonna be a star, Wenjun had said, fifteen and confident. So that’s where he knows the flower from.
Unfortunately, Zhengting fails to connect the dots.
It won’t be the first time.
The first thing they do is visit Wenjun’s parents. Well, not the first. The actual first thing they do is go back to work, Zhengting back to coaxing Justin and Chengcheng from his senior dance class into doing cartwheels, and Wenjun to putting together a proposal bouquet.
The second thing they do, then, is visit Wenjun’s parents. They’re long retired, leaving Wenjun the apartment over the florist while they stay in one of the quieter corners of town. Wenjun cradles a pot of flowers in his arms as he and Zhengting walk there, side by side.
“They’ll know something about it, right?” Zhengting asks idly, kicking at the stones on the pavement.
“My father told me about hanahaki in the first place,” Wenjun says, “I should hope they know something, at least.”
“You and your family,” Zhengting says, fond. Wenjun’s father had made Zhengting countless packed lunches, when his grandmother’s hands started to shake; his mother had driven Zhengting to dance competitions all over the country. His brother had asked him curious questions about what it was like, being a dancer, and being old, and being Wenjun’s friend. And Wenjun, of course. A constant.
“Yours, too,” Wenjun says quietly, like he knows what Zhengting is thinking.
Zhengting smiles at the ground, sends another rock skittering across the concrete with a nudge of his foot. “Yeah. I know.”
It’s a beautiful evening. The sun sets as they walk, streaking the sky pink and orange. Something out of a dream, or a fairytale. Zhengting is glad to live here, live like this.
When they reach Wenjun’s parents’ house, Wenjun’s brother is already waiting at the door, tapping at his phone. According to Wenjun, he’s staying with their parents over his break from university. “You’re late,” he says, by way of greeting.
“Hello, Wenhui,” Wenjun says, “good evening to you too, Wenhui, I’ve been fine, what about you?”
Wenhui grins, irreverent. “Great, thanks!”
“I told them I’d be here at seven,” Wenjun continues, ignoring his younger brother. “It’s six-fifty. It’s not my fault I don’t live with them.”
Zhengting reaches out to ruffles Wenhui’s hair as they slip their shoes off and make their way in. “Nice seeing you too, brat.” Wenhui rolls his eyes, still as disrespectful in his twenties as he was when they were kids.
“Ma,” Wenjun calls as they step into the living room. “Ba. We’re here.” He sets his flowerpot in the middle of the dining table as his mother looks up from her crossword.
“Jun-er,” she says affectionately. “Oh, what’s this? Longevity flowers?”
“Just for you,” Wenjun agrees.
“Thank you, Jun-er,” his mother says. “And Zhengting! We haven’t seen you in a while.” Her smile is wide, genuine. She pats the sofa next to her armchair, a clear invitation.
They make small talk until Wenjun’s father emerges from the kitchen; Zhengting gets coerced into playing (and losing) some mobile game by Wenhui, while Wenjun tells his mother about the shop’s business, leaning comfortably on Zhengting’s shoulder. As Wenjun’s father carries the first dish up, all three boys spring to help him.
Later, dishes cleared and fruit cut, Wenjun tells his parents about his problem. “I coughed up a flower,” he says, somehow making it sound perfectly ordinary. Maybe it is, in their household, because the only one who bats an eye is Wenhui.
“I’m sorry, you what?” He asks through a mouthful of orange, screwing up his face at a burst of sourness.
“Hanahaki,” Wenjun’s father says absently, peeling another orange to hand to Zhengting. Wenhui makes a vague noise of understanding. “Well, that shouldn’t be a problem for you, should it? Just tell him.”
“...I don't know who it is,” Wenjun admits.
Wenjun’s mother interjects, then, incredulous. “You don’t know? Are you sure?”
Zhengting looks studiously down at his lap to hide the smile tugging at his lips. Beside him, Wenjun sighs, exasperated. “You’re both the same, you and my mother,” he mutters. “Is it really that surprising? It’s complicated, isn’t it?”
“Laogong,” Wenjun’s mother sighs, turning to her husband. “What do we do? Our eldest son is stupid.”
“Hey!” Wenjun objects.
“She’s not wrong,” Zhengting says, and is rewarded with another piece of orange and an all-too-accidental kick in the shin from Wenjun.
