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It all began with an interview.
“Until I meet someone I truly want to spend my life with,” Jeonghan replied calmly to one of the questions, “I’d rather live with someone I’m not romantically attracted to. It’s more peaceful, you know? And there’s no risk of mistaking simple comfort from cohabitation for something deeper.”
Of course, this part was cut from the final television edit, but everyone present on set heard it clearly—and remembered every word. So did he.
Later, when the whole group, stepping onto the fast track to adulthood, found themselves needing personal space and split into pairs and trios to move out, Jeonghan asked him if he wanted to live together.
That was the moment Seungkwan finally accepted that his foolish, naïve feelings were doomed to failure. And that was also the first time he felt that strange tickle in his throat.
Seungkwan said yes. Of course he did. He and Jeonghan had always been perfectly compatible as roommates: matching sleep schedules, similar habits when it came to housekeeping, the same balance between needing alone time and enjoying each other’s company. Seokmin, for instance, would’ve been too clingy, and Jihoon—too distant. Even without his ridiculous crush, Seungkwan would’ve agreed. But taking it into account… maybe he should’ve said no.
But how?
How could he refuse something that made him smile even on the hardest of days? When everything went wrong, when exhaustion buckled his knees and he knew he couldn’t squeeze even ten minutes of rest into the absurdly packed schedule that still stretched on for hours before he’d finally be allowed to collapse into bed and lose consciousness until the morning alarm. When he thought he couldn’t go on—and then heard the gentle, “You’re doing so well, Kwannie,” and somehow found the strength to keep going. The strength not to give up, no matter what.
Seungkwan was just very, very weak, you see? He knew what the right thing was—but he couldn’t do it. He chose the dull ache of a knife left in the wound over the sharp pain of pulling it out and stitching it shut.
Although Jeonghan wasn’t a knife. He was a beautiful samurai sword—so elegant, so lethal, that to fall to it would be an honor. Of course, to wield it would be an even greater one. But Seungkwan wasn’t lucky enough to be among the worthy samurai. No matter how hard he tried to become the best version of himself, it still wasn’t enough—not even to look away from the gorgeous blade, let alone reach out and take it. So Seungkwan simply stayed close. Stayed, and waited for someone else to grasp the sword and finally end his pitiful suffering by driving it straight through his heart.
Yes, perhaps Seungkwan was overly dramatic, but he’d always had a flair for that—and living with Jeonghan only made it worse. Jeonghan had become deeply immersed in Japanese culture and language, and it had become completely normal to hear him use various expressions and explain their poetic meanings. Seungkwan never bothered to memorize those endless Japanese phrases, but one of them came up often enough—Jeonghan’s obvious favorite—that its meaning had sunk in deep.
“Life is like sakura.”
The first time Jeonghan explained the phrase, he said sakura blossoms beautifully, but only for a few days. Life is the same—fleeting and lovely, and all the more precious because of it.
Listening to him then, Seungkwan had immediately thought of his own feelings—destined, like the sakura, to bloom in beauty and fade, leaving only a sweet memory behind.
That’s why, when the growing tickle in his throat starts to bring real discomfort, and Seungkwan, trying to cough, finds a soft white sakura petal in his palm—he laughs quietly at the bitter irony. Imagine that: he had fallen in love with Jeonghan, Jeonghan had fallen in love with Japanese culture, and now its most iconic symbol is literally growing inside Seungkwan—in a desperate attempt, it seems, to make him even a little more appealing to the object of his tender affection.
Hanahaki. The flower disease. The virus of unrequited love. It goes by many names, but the meaning is always the same—flowers growing in the lungs. The cause stays constant, too—intense one-sided feelings, trapped and left to rot inside the body like overripe apples on a forgotten tree. Usually, those apples drop and become fertile soil for something new—something living and beautiful—and Hanahaki uses a vivid yet doomed love, one that will never be plucked from the branch, in the same way: parasitically growing its beautiful, yet deadly, gardens upon it. After all, who could live with lungs full of blossoms?
Though Seungkwan has never heard of it being tree blossoms before. Dying from a bouquet of sharp roses or even sweet lilies is terrifying enough. But a whole blooming tree? He figures he should be horrified. But remember—Seungkwan is dramatic. So instead, he just thinks about how romantic it is: his love won’t wither after a brief flowering season—it will rise above the garden as an enchanting sakura tree, one that could bloom every year for Jeonghan to see.
The only problem is—Seungkwan doesn’t actually want to die.
So after laughing, he cries—bitterly—locked in the bathroom of the apartment he shares with Jeonghan, slumping to the floor, completely drained.
It’s deeply unfair, he thinks, that the same thing that helped him live for so long is now what’s killing him.
Seungkwan doesn’t tell anyone. Or, not exactly—he has to tell one of their managers, if only to explain why he suddenly needs an appointment at such a specific clinic. But otherwise, Seungkwan is a perfect wall. Despite his usual brightness and emotional expressiveness, he’s always been exceptionally good at hiding his inner turmoil. Seungcheol and the other older members often remind him that he doesn’t have to carry everything alone, that they’re a family, and they can share anything—no burden is too heavy when carried together. But Seungkwan has been used to bearing the weight of responsibility for the group ever since the days he was the only one promoting them on endless shows—and that weight still presses down on him, holding his mouth shut. No burden is too much—unless there are too many of them. And Seungkwan keeps collecting more. The group has enough to worry about. They don’t need to play nursemaids to a grown man. Seungkwan can handle it.
Even when his hands shake. Even when his heart beats so loudly he wouldn’t be surprised if the manager could hear it from the driver’s seat. What surprises him more is that he doesn’t.
The doctor is a serious woman in her forties, with a stern face but a kind gaze. She studies the X-ray of Seungkwan’s lungs for a while in silence. Then her expression softens, and he knows right away—it’s bad.
“Your love is beautiful, Seungkwan-ssi,” she says with a sad smile. “In all my years, I’ve seen so many different kinds of flowers. But this is the first time I’ve ever seen sakura. You said the petal was white?”
Seungkwan just nods, unsure he can speak without his voice trembling.
“A rather rare variety,” the doctor says thoughtfully. “The classic pink sakura usually symbolizes gentle, warm feelings—not harshly rejected, but still doomed to remain unnoticed. White sakura, on the other hand... it stands for a pure, bright love that is tragically unreachable from the very beginning. I dare assume you deeply admire the person responsible for the deadly beauty blooming in your lungs. Forgive the personal question, but I need to ask this to proceed accordingly... Am I right in understanding you haven’t spoken to the object of your affection?”
“I...” Seungkwan tries to steady himself, breathing in and out slowly, but it doesn’t help much. “Yes, I... You’re right.”
He knows all of this already. Not long ago, Jeonghan gave him a Japanese book about the language of flowers. Naturally, Seungkwan had thoroughly studied the page about sakura. It never came in handy in conversation with Jeonghan, unfortunately, but it had still been nice to learn a bit more about something your beloved cares for.
