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beomgyu had to pretend he didn’t know.
he had to pretend he didn’t see you hurting, that he didn’t notice your ever-present cough or your petal-filled garbage bag.
he despised himself for it.
you’d let it slip one night, half-asleep on his living room couch, a movie droning nonsense into the background. eyes fully shut, you had mumbled that you were in love with your best friend.
and that’s when it clicked for him.
you were ill. you had told him it was just a cold, and beomgyu didn’t even think to question you when he found flower petals scattered throughout your apartment. he thought you were just redecorating.
he couldn’t believe he’d been so stupid. but, to be fair, beomgyu never believed that the disease existed. every story he’d been told was from the distant past; he wasn’t sure anyone had died of it in over 100 years. either that or the government was hiding something.
beomgyu began his research as soon as he was certain of your ailment: hanahaki disease. initially thought to be japanese folklore, the disease had become increasingly prevalent in the 17th century, mostly trickling out by the first world war - possibly due to treatments. there were only two cures for hanahaki: romantically reciprocated love or surgical removal of the flower. the surgery had a drastic side effect, though: any emotions of affection for your previous muse would vanish. call him selfish, but beomgyu still wanted you to care for him.
he spent the first month trying to persuade himself to love you. beomgyu didn’t understand why he couldn’t - you were everything he should want. you were his best friend, you shared similar interests yet opposed enough things to keep conversations vibrant.
but beomgyu just couldn’t see you romantically. he couldn’t imagine going on dates, kissing your lips, sharing everything, including yourselves.
he hated himself.
so he turned to a mutual friend, telling them to convince you to have the operation. his heart ached just to suggest it. but he couldn’t tell you himself - you’d just be embarrassed. and he’d feel like even more of an asshole because you’d know he couldn’t love you.
it took ages to persuade them, but your friend promised beomgyu they’d talk to you.
beomgyu wasn’t sure they’d been successful. the next time he hung out with you, you clung to his side, held his hand as you watched a movie. affection between the two of you was normal, but today you held onto him like you were scared to let go. beomgyu didn’t have the heart to push you away.
how could he, when your grip on his hands was weak, when you struggled to keep your eyes open, when your breath was shaky because you didn’t want to cough in front of him? beomgyu knew your time was limited.
but all he could do was hold your hand a little tighter, let you fall asleep on his shoulder.
he received the phone call a week later.
they told him it was unexpected, that they had no idea of the cause.
beomgyu understood now why there was no news of hanahaki ― how else could they protect someone like him? someone who inadvertently murdered their best friend?
grief settled heavily on beomgyu’s heart. but he didn’t cry; he tried to be strong for your family, for your friends.
besides your one mutual friend, no one seemed aware of the torture that beomgyu’s presence had left on your very being. most suspected he was grieving, too; they didn’t see the guilt eating him.
a week after your funeral, beomgyu visited your grave alone. he wanted to apologize, to beg for your forgiveness, to tell you how much he wished he could have loved you back.
his sobs turned into coughs, and beomgyu coughed up his first petal.