“I always knew I was the brains of this family,” Wenhui says. “Isn’t it obvious? I mean—”
“Hui-er,” their father interjects. “Let him figure it out for himself. It’s alright, Wenjun.”
“Thank god someone is on my side,” Wenjun murmurs. Zhengting laughs, silently, then smiles beatifically at the glare Wenjun throws him.
“It’s not your fault you’re stupid,” Wenjun's father continues placidly, and Wenjun chokes on his piece of orange— then continues to choke. Zhengting eyes him with mild anxiety, until Wenjun presses a hand to his mouth and brings it down with another flower blooming in his palm. It’s nearly whole, this time, if a little small. A daisy.
“Joy, happiness, innocence,” Wenjun’s mother says, leaning forward with interest. Wenjun blinks down at it, only marginally less surprised than the day before. Zhengting nudges him as he peers over Wenjun’s shoulder.
“They’re growing,” he says.
“I can feel them,” Wenjun says, still staring down. “They have a hold here.” His fingers dig into his shirt, dance across his heart. Gently, Zhengting pries them away.
“It will pass,” Wenjun’s father says quietly. “They will not harm you.”
Wenjun’s smile is wry, wistful. “Nothing could hurt me here,” he reassures his father.
“You’ll figure it out,” Wenhui says, uncharacteristically serious. “I think you need to find out for yourself. That’s the only way this will work. At least, the only way it’ll feel right.”
Wenjun doesn’t answer; he’s smiling gently down at the little flower in his palm. Zhengting has never quite understood his propensity for the fragile, for the delicate, for all the small yet determined things. Wenjun is good, that way, in that everything he touches is something to love.
“It’ll be okay,” he says, more to himself than anything. Zhengting catches it, lets it reassure him, too. This will be okay.
Another day, another lunch break spent bothering Wenjun. There are customers in the shop today, but most of them are familiar enough with Zhengting that they don’t bat an eye at him. They watched Wenjun and Zhengting grow up in this shop; some of them ask after him, after Wenhui, fuss over Wenjun like they always did, the sweet child that he was.
Today, Zhengting is eating a proper meal, courtesy of Wenjun’s father who worries just as much as his son; his spoon scrapes against the bottom of the tupperware container as Wenjun puts down his book.
The book is on hanahaki. Wenjun pushes it away as Zhengting sets his tupperware down. No help, then.
“You’ve been in love before, haven’t you? You know what it feels like?” Zhengting asks. He knows the answer already. Wang Ruichang had been a constant presence in Wenjun’s life for four years, three of them spent as a couple; from their first meeting in university, to their breakup two months before graduating.
So Zhengting had known of him, too. He could hardly not. Even if he was halfway across the country, and they were both growing into people of their own. Zhengting has always known about everything important in Wenjun’s life; Wenjun certainly knows about everything important in his.
“Yes,” Wenjun answers, then, “you know this.” His voice is quietly wistful. He and Ruichang stayed friends after they broke up, but they had never quite been the same. From what Zhengting knows, Ruichang was the one to break up with Wenjun. He hasn’t quite forgiven the other boy for that.
“I didn’t like him,” Zhengting frowns.
“You disliked him on principle,” Wenjun returns. “You got along with him just fine the few times you talked, you just pretended not to.”
“Tch.” Zhengting dismisses this with a wave of his hand. While it technically was true, he’d gotten along alright with Ruichang the few times they’d met, they haven’t talked since after the breakup; he knows Wenjun knows this, too. Then, quieter, he says, “I worry about you. On principle.”
Wenjun smiles gently at him, the crease in his eyebrows easing. “I’ll be fine, Zhengting,” he says. “Whether I find out who this is or not. It’s an inconvenience, that’s all. It won’t hurt me. It can’t hurt me.”
“Love can hurt you,” Zhengting murmurs.
“But it won’t,” Wenjun says, sure as anything, and Zhengting thinks: this is a boy who has grown love, grown with love, who tends to it like a part of himself. There’s a reason why people keep coming back to his family’s shop. Love runs through it, threads through the air, lingers long after you leave. Love blooms in every flower that reaches for the sun, every bouquet that passes hands to a lover. A love that binds. A love that endures, or is made to endure, or is taught to endure.