“I’m not pressuring you,” the doctor says gently, “but I would advise you to speak to this person. Yes, the very presence of the illness confirms your certainty that the feelings aren’t mutual, but I’ve had more than one case where the object of love became my next patient. Sometimes people don’t realize they love back until it’s too late—until they hear about the other’s feelings after the surgery. I trust you’re aware that this procedure is irreversible, Seungkwan-ssi. We’ll remove the growths in your lungs, but with them will go all the feelings that caused the flowers to bloom. You won’t be able to recover them later, and, more than that—you won’t even remember what you felt. You see, Hanahaki only manifests from the most sincere, deepest love, and though I’m saving lives by removing it... I am truly sorry to take away something so beautiful. If there’s even the smallest chance to preserve it... wouldn’t it be worth risking a conversation?”
Seungkwan feels tears welling up in his eyes against his will. He wants to keep this love so badly that his heart feels like it’s splitting in two from the inevitability of losing it after the surgery. If it weren’t for the responsibility he carries for others, he’d simply refuse treatment and choose slow death over erasing what he feels. But he can’t allow himself to die—his precious group wouldn’t survive it. His friends and family would grieve, yes, but it wouldn’t shatter their lives the way it would destroy the group. They’d never be able to come together again.
Seungkwan’s happiness is fleeting and painful, but so all-consuming that it’s worth every moment. And yet... without hesitation, he chooses the happiness of the twelve people he loves over his own. The operation will happen.
But if... if there’s even the tiniest chance that Jeonghan... Seungkwan has to ask—if not for his own sake, then for Jeonghan’s. Yes, most likely Jeonghan is fine, and won’t end up as that next patient who realizes his feelings too late—but Seungkwan can’t risk even that tiny possibility. He doesn’t want his silence to put Jeonghan in danger of experiencing the same unbearable pain of unexpressed love.
“I... I’ll talk to him,” Seungkwan says, brushing away a few rare tears with the back of his hand, embarrassed.
The doctor hums approvingly and writes something at her desk.
“Then I must urge you, Seungkwan-ssi,” she says seriously. “I don’t enjoy frightening my patients unnecessarily, but I have to inform you that the situation with tree-blooming flowers is different. Smaller flowers are trickier in general—they can detach and be expelled from the body whole even in the early stages of the illness, whereas the appearance of full buds in larger species already signals the final growth stage—and a serious risk of suffocation soon. You won’t be able to monitor this at home, like some other patients can. The only way to track its progress is through X-rays, but as you know, it’s dangerous to undergo radiation repeatedly—so our hands are tied there, too. But that’s not even the biggest concern. I’ve managed to save patients even at the final stage—some brought in barely breathing. But you... You might not make it that far. The tree variant of Hanahaki progresses far faster than its counterparts in nature. The shoots appear already solid—with a woody base and budding tips. Very soon, they’ll begin to bloom, and after that, the growth accelerates, increasing the risk of multiple punctures in your lungs—even before the late stage. Yours have already bloomed—as you could tell from the petal, and as your X-ray confirms. Now everything depends on your interactions with the object of your affection. You may have a few months if those interactions bring only positive emotions. Or a few weeks—if they’re negative. Avoidance won’t help. If you’re rejected, call me and come to the clinic immediately—we might be counting in hours.”
Seungkwan swallows hard, gripping his knees tightly. Nothing she’s said surprises him—he’d suspected as much. But hearing it confirmed—that his body could be literally torn apart from the inside... his love is that strong, huh? Of course it couldn’t be just an ordinary flower. It had to be an entire tree—an entire blooming sakura—a final gift, one last “I love you.”
Or... is his pain that strong? Maybe Hanahaki isn’t a disease but a release? The flowers grow faster when the one in love is suffering. They drink up the pain like water. So maybe... maybe they’re just trying to take it all away, to leave behind only a beautiful garden that soothes the heart and soul. But a human body isn’t made to hold a whole garden. That’s why it dies. Seungkwan likes that theory.
As if what’s killing him isn’t love, but his own ego—too proud to accept the absence of reciprocation. If he had just accepted it as a fact, felt no pain... maybe there would have been no need for the flowers to grow.
To blame himself and his flaws feels more just than laying guilt on a beautiful feeling that fills life with bright color and sunlit warmth.
Seungkwan returns home, calmer after the drive but still tired, afraid, and hungry—though his nerves have made it impossible to eat. Jeonghan meets him with a familiar gentle smile and a still-warm dish from his favorite restaurant.
“Why did you...” Seungkwan starts, his voice strained, but stops himself before the tears come back.
“I got a little worried,” Jeonghan says calmly. “I came home and you weren’t here, even though your schedule didn’t include anything at this hour—and I know you were exhausted today. So I called the manager.” He shrugs. “He didn’t tell me much, just said something about a last-minute shoot, and that pissed me off enough that I demanded a full report on your condition. When I heard you hadn’t eaten anything, I got even angrier and threatened him—seriously—to message me the moment he brought you home, so I’d have time to order food.” He steps closer and opens his arms. “Come here, little mandarin. I’ll make sure you eat well and rest.”
Seungkwan can’t fight himself—let alone Jeonghan—so a moment later, he finds himself in warm arms. It feels so good—especially after such a heavy day—and for a fleeting second, Seungkwan feels like the happiest person alive. But only for that second. Because then he remembers how soon he’ll lose all of this—and just like that, he becomes the unhappiest.
Seungkwan clings to Jeonghan’s back as tightly as he can—while gentle hands stroke his head—doing everything he can to suppress the cough. But the universe, it seems, has other plans—plans that don’t include anything joyful—and soon the tickle in his throat becomes unbearable. Seungkwan literally forces himself to pull away and quickly locks himself in his favorite bathroom under the pretense of washing his hands—not at all to cough up a few new petals under the conveniently distracting sound of running water, of course.
He doesn’t talk to Jeonghan that day. He feels too emotionally fragile for a conversation that serious. Seungkwan just basks in Jeonghan’s presence, hoping it soothes his ragged soul and gives him the strength to let go of the pain, even if just for a little while—so he can spend the time he has left right. If all he does is cry and suffer, then what’s the point of delaying the surgery at all? No—he... he has to thank Jeonghan.
After the surgery, Seungkwan won’t remember how much this love helped him survive. He won’t recall the warmth and light it brought into his exhausting days. Jeonghan’s care, his attention and support, his teasing that always brought a smile, and his hugs that chased away the worst of feelings—Jeonghan, without even realizing it, became one of the most important parts of Seungkwan’s life. And all because he’s a genuinely good person, someone who gives his whole heart to those he loves.
And Jeonghan doesn’t even think he’s doing anything special—always brushing off gratitude. But Seungkwan never took it for granted. He cherishes every moment of attention, and he has to thank Jeonghan while he still remembers why.
Not with words—Jeonghan would brush those off and maybe even forget them. No. Seungkwan’s gratitude will be the most valuable thing he has left—his time. He will give it to Jeonghan, completely, until the very last minute—when the flowers in his lungs stop being white and begin to turn red.
