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Sung Hyunjae has really nice flowers.
I mean, really nice flowers.
So sometimes, I steal them.
You grow them everywhere, bright, stubborn things that climb up fences and spill over walls.
I tell myself you won’t miss a few, that the world can’t possibly notice one less petal in your stupid perfect garden.
——
"Yoojin-ah," Sung Hyunje's voice is all smooth and amused, and Han Yoojin freezes, his hand still halfway from taking another Chrysanthemum, “If you wanted flowers, you could’ve just asked.”
Han Yoojin mumble something about errands, about them being for someone else.
Sung Hyunjae eyebrow arches, and Han Yoojin knows he's not buying it.
Of course, he's not. (But couldn’t he act like he was?)
Sung Hyunjae has this stupidly sharp way of looking at you, like he can see right through your excuses and figure out every single thing you want to say.
"Someone else?" he repeats, “Then I suppose I should come along. I'd hate to think you’re giving away my flowers to someone unworthy."
Han Yoojin trys to dodge the issue. "No need, really—"
But Sung Hyunjae already walking toward Yoojin with that annoying, smug smile of his.
Of course. There's no talking him out of it.
“Lead the way, Yoojin-ah. Let’s see who’s ‘worthy’ of my flowers.”
——
Han yoojin isn’t sure how to break it to him.
How to tell him that this “someone” isn’t some random person he’s trying to impress or make happy.
That it’s his dead brother’s grave that there heading to.
——
The walk is quiet at first, the bundle of stolen chrysanthemums clutched tight in Han Yoojin's arms.
Sung Hyunjae strolls beside him, hands in his pockets, that perpetual half-smile playing on his lips. (Yoojin wondered why kept a smile on his face all the time.)
Hyunjae chatters idly about the weather, about how the flowers are particularly colorful this season.
They turn onto the familiar path, the one lined with weathered tombstone and overgrown grass.
Sung Hyunjae's steps slow, just a bit.
——
The cemetery is silent except for the crunch of gravel under their shoes.
Han Yoojin stops at the headstone, the name etched into the tomb: Han Yoohyun.
The flowers already there from last week are wilted, brown at the edges.
He kneels without a word and gently replacing them with the fresh chrysanthemums.
Sung Hyunjae stands a few paces back, his smug expression faded into something unreadable. (Yoojin dosen’t know, he’s too busy.)
Finally, Yoojin straightens, brushing dirt from his knees. “He’s… he was my brother. Yoohyun. I come here every week,” he says.
He looked over to Hyunjae, only to be meet with a soft expression.
“Next time, Yoojin-ah, you can take as many as you want.”
He glances at the headstone, something almost gentle in his gaze.
——
Later that night, Yoojin is sprawled on his couch, phone on his hand.
He googles: most expensive flowers in the world.
He opens his chat with Sung Hyunjae.
Skill
“Hey Hyunjae, do you have any…”