Wenjun is good at love. He always has been. He sings to the flowers and they turn towards him; like they know what he means to say, like he knows what they mean to say, like he understands. Zhengting, younger and still a dreamer, used to think it was a sort of magic. Today, he can still almost believe it.
Wenjun trusts love; trusts it absolutely. More than that, he trusts the flowers that he grew up with, that he raised in turn. The shop they sit in is a riot of colours, leaves wreathing the hanging lights on the ceiling. No harm could ever come to them here.
“All right, Wenjun,” Zhengting says softly, “it won’t.” Nothing could bear to harm him, probably.
Wenjun’s smile twists into a wracking cough. A few customers glance in their direction, alarmed, only looking away when Wenjun waves a feeble hand at them. It makes Zhengting a little scared, the fact that he’s becoming used to this.
The routine is all too familiar: “Blue aster,” Wenjun murmurs, holding up the delicate flower, “representing faith, trust, love.”
“Romantic,” Zhengting comments.
“I guess that’s the point,” Wenjun says thoughtfully. “When you’re in love. Though I would also argue— faith is more than that.”
“Such grand ideals,” Zhengting half-jokes, and Wenjun half-smiles in return. Zhengting trusts him absolutely. Trusts that whatever he wants to say, whatever he doesn’t know to say, he’ll be able to coax it out. Let it grow towards the light.
Sunlight spills through the tall windows; the day shifts smoothly back into motion. Wenjun tucks the flower behind his ear and goes back to his reading, head bent in concentration, fingers tapping an unsteady rhythm over each page. Zhengting sets away his tupperware, gathers himself up to cross the road back to his studio.
Wenjun doesn’t bother saying goodbye. They always see each other again.
Today, Wenjun sets a new line of flowerpots on his bedroom windowsill, plants baby’s breath and daisies and blue asters. Zhengting sits on his bed and watches him water the little plants. Green barely pokes out from under the soil; it’ll be a while yet before anything comes of them.
“You show your sentiment in such strange ways,” Zhengting tells Wenjun.
Wenjun rolls his eyes. “If you want to insult me so bad, just say so,” he returns.
“I think it’s weird,” Zhengting says, teasing but also true, he does think it’s odd, that Wenjun wants to memorialise his silence. Memorialise the things he never knew, never thought to say. “I don't think there’s much to be sentimental about.”
Wenjun sets down his battered little watering can, painted a cheerful yellow by Wenhui nearly twenty years ago. “I guess not,” he says. “But I like to think it’ll help me remember, whenever I find who this is. That I shouldn't take it for granted again.”
“Whoever you’re in love with,” Zhengting says quietly, “they’re lucky, you know.”
He wonders what Wenjun could have to hide, what he could ever have to leave unsaid. Wenjun wears his heart bare; wears it in the flowers growing all around them, in everything he coaxes to timid, trembling life.
Wenjun isn’t looking at him. He’s looking out of the window, gaze hazy, distant. “I hope so,” he says, barely a whisper.
“You don’t have to worry,” Zhengting says lightly. “I can do enough of that for you.”
“I’m not worried,” Wenjun protests, spinning to face him. He leans against the edge of his window, sun setting behind him, casting his face in shadow. Zhengting can only pick up the slight waver of his voice. “It’s just— what am I missing, Zhengting? I know it’s there. They have to be there. You’d know better than me.”
Zhengting shrugs, helpless.
“If you don’t know, then who does?” Wenjun asks softly. He crosses the room to sit down next to Zhengting, pulling the stuffed shark Zhengting bought for his eleventh birthday into his lap. His hands shift into motion almost mindlessly, methodically, fingers digging into the little shark and just as quickly releasing it again. “You know me better than anyone.”
“Like I said,” Zhengting murmurs. “Let me do the worrying for you.” He reaches over to press his hand over Wenjun’s; waits till the nervous motion stills before releasing it.
Wenjun gathers the stuffed shark into his arms, offering Zhengting a faint smile. “Thank you,” he says, and for a second— Zhengting almost understands how he could fail to realise he’s in love. Sometimes it seems like everything Wenjun does is suffused with it.
I’ll find them for you, he promises silently. You deserve that much.
He catches Wenjun watching him, thoughtful. Reserved. He doesn’t comment— what would he say, anyway? What is there to say, between them?