Seungkwan doesn’t know exactly what the manager tells the others, but somehow his schedule is cleared by nearly half. He suspects they’re told he’s feeling unwell—not exactly a lie—and thinks it’s a convenient excuse, one that will keep the eventual sudden surgery from being too much of a shock.
His suspicions are confirmed during the next group rehearsal, when everyone asks how he’s doing. The older members are particularly concerned—but no one more than Jeonghan. Of course it’s him. It’s always him.
Jeonghan frowns, and his gaze promises trouble. He doesn’t like finding out these things from the manager—everyone knows this. They've all been scolded before and have since learned to inform Jeonghan directly, either in person or in the group chat. But Seungkwan’s case is more complicated—they live together, so hiding his condition feels to Jeonghan like a personal betrayal.
“Sorry, hyung,” Seungkwan says with a gentle, reassuring smile. “I didn’t mean to worry you. I just decided to slow down a bit and rest.”
He doesn’t say, "I’m fine," because that would be a lie—and Jeonghan always knows when he’s lying. Instead, Seungkwan offers a convenient half-truth, and Jeonghan, having seen with his own eyes how exhausted he’s been lately, softens and affectionately ruffles his hair, promising to order something tasty for dinner.
“Wanna watch your favorite drama?” Seungkwan asks hopefully, catching Jeonghan’s puzzled look.
“You don’t like rewatching things,” Jeonghan reminds him, confused.
Seungkwan really doesn’t, but that doesn’t matter—not if he can see Jeonghan’s content smile and hear his cheerful voice tossing out sarcastic commentary at each familiar scene.
“Please?” he asks, already knowing Jeonghan won’t refuse.
Jeonghan snorts and gives him a warm smile.
“Of course, little mandarin. Anything you want.”
Seungkwan doesn’t need anything. He needs just one thing—and he’s never going to have it, no matter how much he wants it. Plus, pretty soon he won't even want it anymore because he'll forget. So Seungkwan simply enjoys what he can, taking full advantage of Jeonghan’s endless kindness—Jeonghan has always been a little more protective of him than the others, likely because of Seungkwan’s ingrained habit of hiding his troubles.
They rewatch Jeonghan’s favorite show, visit his favorite café, stroll through his favorite park, and attend exhibitions on Japanese culture. At each image of sakura, Seungkwan pauses, feeling the dull ache in his chest. Jeonghan always stops beside him, enchanted, and remarks on how beautiful it is—and Seungkwan just agrees, softly smiling while looking at Jeonghan himself.
Love overflows in him, and one day it slips out in a quiet, “I love you so much, hyung,” as they lie tangled on the couch during a lazy evening in front of the TV.
Jeonghan chuckles warmly, ruffling his hair and teasing, “You’re such a sweetheart, Seungkwannie.”
Seungkwan hides a cough behind a laugh and smiles sadly. After that, love starts pouring out of him in full sakura blossoms. He keeps them—every single one—slipping them between the pages of the book Jeonghan gave him. Maybe because leaving a piece of his love inside a book about the most romantic language in the world feels meaningful.
The petals are still white. The pain isn’t severe—just a light tingling and some shortness of breath during more intense dance and vocal rehearsals. He knows he’s being reckless, pushing the conversation with Jeonghan further and further back, but he can’t help his weakness. Until chance—or perhaps the natural unfolding of events—intervenes.
At the end of a shoot, Seungcheol jokes that Jeonghan has been promising to go shopping with him for ages but never followed through. Jeonghan rolls his eyes and says they can go when they’re free that day. Seungkwan can’t hold back a startled sound—they were supposed to finish their drama that particular day. He regrets it immediately as attention turns to him. In truth, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with their plans being canceled—it’s just that with each passing day, Seungkwan feels his time slipping away more and more, and he clings, almost helplessly, to any chance to be near Jeonghan. It’s selfish and childish, so he says nothing. But unaware of the storm inside him, Jeonghan teases with exaggerated sternness:
“Ah, Kwanine, it’s just a drama. We can finish it later—trust me, it’s not going anywhere. Don’t be so possessive, baby.”
Seungkwan knows it’s a joke. He hears stuff like this all the time. He’s used to it. And yet, something inside him breaks—crumbles into ash, scattered by a cold and biting wind.
Jeonghan immediately notices Seungkwan’s strange silence, the pause in his usual banter, and his playful smile falters into concern. Seungkwan can’t allow that, so he quickly pulls on a mask of mock indignation and retorts that, like any jealous housewife, he’ll wait at home with a rolling pin—ready to use it the moment his husband returns from his escapades. Everyone laughs—or nearly everyone. Jeonghan, though smiling again, watches him with subtle suspicion. And Seungkwan tries not to wince at the sharp pain in his chest and the flowers obstructing his breath.
He bolts to the bathroom the moment everyone’s attention shifts to someone else, practically hurling himself at the nearest sink, collapsing against it in exhaustion as he coughs up a heap of new flowers. This time, they’re all red, and blood trickles between Seungkwan’s fingers as he futilely tries to cover his mouth with his hand.
He breathes heavily, eyes shut, trying to regain control—slowing each inhale, avoiding deep breaths that might disturb the blooming sakura inside his lungs. And then the bathroom door swings open.
Seungkwan’s eyes fly open, wide with panic.
Thankfully, it’s just Chan. And Chan, too, freezes in horror at the sight—the blood on Seungkwan’s face and hands, the mess staining the sink.
Seungkwan sees the exact moment Chan steps back, ready to call for help.
“Chan, no, please! I’m okay! Just lock the door and listen, okay?”
He’s incredibly lucky it’s Chan. The youngest member—the only one Seungkwan is older than—the only one over whom he has any real authority. No one else would’ve stopped to listen—they’d feel obligated to immediately take care of a younger member bleeding before their eyes. But Chan hesitates uncertainly, then steps inside anyway, obediently locking the door behind him. That’s when he notices the blood-covered flowers coating Seungkwan’s hand and the basin.
“Seungkwan, what... what the hell, are you...?” Chan can’t even form the words. Seungkwan quickly turns on the tap, trying to wash everything away.
“I’m fine, really. I’m seeing a doctor. I’m getting surgery soon, so there’s nothing to worry about,” Seungkwan says as calmly as he can.
“How... long?” Chan manages to ask.
“A little over a month. There was no blood before, so I was doing okay,” Seungkwan replies.
“Okay?!” Chan nearly yells. “You’ve been dying for over a month and none of us even knew! Why didn’t you tell us? If everything’s under control and your surgery is scheduled, then why...”
He stops—the answer dawning on him mid-question.
“It’s someone in the group, isn’t it?”
Seungkwan just nods.
“It’s not... me?” Chan asks, fearful but responsible.
Seungkwan can’t hold back a genuine laugh.
“God, no.”
Chan exhales so deeply it makes Seungkwan laugh harder.
