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Ricky has become more than used to the metal tang of blood in his mouth. His breath rattles in his lungs as he coughs, crumpling against the counter as he watches more and more dark crimson petals flood the sink.
Taerae had helped Ricky figure out which flower:
Red asters. Meant to symbolize undying devotion and passion, sometimes used to convey the message, “take care of yourself for me.”
It’s everything to describe how he feels about Gyuvin, but not enough. Not quite. He lets out another cough, this one painfully dry. At least the taste of his blood is proof, tangible and bitter, of his heart.
Taerae’s shoulders slump. “You’re really not going to tell him?”
Ricky sighs. “No.”
“And no surgery?”
Ricky shakes his head. He tells Taerae what he knows to be true. “If I get it removed, my love for Gyuvin goes, too. I’ve loved him for so long in so many different ways — it’d change me as a person. I don’t want that.”
“…Okay,” Taerae says after a moment.
Ricky takes in the knot of worry between Taerae’s eyebrows, the kindness in his eyes. Slowly, to memorize it. “I’ll be okay, hyung.”
Taerae frowns, nudging Ricky’s side. “You’re dying, Ricky-yah. And… how’re you supposed to perform in this condition?”
“I’ve been performing fine. And... I love you guys.” Ricky knows that Taerae's question really means, What about us?
Taerae's frown softens.
It's true that Ricky's throat stings every time he sings, every time Gyuvin comes into view. At least they’re not roommates anymore. That really might’ve killed him.
But a part of Ricky always knew Gyuvin would be the death of him, anyway.
“I’m okay,” he repeats, hoping Taerae can hear the acceptance in his tone.
Taerae just pulls Ricky in, the warmth of his hug wrapping around them both.
“You finished your boba so quickly today,” Gyuvin comments with a little grin.
Ricky glances at his empty cup. “Oh, oops.”
“Now I feel like a slow eater.” Gyuvin lifts his bowl of soup to his mouth, slurping it down in record speed.
“Isn’t that hot?” Ricky asks, bursting into laughter.
Gyuvin places his bowl back down on the counter with a hurried thud, his tongue lolling out of his mouth like a dog. “Ow. Yes.”
Petals start to form somewhere in Ricky’s gut. He can feel them clawing their way up as he keeps laughing, the petals fueled by the warmth of fondness in his chest. “Silly Gyuvin,” he says, then stands. “I drank too fast. Gotta pee.”
Gyuvin’s nose wrinkles. “Ew.”
Ricky laughs again.
He barely makes it to the bathroom in time, rasping for breath as he leans over the toilet. In the water, atop all the loose petals, is a singular closed bud.
He’s running out of time.
Gyuvin leans in, his face blocking Ricky’s view as he puts on his best pair of puppy eyes. “I’m still hurt, you know.”
Ricky pauses the drama playing on his iPad, adjusting his position on Gyuvin’s bed to properly meet Gyuvin’s puppy eyes. “About what?”
“How we couldn’t meet your mom in LA.” Gyuvin’s pout grows exponentially bigger.
Ricky lets out a small scoff, mostly fond. “It’s been eight whole months. You’re still thinking about that?”
“Yah, of course.” Gyuvin’s eyes widen. “I was this close to having a proper meal with her. I could’ve shown her all the pictures I’ve taken of you.”
“Just send them to her digitally.” Ricky pauses. “Unless they’re unflattering.”
Gyuvin whines. “It’s not the same.”
Ricky lets out a huff that turns into a light laugh. “Sure, but why do you want to meet her so badly to do all of this anyway? I promise she’s not that cool,” he adds with a teasing smile.
Gyuvin shakes his head. “You don’t get it, silly Ricky, I want—” his words fade into a coughing fit. Ricky pats him on the back. Did Gyuvin not fully dry his hair after showering earlier? Did Gyuvin catch a cold? Ricky had scolded him for his hair, but clearly not enough.
“You’ll have the chance to meet her in the future,” Ricky says, continuing to pat Gyuvin’s back. Probably at my funeral, he thinks with a grimace. He briefly touches the back of Gyuvin’s head. It is slightly damp. “Gyuvin, you didn’t dry your hair. You’re going to get sick.”
“I’m not sick,” Gyuvin croaks out, stubborn as always, but he gets up and turns towards the bathroom. Ricky takes the bottle of water on the bedside table and hurries after him. Maybe Gyuvin needs help reaching the back of his hair.
“I have water for you,” Ricky says, listening to Gyuvin cough from the hall. He opens the door, ready to hand the bottle over, but then—
Then—
Dark crimson petals scattered against porcelain.
Gyuvin, still coughing, hunched over the sink.
Gyuvin, staring up at Ricky with tears in his eyes.
“Red asters,” Ricky whispers. Something in his chest unfurls.
Gyuvin lets out one more cough. He stares at the pile of petals, damp with water and blood. “You know what kind of flowers these are?”
Ricky swallows the lump in his throat and stares right into Gyuvin’s eye. “I do. Because I’ve been coughing them up, too.”
A beat.
They stare at each other.
Ricky remembers Gyuvin, the new trainee who was too shy to talk to him until he finally found an excuse to ask about his headphones, their bond only growing from there.
Gyuvin remembers Ricky, the cool trainee who was far from his reach until he discovered the lifelong friend that hid behind anxiety masked as aloofness.
“Ricky-yah, these flowers are for you,” Gyuvin rasps out.
Ricky laughs and feels nothing curdling in his gut. He wraps Gyuvin in a hug and says, “We’re both idiots. You’ll get to meet my mom some day.”
Gyuvin laughs and squeezes him close to his chest. Ricky takes his time to remember how it feels. He has the time, now.