Today, Wenjun is the one visiting him at work. Zhengting slips out between classes to fill his thermos at the water dispenser, and Wenjun is sitting behind the counter next to Zhang Yixing, talking animatedly as he gestures at his phone.
“Hello?” Zhengting asks, and both of them look up.
“Zhengting!” Yixing greets cheerfully. “Have you ever played these games Wenjun is telling me about?”
“Wenhui made you play them the last time you came over,” Wenjun provides, seeing Zhengting’s questioning glance. “Two Player Games. He makes me play them, too.”
“Of course it was Wenhui, that kid,” Yixing sighs. “I don’t suppose you’re any worse at these games than Wenjun is, are you, Zhengting?”
“Are you bullying my boss?” Zhengting asks, turning mock-scoldingly to Wenjun. “Do you want me to get fired?”
“You would never get fired,” Wenjun frowns, Yixing nodding along with him. “If you want me to stop, you can play.”
Zhengting rolls his eyes and takes the phone as Wenjun slips out from behind the counter, leaning over Zhengting’s shoulder eagerly. Yixing is holding onto the other end, examining the game controls with a deep fascination.
“Let’s play ping pong,” he says, all too seriously. “I think I’m getting the hang of it.”
Zhengting blinks, then decides he’s probably not going to understand whatever went on in however long Wenjun was here anyway. “Sure thing, boss.”
Wenjun is hiding his smile behind his hand. It doesn’t help to hide it, mind you. Zhengting is just nice enough not to point it out.
He beats Yixing in online ping pong, seven to five; Yixing sighs in good-natured defeat. “Well,” he says, “I might get the game myself. I’ll beat you next time.”
“I don’t play,” Zhengting says frankly. “You can beat Wenjun. I encourage you to beat him, actually. Please.”
“You hate me,” Wenjun grumbles.
“It’s a match,” Yixing agrees cheerfully. “Nice to play with you, Wenjun. Oh— if you’ll excuse me, now.”
He slips back into seriousness as his phone starts to ring, picking it up and disappearing into the nearest corridor; Zhengting shakes his head and pushes Wenjun’s phone back to him. Wenjun’s phone case is battered, a faded photograph held fast by the clear back.
The photo is of them, a few years younger, Zhengting’s arm thrown over Wenjun’s shoulders; they’re smiling bright, wide. Messy doodles of petals and leaves decorate its edges. A smile tugs at Zhengting’s lips. “Sentimental, aren't we,” he says.
“To a fault,” Wenjun agrees. “I’m not here for you to tell me that, though. I wanted to talk to you about— well.” His fingers tap a nervous rhythm on Yixing’s counter, on the clear case of his phone. “Ruichang is visiting.”
“You’re still friends, aren’t you?” Zhengting asks. “Is there anything wrong?” He’d be lying if he said some part of him didn’t feel oddly vindicated.
“He asked if I wanted to meet him,” Wenjun carries on, breezing past Zhengting— which is fair, he supposes. “And I said yes. But it’s the first time I’m seeing him since—” He falters.
“Since you broke up?” Zhengting says softly, gently. Wenjun relaxes, minutely, too small for anyone to tell except him. “Well. What would you like me to do?”
“I didn’t say that,” Wenjun frowns.
“I’m saying it for you,” Zhengting says lightly. “Whatever you need, Wenjun, really. I can run him out of town for you, if you want.”
“Please don’t,” Wenjun says despairingly. “I don’t know. I just thought you should know.”
“...You’re not still in love with him, are you?” Zhengting asks carefully. The next part of that thought is: can he help you? But, selfishly, he doesn’t voice it.
Wenjun blinks, looks up at him properly. “Am I?” he wonders. “I don’t know. It would be easier, wouldn’t it?” Unconsciously, his fingers creep to twist around his ribs; up to his chest. Wenjun works with flowers, handles them every day. It’s not hard to imagine them now; Wenjun’s hands bloom, surgical, over his heart.
“I don’t think this could ever be easy,” Zhengting says.
Wenjun’s gaze is thoughtful, distant, like he’s looking right through Zhengting. “I guess not,” he says quietly. “If it were that easy—” Again, he breaks off. “It couldn’t be that easy, could it?” His voice is strained, wondering. Zhengting tilts his head questioningly; Wenjun smiles distractedly back, and then launches into a sputtering cough.