“It’s Jeonghan, isn’t it?” Chan says next—no hesitation.
Seungkwan stops laughing and gives a sad smile.
“That obvious?”
Chan nods, eyes soft.
“I’m sorry, hyung. Did you talk to him? Is that why you’ve been spending even more time together than usual?”
“So to make you call me ‘hyung,’ all I had to do was get a fatal illness?” Seungkwan teases, smirking at Chan’s offended noise before finally answering. “He doesn’t know. He just thinks I need extra attention after being emotionally drained these past few months. And I... I wanted to thank him for everything. Say goodbye. I won’t die, and I’ll still talk to him after the surgery—but I’ll forget my feelings. He’ll just be a friend, a roommate, a dear groupmate—like the other eleven. I... I won’t see my Jeonghan anymore. The one I love so much. So I had to say goodbye, you understand?”
Seungkwan flinches slightly as he feels arms wrap around him tightly.
“I’m so sorry, hyung,” Chan whispers, on the verge of tears. “Maybe there’s hope? Just talk to him. He cares about you so much, he—”
“He cares about all of us, Channie, and you know that. I’m not special,” Seungkwan sniffs, but he doesn’t cry—the past month has taught him how to hold back. “And I will talk to him, don’t worry. I’ll ask him what he thinks of me, what he feels. If there’s even the smallest chance... But I won’t confess. I don’t want him to feel guilty for not giving me what I want—or worse, feel obligated to love me back just so I won’t need the surgery.”
“His heart would break if he found out,” Chan agrees, devastated.
“That’s why I’m asking you to keep this a secret. It’s... more serious than anything I’ve ever asked of you, Channie. No one can know the real reason behind the surgery. The manager and I will say it’s something like an appendix removal. Can you promise me? Please.”
Seungkwan is close to begging when Chan stops him, holding him tightly in his arms.
“I promise, hyung,” he says with all the gravity in the world. “No one will know. But please, tell me when you’re going. I’ll go with you. I... I don’t want you to go through this alone.”
Fighting back tears becomes too difficult, and Seungkwan lets a few salty drops slip free. Going there alone really would’ve been unbearable.
“Thank you,” he whispers shakily into Chan’s shoulder.
It takes them a while to calm down and clean up, but they manage before anyone starts looking for them.
Jeonghan, clearly concerned, asks if Seungkwan is okay and whether he should cancel his dumb shopping trip with Seungcheol—if that’s what this is about. But Seungkwan only rolls his eyes and responds with sarcasm:
“Ah, it’s just a shopping trip, hyung, I’ll survive. Don’t be so overbearing, okay?”
He nudges Jeonghan playfully in the shoulder, and Jeonghan relaxes. He leaves, and Seungkwan pulls out his phone to text his doctor: it’s time to prepare the surgery.
He can’t wait any longer. The episodes are getting more dangerous, and if he forgets to lock the door during one of them again—and someone else finds him—someone who won’t stay quiet...
Seungkwan speaks with Jeonghan the very next evening. They’re having dinner when Seungkwan gently declines the offer to finish the drama—bitterly thinking they’ll never finish it now—and explains that he’s going to meet Chan afterward. It’s not entirely a lie—Chan and the manager are waiting in the car downstairs, ready to drive him to the clinic. But somewhere in him, the faintest hope still flickers that maybe... maybe it really is just a meeting. And now, he must let that hope go.
“I’m really grateful for all your care, hyung,” Seungkwan says lightly, pushing food around his plate. “I wish I could fall in love with someone like you, so maybe you should tone it down, or it’ll really happen.”
Jeonghan chuckles.
“I’m flattered, little mandarin. But you should definitely find someone better.”
Seungkwan’s heart skips a beat.
“Why?” he asks casually, trying not to show a thing.
“Caring alone isn’t enough to make it love,” Jeonghan replies simply, with a shrug. “And I want my Seungkwannie to have someone who gives him the full spectrum of love—nothing less.”
“And that someone isn’t me,” echoes so clearly between the lines.
Seungkwan bites the inside of his cheek until it bleeds, holding back the expression of pain.
“What do you think, hyung... Will I ever find someone like that? Could someone fall in love with me? Could you?”
Jeonghan’s gaze softens.
“Did someone upset you? Was it Soonyoung? If he said anything dumb again, I’ll kick his ass.”
Seungkwan lets out a weak laugh.
“Then I guess I’ll have to save his ass and clear his name—or mostly clear it—because he has nothing to do with it. I just... got to thinking. It was nice, slowing down my schedule and spending more time with you,” he says with a sad smile, still avoiding Jeonghan’s eyes.
“Oh, honey, of course it was. We live together because we’re comfortable with each other—if it were otherwise, I wouldn’t have asked you to move in with me,” Jeonghan says thoughtfully. “It’s nice, but it’s different. You’ll understand what I mean when you find that kind of love—the kind you’re asking about. And you will, don’t worry,” he adds warmly. “You’re amazing, and you deserve all the love in the world. So don’t ever doubt yourself. Someday, someone will absolutely fall in love with you, little mandarin. Until then, hyung will look after you, okay?”
Seungkwan smiles bitterly to himself. How amazing can he be if, in all the love in the world, he can’t have the one that matters most?
He wants to argue, to point out the obvious mistake in Jeonghan’s words—to explain that he already found it, and that it’s not different at all—but... everything Jeonghan says isn’t about Seungkwan. It’s about Jeonghan himself, for whom their closeness is nice—but not that kind of love. Now Seungkwan has a clear answer to his question.
And so do the flowers in his lungs.
Pain shoots through Seungkwan’s chest, sharp and unforgiving. Instead of clutching it, he grips his thigh beneath the table, likely leaving bruises. Regaining control for just a moment, Seungkwan shoots to his feet, startling Jeonghan, and blurts:
“Oh crap, I mixed up the time! Chan’s already waiting for me—I gotta run! Thanks for dinner!”
“What— Seungkwan-ah! You didn’t eat anything!” Jeonghan calls after him, rising in confusion.
Seungkwan looks at him for the first time that night and nearly breaks down at the thought that it might be the last time he sees him. He rushes forward and hugs Jeonghan—his Jeonghan, the one he loves so much and will never be able to hold again—whispering:
“I love you so much, hyung. I’m so grateful you’ve been in my life. Thank you.”
Jeonghan hugs him back, stroking his head.
“God, what’s going on? That’s sweet, but you’re making me worry, little mandarin. I’m not going anywhere.”
Seungkwan lets out a bitter huff and pulls away quickly, turning his head to hide the tears he can’t stop.
“I really have to go, hyung. Don’t miss me too much, okay?”
He nearly runs out of the apartment, grabbing the first jacket he sees and shoving his feet into the nearest shoes.
“Will you be gone long?” Jeonghan asks from behind, and Seungkwan clamps a hand over his mouth to keep the blossoms—and a heartbreaking forever—from slipping out.
He bolts from the apartment without a word, only just realizing that after the surgery, it won’t just be the Jeonghan he loves who disappears. It will be Seungkwan himself—the one who loves Jeonghan—who’s gone too. He’ll never come back to Jeonghan again, even if Jeonghan himself never notices. And as painful as that is—it’s the right thing.
Chan catches him outside by the car, lifting him into his arms as Seungkwan nearly collapses from the pain. His tears mix with blood, and the flowers leave a trail on the ground—a trail that soon, strangers will trample underfoot, never knowing they step on the remnants of someone’s doomed love.
Everything else Seungkwan remembers only in fragments: Chan’s tearful attempts to comfort him; Chan answering Jeonghan’s call—because Seungkwan left his phone behind in the rush—and forcing out the words to reassure him; the way someone help him onto a stretcher and wheel him into surgery, Chan holding his hand until the very last second at the operating room door, promising to stay close the whole time.
Seungkwan closes his eyes in exhaustion. And when he opens them again, he’s in a hospital bed—with no memory of how or why he got there.
❀❁✿
Jeonghan returns to his meal, but his appetite is gone—replaced by growing worry. He tries to calm himself with routine, with small distractions, but nothing works. Seungkwan had acted far too strangely, and even though Jeonghan doesn’t want to seem overbearing, he just can’t let it go.
He calls Seungkwan, only to hear the familiar ringtone ringing inside the apartment. That sets him even more on edge. So he calls Chan next. Something about the forced cheer in the younger one’s voice puts him off as well, but Chan insists everything is fine—that Seungkwan is a grown man and doesn’t need constant supervision. It calms Jeonghan a little, but not enough. So he calls Seungcheol.
Seungcheol listens carefully to the story of the strange dinner and says, unfazed:
“You’re such a mother hen, Han. If I didn’t know you, I’d think you were in love with our sweet little Kwannie.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Cheol,” Jeonghan huffs. “He just... scared me, okay? It felt like... I don’t know, a goodbye?”
“A goodbye to what?” Seungcheol teases. “His puppy crush on you?”
Jeonghan rolls his eyes.
“Why did I even call you?”
Seungcheol just laughs.
“Alright, alright, I’m sorry. You know I’m just messing around. Although... I wouldn’t rule it out completely.”
“That makes zero sense, Seungcheol, and you—” Jeonghan begins, but Seungcheol cuts him off.
“Maybe not for you, but to me, your relationship has always felt closer than just roommates, Hannie.”
“Of course we’re close! We’ve been in the same group for years—we’re basically family. It would be weird not to be close,” Jeonghan insists.
“You could say the same about me and Joshua,” Seungcheol counters calmly, “or any of the other members who live together. But none of them act like you two. Well—except Soonyoung and Jihoon, and as you know, they’re literally dating.”
Jeonghan frowns and stays silent for a while.
“But I’m not—” he starts, only for Seungcheol to sigh heavily.
“Oh my god, Jeonghan! You called me, remember? Something’s bothering you, and I’m trying to help. I’m not saying you’re in love—I’m just saying, with everything going on, it really seems like Seungkwan might have feelings for you. Especially with what he said during dinner. Maybe you should ask him. Hopefully it’s not true. But if it is—I don’t want him suffering from unrequited love while living with you.”
Something inside Jeonghan resists—hard—at the thought of moving out and living apart, with someone else. But he doesn’t want Seungkwan to suffer either—not if Seungcheol’s assumption turns out to be true.
“Alright, I’ll talk to him,” Jeonghan concedes. “I’ll let you know if... if we need to find a new arrangement.”
He hopes they won’t. He hopes his sweet Kwannie isn’t in love with him, and that they can just go back to living together like always. Jeonghan really doesn’t want to lose... such a comfortable roommate. And the hesitation in that thought? Surely just a coincidence.
But the conversation doesn’t happen. Not for a while.
A few hours later, their manager suddenly informs everyone that Seungkwan experienced sharp abdominal pain while out with Chan and was rushed to the hospital—suspected appendicitis, which the doctors confirmed. He was operated on urgently, and though he’s now stable, visitors aren’t allowed until the next day.
Jeonghan feels like he forgets how to breathe. It sounds dangerous. Like Seungkwan’s life could have simply ended if even one thing had gone wrong—a slow reaction to what was happening, a delayed ambulance, a suddenly ruptured appendix.
Jeonghan thought it was hard to calm down when Seungkwan suddenly ran out of the apartment without answering, but now he knows what truly hard feels like—he spends this night completely sleepless.
Everyone’s worried—the group chat is flooded—but Seungcheol’s calm reassurance that Seungkwan is okay seems to be enough for most of them. Not for Jeonghan. What terrifies him even more is the silence from Chan. Eventually, close to dawn, Jeonghan gives in and messages him—even though Seungcheol had asked them not to overwhelm the poor guy.
Jeonghan feels a little guilty—but only a little. He promises himself he’ll apologize later, once he can think straight.
Chan replies almost immediately. And Jeonghan doesn’t like the response.
First—Chan’s been allowed to stay with Seungkwan in his hospital room all night. Jeonghan understands not letting the whole group visit, but why couldn’t he go, if Chan could? Out of all of them, Chan is the youngest, the one who’s usually cared for—not the one doing the caring. He’s not the best choice to watch over someone who’s sick. Especially not Seungkwan, whose moods, pain tolerance, and fears Jeonghan knows better than anyone. He should be there.
Second—Chan’s response is so short. So clipped. Jeonghan needs details, anything—but all Chan says is that Seungkwan has received treatment, his life isn’t in danger anymore, and Jeonghan should get some rest and check on him in the morning.
So Jeonghan follows half the advice—he doesn’t sleep, but he goes to the hospital the moment visiting hours begin.
Chan meets him with two coffees, looking like he expected him. They sit in silence by Seungkwan’s bedside, and Jeonghan is too focused on how pale Seungkwan looks to notice the redness around Chan’s eyes—until he hears a broken whisper:
“It hurt him so much, hyung. I don’t want him to ever hurt like that again. He... deserves to be happy.”
Jeonghan clenches his hands into fists.
“He will be. He’ll recover, Chan-ah, and after that we’ll all make sure he’s the happiest person in the world. Okay?”
Chan looks at him and gives a weak smile—one that feels strangely bitter.
“Of course, hyung. Just... don’t try too hard, alright? Happiness isn’t only... in our group. He might find it somewhere else.”
The phrasing strikes Jeonghan as odd, but he nods anyway. Then his eyes catch on something by the bed.
A vase. With white sakura.
“Where did that come from?” he asks, startled.
Chan glances at the flowers, his expression unreadable.
“A gift from his doctor.”
The tone is clipped. He clearly doesn’t want to talk about it—so Jeonghan lets it go, though he senses Chan knows a lot more.
And then that reluctance becomes a much bigger issue—because it turns out Chan is the only one who knows anything.