This coughing fit goes on for much longer than the others. When Wenjun draws his hands from his mouth, face pale, he tucks a tangled bunch of tiny white flowers into his shirt pocket. “Sweet alyssum,” he says softly, “for sweet memories, for being free of worries.” His voice is hoarse, prickly; if Zhengting tries hard enough he can almost hear leaves rustling in the back of Wenjun’s throat.
“But there’s nothing I have to worry about, with you,” he finishes.
Yixing’s voice echoes down the corridor, and Wenjun’s face closes off. Zhengting hadn’t realised, before, how much emotion was laid bare in his eyes, the twist of his mouth. Couldn’t name it, if he had to.
“I should go,” Wenjun says, oddly stilted. “I’ll see you later? Soon?”
Zhengting catches him by the shoulder as he turns to leave. Wenjun flinches, barely, at the curl of his fingers. “Tell me if there really is anything wrong?” he asks gently.
Wenjun’s smile is worn; threadbare. “I know,” he says softly. “I will.”
He slides his phone off the counter, back into his pocket; Yixing returns in time to send him off with a cheerful goodbye and a promise to beat him one day. Wenjun waves to him, then to Zhengting, as he makes his way to the door.
“I didn’t know he could be so lively,” Yixing observes, as Wenjun’s footsteps fade away. “He’s usually quieter, isn’t he?”
“Is he?” Zhengting wonders. The sudden, irrational fear that he’s missed something again prickles at him. He’s known Wenjun all his life; could there be anything about him he doesn’t know? Hasn’t learned? “Not with me. Not with his family, either.”
“Maybe I don’t talk to him often enough,” Yixing hums. “He’s a nice young man. I’m glad the two of you are still together.”
Zhengting hesitates. “Together?” he asks.
“Well—” Yixing begins, but he’s cut off as two boys bounce into the dance school. Zhengting groans when he sees them. He thinks he’s entitled to.
“Zhu-laoshi!” Justin chirps. “We saw your boyfriend outside! He recognised us!”
“I didn’t know you were that proud of us, Zhu-laoshi,” Chengcheng picks up. “You invited him to our last recital, didn’t you? He was the one who brought all of us flowers, right?”
“What?” Zhengting demands, then, “Wenjun is not my boyfriend.” He doesn’t dispute the last part; he’d watched Wenjun piece together a small bouquet for each of his students, working on them with as much fervour as he did for anything else. But—
“He’s not?” Yixing asks, a note of dismay in his voice, looking up from his files to level a disappointed stare at Zhengting.
“Yixing,” Zhengting says despairingly, “what?”
Justin points accusingly at him. “You’re lying,” he declares. “Everyone knows you’re dating.”
“But— we’re really not,” Zhengting says helplessly.
“Okay,” Chengcheng says, completely unimpressed. “Keep lying.” He and Justin shake their heads very seriously before they dart down the corridor, leaving Zhengting to stare open-mouthed after them.
“You’ll catch flies,” Yixing reminds, fatherly, and Zhengting reflexively closes his mouth.
“They think—?” he says faintly.
“Most people do,” Yixing tells him, matter-of-fact. “Ever since that other boy broke up with him. You certainly are close enough.”
“Oh,” Zhengting says. Another thing that he doesn't quite know, can’t quite put his finger on: how that makes him feel. How any of this should make him feel. It’s a tangled mess in his chest; a web of history and memories and kindnesses, Wenjun at its centre. It feels a little like it’s growing. Like it’s unfolding, blooming, turning into something new.
The clock hands tick forward. Yixing goes back to his paperwork with a last sympathetic glance. Zhengting makes his way back to his studio; thinks, idly, dangerously, of Wenjun’s smile.
Their lives go on, regardless, and Zhengting doesn’t tell anyone. Not even Wenjun. A flu sweeps through the town; both Justin and Chengcheng call in sick, and a few days later, Wenjun catches it too. Today, the flower shop is closed, the painted wooden sign hanging heavily on the door. Zhengting finds himself standing outside it anyway.
But he’s not the only one. The door swings open from the inside, and Zhengting takes a confused step back as Wang Ruichang steps out. Of course; Wenjun was going to meet him, and his bleeding heart would never say no to anyone, even as ill as he is. The two of them stare at each other for a second; Zhengting’s lips curl down on instinct, and Ruichang looks away.