When Seungkwan wakes up, he looks genuinely surprised—so much so that Jeonghan easily believes he remembers nothing from the night before. Honestly, Jeonghan’s just so relieved to see him awake that he’d probably believe anything. But Seungkwan’s words—everything he says—match exactly what Chan had told them. Not one detail out of place. No personal additions. No inconsistencies. Nothing to doubt.
Except the way both of them—Chan and Seungkwan—look at the sakura.
Chan clearly hates those flowers. His gaze holds disappointment, maybe even anger. And Seungkwan... Seungkwan, who always admired sakura with Jeonghan, now only glances at the vase with distant, melancholic eyes.
Seungkwan stays in the hospital for a week. And all that time, he acts... normal. Like the version of himself from before his schedule lightened, before he started spending all his free time with Jeonghan. He now gives equal attention to every visitor from the group, smiling the same for each of them.
He even asks—surprised—why Jeonghan doesn’t just come with the others during regular visiting hours, instead of rushing over during narrow gaps in his own schedule.
Somehow, that question ruins Jeonghan’s mood for days.
Maybe because usually, Seungkwan would just thank him—for his concern, for being too much. And he never thought it was strange.
Jeonghan finds himself caught off guard when Seungkwan casually adds that Jeonghan should really take a break—after all, there are eleven other people who can take care of him just as well.
The comment throws Jeonghan so far out of his usual rhythm that it takes him days to remember the conversation he had with Seungcheol. Seungkwan returns to their apartment to rest for another week post-surgery, and only then does Jeonghan recall Seungcheol’s theory.
What triggers it is the strange pattern of that week: Seungkwan is almost never home. He’s constantly off having tea with Minghao, taking walks with Wonwoo, catching up with Jun, or doing anything and everything with Chan. The contrast to the previous month is so stark that Jeonghan can’t help but notice. And he begins to wonder if maybe—just maybe—Seungkwan is avoiding him.
The only explanation that comes to mind is Seungcheol’s suggestion: that Seungkwan had feelings for him.
Starting to miss Seungkwan’s presence more than he expected, Jeonghan intercepts him before he can disappear again and firmly sits him down on the couch, joining him. Seungkwan looks at him with a puzzled, slightly sheepish smile.
“Kwannie, do you... love me?” Jeonghan asks, tension lacing his voice.
Seungkwan lets out a small snort.
“Of course I love you, hyung. What kind of question is that? Are you low on attention? Want me to text the group chat so everyone else can confirm we all love you?” he teases, already reaching for his phone.
Jeonghan gently takes his hand, pries the phone away, and places it on the couch. He doesn’t let go of Seungkwan’s hand.
“No, I mean... are you in love with me?”
Seungkwan blinks at him, surprised. And then suddenly bursts into laughter.
“Oh, sorry—sorry, hyung, I just... God, is that what’s had you so tense all these days? You should’ve just asked instead of torturing yourself in silence. Don’t worry, you’re safe,” he jokes, giving Jeonghan’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “I’m not in love with you. There’s been no confusion between the comfort of cohabitation and deeper feelings, like you feared. You can exhale.”
And Jeonghan does exhale, though something in him stirs uneasily.
“So... you’re not avoiding me?” he asks, still uncertain.
“You’re starting to worry me, hyung,” Seungkwan says, raising an eyebrow playfully. “Why would I avoid you?”
“It’s just... you’ve been home less than usual, so I thought maybe—”
“Oh my God, hyung, you’re so cute when you’re overly protective,” Seungkwan says with a laugh. “I’m fine, you’re fine, everyone’s fine—calm down and stop seeing ominous signs in everything. I just got tired of lying around for a week and missed the others—even if they did visit a lot. I’m making up for lost time while I still have some free days. And we still see each other every day, don’t we?”
Jeonghan feels a strange lump forming in his throat. He flinches slightly at the sharp ache in his chest when Seungkwan tosses in a teasing:
“Don’t be so possessive, baby.”
Before Jeonghan can even process why those words hurt so much, Seungkwan’s phone buzzes. He picks it up with his free hand.
“Oh, Channie’s asking if I want to go see a movie,” he says simply, already standing and releasing Jeonghan’s hand.
But Jeonghan, acting on instinct, grabs his hand again to keep him from leaving.
“Didn’t you want to finish that drama with me, little mandarin?” he asks, hope slipping into his voice.
“You know I hate rewatching things, hyung,” Seungkwan grumbles playfully, gently pulling his hand free. With a light smile, he adds, “You can come with us if you want. Just... maybe stop calling me that? At least in front of others. It’s a little awkward, hyung.”
Jeonghan doesn’t go with them. He stays seated on the couch for a long time, trying to process a few painful truths:
Seungkwan no longer makes him a priority—not out of avoidance, but simply because he no longer is one. And he doesn’t want Jeonghan to call him by that endearing nickname anymore—the one that always made Seungkwan smile so warmly.
It hurts more than Jeonghan expected. Sure, they’ve always spent time with other members—the group is close—but only now does he realize just how much time he and Seungkwan used to spend together. Especially in the past month, when Seungkwan had been taking a break. But he’s still on that break now, and yet Jeonghan barely sees him. Jeonghan has even started to feel a slight irritation whenever Chan is mentioned—because Chan keeps taking Seungkwan away from their apartment.
As always, Jeonghan turns to Seungcheol.
Which, in this case, only makes things worse.
“So I was wrong,” Seungcheol says, clearly perplexed. “Though honestly, I really thought he had feelings for you. But now... he’s acting differently—I think you’ve noticed it too. He’s acting like there are definitely no feelings left.”
“Why are we still talking about feelings?” Jeonghan asks, exasperated. “He said he’s not in love with me. Case closed, Cheol. This is something else, and I—”
“I’m afraid it’s far from closed, Hannie,” Seungcheol interrupts gently. “Maybe he’s not in love, but... now I’m absolutely sure you are.”
Jeonghan freezes, stunned.
“Jeonghan?” Seungcheol prompts, worried.
“No, that’s... That can’t be true, Cheol!” Jeonghan hisses, suddenly defensive.
Seungcheol sighs.
“You know I’m right. You feel it. You miss him so much, even when you see him daily, that it’s starting to show in everything—especially that sad look you’ve been wearing. From the outside, I think it’s been obvious for a long time: you’ve loved him differently than anyone else in our group. But you mistook it for ‘just the comfort of living together’—God, that pretentious little phrase of yours still makes me want to scream. You fooled yourself the moment you asked him to move in. You thought you wouldn’t fall for him—even though you already had. You treated every close interaction with him as something normal. And now, when you’re faced with what’s truly normal between two groupmates who live together, you’re left confused and in a panic—because normal suddenly isn’t enough. You want more. You need more.”
Jeonghan stays silent, unable to argue. It all sounds... painfully true. It explains everything—every reaction, every action, every strange feeling since Seungkwan started acting like he wasn’t just an extension of Jeonghan’s own body, always there by his side.
God. Is that why he’s been so irritated at sweet little Channie this whole time? Has he just... been jealous?