“Hello,” he says awkwardly. “I was… just going.”
“Nice to see you,” Zhengting says, not meaning it at all. “Don’t let me stop you.”
There’s a moment of silence before Ruichang responds. “I know you don’t like me,” he says quietly. “I probably deserve that. But thank you for being here for him.”
I was always here for him, Zhengting thinks spitefully, holds his tongue. Out loud, he says, “Why would I not be?”
“You always were, weren’t you?” Ruichang asks wryly, unknowingly echoing Zhengting’s thoughts. Zhengting does not like that, not at all. “Really. Thank you. Even if—” He cuts himself off, then, but Zhengting doesn’t miss the bitter half-laugh that escapes under his breath. “Well. See you. Or don’t, I guess.”
He starts down the street, brushing past Zhengting; Zhengting is bending to pick up the stack of get-well-soon cards on the doorstep when he turns back, a jerk of movement in the corner of Zhengting’s eye. Zhengting stands up, giving him a not-quite-unfriendly stare. Ruichang looks down first.
“I wanted to love him,” he says, abruptly. “I know he loved me, as much as he could. But he’s in love with you, you know that? I went up to see him, and all he talked about was you. Even before I broke up with him I felt like I knew you better than I did him.”
He spins on his heel, and before he can help it Zhengting reflexively replies, “But he’s not in love with me,” and Ruichang wheels back just as fast.
“If you think that you really are a fool,” he says, low and bitter. “He’s never not loved you. You wouldn’t know how it feels.” His gaze is distant; wistful. “I don’t really blame you, he loves too much, it’s too easy to get used to it…”
At the very start of everything, when everything started to change, Wenjun had sat behind his counter and told Zhengting about baby’s breath: a love that’s willing to play a supporting role. Here, now, something in Zhengting is beginning to understand that.
He has loved Wenjun for so long it’s faded into the background; something gentle, something familiar and well-worn with memory. And Wenjun— like Ruichang says, Wenjun has never not loved him. This is just who they are. This is how they’ve always been.
“I wanted to be angry at you,” Ruichang says. “I really did. But he’s so happy with you. At the end of the day, I’m glad.”
For the first time, he smiles, a helpless little twist of his mouth. “Thank you,” he says, horribly sincere, and this time he doesn’t stop when he leaves. Zhengting doesn’t move either, watches him disappear down the road. Finally, he shakes himself off, tucks the stack of get-well-soon cards under his arm, and makes his way up the stairs. When he looks down through the second-floor window, Ruichang is long gone.
He lets himself into Wenjun’s room, finds Wenjun curled in an armchair, glasses balanced precariously on his nose as he reads. The row of flowerpots stands cheerful as ever against the windowsill. The bin beside him is strewn with tissues and flower petals, loose blue and white; as Zhengting opens the door, Wenjun chokes another few petals out in a wracking cough.
“Zhengting,” he rasps painfully. “I thought you would come.”
“What did you expect?” Zhengting says, trying much harder than usual to keep his voice light. “I brought you soup. Also, your mom wants to know that you’re alive.”
He sets the thermos of soup down at Wenjun’s desk as Wenjun reaches for his phone, frowning blearily at it. As he types, Zhengting settles precariously on the armrest of his chair. Wenjun leans into him, resting his head on his lap. Some of the tension in his body seems to drain away.
“You must have seen Ruichang downstairs,” he says quietly. “I hope he didn't say anything. He… well. He said something to me.”
Zhengting doesn’t answer, placing a gentle hand on Wenjun’s head instead, feeling him lean even closer.
“He said I wasn’t in love with him,” Wenjun says, barely a whisper. “He never said why. But I think I know.”
He shifts, and Zhengting plucks his glasses off his face, laying them neatly on the desk. “Okay,” he says simply. Wenjun blinks up at him, eyes soft and wide, and doesn’t say anything more.
In the silence, Zhengting cards his fingers through Wenjun’s hair. He lets his gaze sweep Wenjun’s face as Wenjun’s eyes close, soft and content. He is so terribly open. There has never been anything to hide between them.
He thinks there might be love here, thinks he might recognise it; only he never thought to look for it. Because it had always been right there, under his nose, the missing piece in this puzzle they’ve pieced together. In Wenjun’s smile; in his gentle breath; in the warmth of his eyes, hidden away.