“You need to think about this,” Seungcheol advises. “Look inward. Reevaluate your feelings. And talk to him again.”
“But he said he’s not in love with me,” Jeonghan mutters, devastated.
“Are you sure he wasn’t lying?” Seungcheol asks. “Kwannie’s shy. Maybe—”
“No,” Jeonghan cuts him off, firm and certain—and it’s that very certainty that makes his eyes sting. “He wasn’t lying. I know when he lies. Whatever might’ve been true before, now he’s definitely not in love with me. Maybe... maybe I missed my chance, Cheol. That night before the surgery, when he said all those weird things...”
The realization crushes him.
“You haven’t missed your chance,” Seungcheol insists. “That night did sound like a confession without the confession. And people don’t fall out of love in two weeks. If—and that’s a big if—we misunderstood him, then fine. You can just… just try. Start courting him. It’s not like it’ll be that different from how you already treat him... or used to. Kwannie said you gave him a book about flower meanings, right? Sounds like he liked it. So why don’t you send him a bouquet? Use the language of flowers to show your feelings. I’m sure he’d love that.”
Jeonghan lets out a shaky laugh—more grief than amusement.
“Thanks, Cheol,” he says quietly. “I’ll try.”
“Keep your chin up, Hannie. It’s not over yet.”
Jeonghan usually listens to Seungcheol’s advice—because more often than not, he turns out to be right. Being a good leader isn’t just a title. But sometimes, Jeonghan needs a bit of time to steady himself and gather his thoughts—which is even harder now, when he fully understands his own feelings and knows exactly why his chest aches every time Seungkwan walks out the door to spend time with someone else.
And Seungkwan keeps walking away.
It takes Jeonghan a few weeks to accept that their close bond won’t just return on its own. He accepts, but he doesn’t resign—and eventually, he decides to try and bring it back himself. Seungcheol’s flower idea isn’t bad, actually. Seungkwan is a romantic, and he’d definitely appreciate something like that.
Jeonghan remembers how Seungkwan took him to all his favorite places last month without needing to be asked—just knowing Jeonghan loved them. He remembers it and tries not to crumble.
While Seungkwan is out again, Jeonghan finds the book he once gave him. He settles onto the couch and flips through the early pages. Something slips onto his lap.
A flower?
Jeonghan picks it up slowly—a dried white blossom... sakura. He flips more pages and finds more—tucked carefully between dozens of leaves. Where did Seungkwan get these? Sakura does bloom in Korea, but it’s not the season. And Jeonghan gave him this book well after the last bloom. Why did he keep them?
Jeonghan gently places the fallen blossoms back where they were and stares at them in silence. Then a memory resurfaces—the sakura branches by Seungkwan’s hospital bed. A gift from the doctor, Chan had said. But... since when do doctors bring flowers to patients?
Jeonghan scoffs in frustration, realizing he’s getting jealous over nothing.
And why sakura?
He flips to the table of contents and finds the entry. Turning carefully so the flowers don’t fall again, he reads:
“White sakura—purity, innocence, and renewal. When given as a token of love, it symbolizes sincere, pure, and elevated feelings. Such a gift expresses tenderness, loyalty, and deep respect.”
His eyes drop to the note at the bottom of the page:
“If white sakura appears as a symptom of Hanahaki disease, it signifies a love not only unrequited but pure, bright, and tragically unreachable—leaving the afflicted alone with a beautiful, but fatally cold pain.”
Jeonghan stares at the dried blossoms again—blooming out of season, preserved in a book he gifted.
Then it hits him.
His hands start to tremble. His breath shortens. Something inside him rips wide open—maybe his heart.
Seungkwan... had Hanahaki?
That can’t be. It’s… just impossible, isn’t it? He was dying. In pain. And no one noticed?
Not even Jeonghan, who lives with him?
How?
Jeonghan grips the book in his hands. The truth is, it’s all too easy—if Seungkwan doesn’t want anyone to know, then no one will know. Jeonghan had tried for so long to break him of that terrible habit and even thought, foolishly, that he’d succeeded... clearly, he hadn’t.
Seungkwan hadn’t told a soul about his illness. Well—no, he must’ve told the manager. Maybe Chan, too. Why Chan again?
Could it be... he got sick because of Chan? Jeonghan bites down hard on his lip, tension flooding his body. No—it couldn’t have been Chan. He probably just found out by accident, somehow. That would explain why Seungkwan spends so much time with him now—maybe Chan is the only one he can lean on after... the surgery?
Jeonghan stops breathing.
There was no appendicitis. They removed the flowers. That’s why the doctor left him those sakura branches—they grew inside Seungkwan. And after the surgery, they were gone—along with all his feelings. Along with his love. Erased.
A tear falls onto the page. Jeonghan wipes at his cheek and realizes he’s crying.
There’s only one person whose place in Seungkwan’s life shifted dramatically after the surgery—Jeonghan. That conversation before it happened... it had been Seungkwan’s last attempt to confirm that Jeonghan didn’t feel anything in return. And Jeonghan had convinced him completely—because he’d been convinced. Convinced that there couldn’t be anything between them.
Then Seungkwan hugged him. Told him he loved him. Thanked him for being in his life—as if he was about to disappear. It hadn’t just felt like a goodbye to Jeonghan—Seungkwan had truly been saying goodbye.
To him—to the Jeonghan he loved.
Because after the surgery… that Jeonghan would simply cease to exist. Just like… the Seungkwan who loved him.
Jeonghan drops the book, not noticing the way the delicate white petals scatter like a cruel joke. He buries his face in his hands and sobs, folding in on himself in silent agony.
Seungkwan told him not to miss him. And when Jeonghan had asked, “Will you be gone long?”—he didn’t answer. Just ran out the door. Because the only honest answer he couldn’t say was: forever.
The Seungkwan who used to hold him close, who would carve time out of even the busiest schedule just to be near him, who adored that silly little nickname Jeonghan gave him—the Seungkwan who had loved him so deeply that he nearly died from growing Jeonghan’s favorite flowers inside his lungs—that Seungkwan left that night.
And he never came back.
Jeonghan lost his boy.
To his own foolishness. His carelessness. His selfish belief that love like that would always be there. He took it for granted, while Seungkwan gave him everything and simply... loved.
And now he doesn’t. Seungcheol said it’s not over—but it is. Seungkwan doesn’t love Jeonghan anymore. Not anymore.
Jeonghan gasps for breath, only realizing after a moment that it’s not just from crying. He coughs—and freezes.
There, in his palm, are a few small, delicate purple petals.
He stares at them. And then he starts to laugh.
How ironic.
An hour passes before the storm quiets. Jeonghan finds himself staring blankly at his hand with dried eyes. His gaze shifts to the book on the floor. He picks it up and flips through it until he finds the right page. He holds one of the fallen petals next to the illustration.
Purple hydrangea.
“If purple hydrangea appears as a symptom of Hanahaki disease, it means the afflicted realized their love too late and now lives with guilt, regret for what was lost, and no way to fix it.”