Can’t they stay like this? Do they have to stay like this?
There are scattered purple petals on the floor; Wenjun’s room smells like lavender, cloying and sweet. Zhengting goes home and looks it up. The meaning of lavender is to wait for love. Is that you always meant to wait.
Today, everything is the same. Nothing is the same. Zhengting looks away from Wenjun’s smile; is scared of what he’ll see reflected in himself. Wants to know, anyway, if what he sees is love.
Wenjun sits in the grass, humming to himself as he weaves flower stems together with deft fingers. He’d made a full recovery soon enough, invited Zhengting out to the little meadow near town, carrying a basket full of snacks and little potted plants. Sweet alyssum, daisies, blue asters and sprigs of lavender tucked into the firm knots. It’s practically a declaration of love.
Zhengting stretches his legs out on their mat, careful not to get dirt on his trousers, watching as Wenjun ties the last two stems together. He looks happier than he’s been in weeks.
“I’m taking it that you figured it out,” he says idly— well. Not exactly. The tangled thing in his chest flutters, unravels a little more. He thinks he knows. He wants, desperately, for it to be true.
“I hope so,” Wenjun says, soft. He doesn’t look up, still fiddling with the flower crown in his hands, but the gentle curve of his smile is unmistakable. “You helped, Zhengting, you really did.”
“Of course,” Zhengting dismisses. “Anything for you.”
“Anything?” Wenjun murmurs. “They all think it’s you, you know? Who I’m in love with.”
He says it almost too easily. Zhengting freezes from where he’d been scuffing at the dirt under his shoe. Wenjun looks up, amused, catching him in the act. “What? It’s that shocking?” His tone is light, but his hands still where he’s fussing over his flowers. There’s a tense line to his body that hadn’t been there a moment before.
Zhengting presses his heel into the grass, kicking up the soil like a child; watches Wenjun laugh, despite himself. “I knew,” he says. “Yixing told me. Ruichang, too.”
“I knew he said something to you,” Wenjun says. “Wenhui caved when I asked him. He thinks we’ve been together for years.” His voice is brave, despite the slight waver to it. Zhengting knows him better than anyone else in the world. Somehow, he knows what will happen next. He feels a little out of place; like everything is out of place; but no, maybe everything is falling right where it should.
“Would we be?” Wenjun wonders. “If I had just told you any of this earlier? We’ve loved each other for so long, haven’t we? Would you love me like this?”
He lifts the flower crown like an offering. Like a question. Zhengting watched him choke out every flower woven into it, watched him choke on all the things he hadn’t known to say. He knows now. They both know.
“It was for you,” Wenjun says softly. “It was always for you. That’s what I had to say, Zhengting. I love you. But you knew that already, didn’t you?”
Yes, yes, he did; he does. Zhengting moves to sit next to Wenjun in the grass, curls his fingers around the flower crown, and leans up to press his lips to Wenjun’s. Simple, easy. Everything fallen into place. It’s just a moment; here, now, Zhengting feels like it could be forever.
As he leans back, a flush creeps onto Wenjun’s cheeks, his smile small and shy. They’re so close Zhengting would only have to lean forward to brush another kiss past his lips. Zhengting can hardly bear to be any further from him. “I guess that’s a yes, then?”
Zhengting plucks the crown from his slackening fingers, sets it down on Wenjun’s messy hair instead. Wreathed with flowers, he looks like the coming of spring itself. Sunlight spills from his smile. He is beautiful, has always been beautiful. “Yes,” Zhengting says, “yes. Of course. How could I not be in love with you?”
Hands free, he slips a hand to Wenjun’s waist and pulls him closer to kiss him again. Wenjun’s mouth is soft, floral, sweet. When Zhengting presses his other hand to Wenjun’s jaw, feather-light and gentle, he leans in like he’s leaning towards the sun.
In the end, it’s easy.
They stay that way for a long time. Two halves of one body, one heart. Later, Zhengting will remember the curve of Wenjun’s waist under his fingers; the flowers wreathing his hair and his soft, dark eyes. He’ll remember the shape of Wenjun’s smile, helplessly wide, against his.
He’ll remember that it feels like coming home. Like this is where he was always meant to be.