Well.
The universe clearly has a sense of humor.
Jeonghan gathers the scattered flowers and tucks them back inside the book. At least now, he thinks bitterly, he’ll have a place to add his own beside Seungkwan’s. It’s the only place their love still exists together.
When Seungkwan returns home, he immediately notices something’s wrong.
“Hyung? Did you... were you crying?” he asks, worried. And Jeonghan feels like laughing through tears again—tears that haven’t come. Not yet.
He knows they’ll come back. This peace is temporary.
“I’m okay, Kwannie. Don’t worry.”
“Yeah, right. How can I not worry when something made my hyung cry?” Seungkwan frowns. “You don’t have to tell me, but... at least let me know what I can do to help.”
Jeonghan fights with himself. He loses.
“Can you hug me, please?” he whispers, his voice breaking. And Seungkwan steps forward without hesitation, wrapping his arms around him.
“Let’s finish watching your drama?” he offers softly.
Jeonghan lets out a trembling laugh.
“You hate rewatching things.”
“I do,” Seungkwan agrees easily, rubbing his back. “But I don’t mind doing it for you, if it’s what you want.”
If it’s what he wants, huh? But what if what Jeonghan wants is a love he could’ve had—but lost forever?
He squeezes Seungkwan tighter, breathing in the familiar scent of his hair. He’s missed that scent so much it almost makes him cry again.
Is it really... forever? Not even the slightest chance?
Not even a sliver of hope left?
Jeonghan doesn’t want to give up. He doesn’t want to let surgeons carve out this love, too. Because then there will be nothing left between them. Just two people sharing a home. Nothing more.
The drama passes in a blur. Seungkwan eventually goes to bed, and Jeonghan grabs his phone, scrolling through contacts until he finds the one he needs. Not Seungcheol—not this time. Though he will tell him everything later.
This time, he calls Chan. The only one who knows something. The only one who can confirm Jeonghan’s fears—or put them to rest.
It’s... not a pleasant conversation.
“I’m sorry, hyung, but I’m not going to talk to you about Seungkwan,” Chan says flatly the moment he answers the call.
“I just need to know,” Jeonghan says plainly, “did he have Hanahaki?”
“That’s none of your business, hyung,” Chan snaps.
So Jeonghan goes all in.
“I love him.”
Silence. It lasts longer than expected, but eventually it breaks—with a string of curses.
“Are you fucking kidding me?! No, I refuse to believe this bullshit after everything—”
“I have Hanahaki too,” Jeonghan adds quickly.
This time, the silence drags on even longer.
“God, you two are such idiots it’s honestly sad,” Chan finally mutters. “I don’t understand how the two dumbest people alive not only met each other but also fell in love—unbelievable.”
“Channie, sweetheart, I appreciate the sympathy,” Jeonghan says dryly, “but please just answer the question.”
“Yes, hyung, Seungkwan had Hanahaki. Because of you. Fix it, if it can be fixed, and be fucking happy already.”
And Jeonghan can fix it. Or at least, he thinks he can. So the next person he calls is their manager—because only the doctor who treated Seungkwan can confirm his next step. Jeonghan needs to visit that clinic anyway. If there’s no hope… well. He tries not to think about that.
He asks to be scheduled with the same doctor Seungkwan saw. It’s a trick, and the manager falls for it, sighing and replying, “Alright,” confirming that yes—Seungkwan was indeed there.
The doctor won’t violate patient confidentiality, even if he asks outright. But this is enough. The confirmation is real. Two confirmations, in fact—Chan and the manager. More than enough to be certain.
Jeonghan is in the clinic two days later.
“I’m in love with your former patient,” he says as soon as he sits down. “I realized it too late, and he already had the surgery. I need to know... is there any hope that I can bring his feelings back?”
The doctor is a stern-looking woman in her mid-forties, with kind eyes. She studies his lung X-rays silently, then looks up at him with a mix of exhaustion and sympathy.
“You can’t bring back what no longer exists, Jeonghan-ssi,” she says plainly, like she hasn’t just pierced his heart with a thousand needles.
He clenches his fists so tightly that his nails draw blood. He reminds himself to breathe—even if he no longer knows why.
“But,” she continues more gently, once again giving him a reason to keep using his lungs, now overgrown with hydrangeas, “you can try to build something new. The surgery doesn’t remove a person’s ability to love. He can fall in love again. Even with you. He wasn’t born loving you, was he? Something you did once made him fall for you. Do it again. And who knows, maybe it’ll work. At best, I give you six months. Use that time wisely. And remember—we’ll be here, if the hope doesn’t pan out.”
Jeonghan only nods, unable to speak. The dizzy rush of sudden, overwhelming hope makes his head spin. He no longer feels like someone dying from a love he destroyed himself. No. Jeonghan feels alive again.
Even if he doesn’t deserve it.
But even undeserved, he won’t waste it.
“I hope I don’t see you again,” the doctor says with a reassuring smile.
“So do I,” Jeonghan thinks, already certain he’ll do anything to make that true.
He once told Seungkwan that someday someone else would give him the love he deserved—when, in truth, all Seungkwan had wanted in that moment was his. Back then, Jeonghan made the worst mistake of his life. But now, he’s ready. To give Seungkwan that love—and himself—fully. Without holding back. Without thinking of anyone else.
He’ll fight for him.
Because Seungkwan deserves someone who will fight.
All that remains is to make Seungkwan want that love again.
Jeonghan steps into the hallway and pulls out his phone. This time, he doesn’t ask for advice. He doesn’t look for confirmation. He just dials the only number that matters and says it straight:
“I want to take you on a date, little mandarin.”
A soft laugh comes through the line.
“Oh, hyung, you’re still upset about something, huh? Of course I’ll hang out with you—you didn’t need to call it a date to get me to agree, silly,” Seungkwan replies easily, clearly not taking the invitation seriously. But that’s okay. Jeonghan will start small.
Then comes the expected complaint:
“And I told you to stop calling me that, hyung. I’m not a child or your other half, so stop with the nicknames!”
Jeonghan chuckles, already picturing Seungkwan pouting in embarrassment.
“You don’t have to be a child to love my nicknames, little mandarin. Don’t be shy,” he teases, making no effort to deny the ‘other half’ part.
He hopes one day they’ll reach that point.
Even if he has to walk there alone.
Seungkwan already made that lonely journey and stayed there, ahead — rejected by Jeonghan and forgotten by his own self. Jeonghan can’t leave him there, abandoned in that cold oblivion.
He hears Seungkwan’s grumbling on the other end of the line and smiles.
Yes. Jeonghan will walk forward until he can’t anymore. And even then, he won’t stop—he’ll crawl if he has to. He’ll fight with everything he has to make it in time, before...
Before he runs out of time.
And even if he does, then—
Jeonghan will bloom for Seungkwan as a garden of purple hydrangeas, whispering one last time:
“I’m sorry. I love you too.”