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Jisung loved flowers. Cut ones, for their scent and beauty. Plastic ones, for their everlasting brightness. Painted ones, for their delicacy.
But most of all, Jisung loved houseplants. Green was his favorite color, and he didn't want his cactus to always bloom scarlet or his orchid to be covered in white. No, he just wanted them green, growing, and healthy.
But his plants were helpless against his own depression. He clicked the little cross on the watering reminder and closed his eyes wearily, promising himself to water them tomorrow. And tomorrow. And tomorrow. He noticed the falling leaves and didn't even brush them into the trash, leaving it for later.
Jisung pulled the curtain aside and sighed, watching the snow outside and dull greenery on the windowsill. Seven plants stood there, and every single one of them was withering — just like his relationships with the people who had given him those flowers.
There was the sturdy ficus. Chan gave it to him five years ago, when they'd just started working together, and now it was not just a plant — it was a tree, with wood as strong as their friendship.
It was strong, until Jisung became... Like this. Sluggish, emotionless. Incapable to write a single line. Unable to help his hyungs with their work. A burden at his beloved job.
Chan didn't scold him for it; he didn't say anything bad when Jisung texted "working from home today" again. Instead, Jisung was scolded by the drooping leaves, slowly falling onto the windowsill.
There was the orchid. The orchid resembled Changbin — incredibly resilient, strong, yet its flowers were very delicate — back when it was still blooming. Now, however, it was simply growing new roots, drawing water from the air, and spreading out ever-larger new leaves, covering the old, withered ones.
Changbin didn't scold Jisung either. He simply waited silently for him in the studio and in the gym, where Jisung didn't have the strength to go, and his sad gaze felt like a dull knife — unpleasant, but not fatal.
Hyunjin is a romantic, and his flower matched that — a stunningly beautiful pink azalea. But the soil in the pot had sunk so low that the roots were visible, and the leaves looked limp and faded. Hyunjin was a wonderful friend; he really tried. He always texted first, always tried to pull Jisung back into the light — but it seemed that even he was tired. You cannot pull a person out of a swamp if, overall, they are comfortable there.
Felix — Felix had been an exotic, a curiosity in their company for a while, just like that echeveria. The succulent looked like a rose, but much more stronger; it had no petals, only leaves, powerful and beautiful. And from lack of moisture and light, it grew ever taller, losing its beauty.
Felix was the kind of person who listened a lot — and that was exactly why Jisung did not come to him. He always thought his problems were stupid, boring, and repetitive — certainly no worse than those of his friend who had only recently moved here. And Felix kept reaching out to him anyway, kept trying to help, always reminding him that it was just a period of adjustment to the medication, that it would get better later — and for some reason, this began to irritate him. And it made him feel even more ashamed.
Seungmin gave Jisung a cactus for his high school graduation. Seungmin was like a cactus himself — sturdy, prickly, yet blooming with such a vibrant, incredible bloom that it took one's breath away.
Seungmin was perhaps the first to notice something was wrong. He took Jisung's hand, tenderly, gently, and pushed him into the psychiatrist's office, sternly saying, "I'll make sure you don't run away." He sat for an hour on the bench opposite the door, then simply tapped his card at the clinic reception and sat there for a long, long time while Jisung sobbed and looked at his prescription for antidepressants.
And Jisung was as afraid of Seungmin the same way he was afraid of pricking himself on those sharp spines. Seungmin texted him every week asking how he was doing, offered to go to the pharmacy together — was it really so bad that Jisung needed such control?!
The Venus flytrap was one of the most incredible flowers on Jisung's windowsill, just as Yang Jeongin was one of the most incredible people he knew. It was a capricious plant: it demanded a lot of light, water, attention — damn insects from the pet store, in the end — and yet it stubbornly refused to die when Jisung forgot to feed or water it..
Jeongin didn't mention any of this. As stubborn as his flower, he refused to understand Jisung seemed to have already decided everything for himself — that the friendship of others weighed on him, that no one wanted to deal with this gray mouse locked inside an apartment. But even he began to appear less often.
The most beloved and most suffocated flower on Jisung's windowsill was a violet. A gift from Minho for their one-year anniversary. It hadn't had any flowers for a long time, and its leaves were drooping, but it was trying, still trying to grow, to produce new leaves, even buds sometimes — only to drop them almost immediately, not getting the attention it deserved.
Jisung couldn't understand why Minho hadn't run away. His best, most beloved friend, his tender first love, his everything — he didn't deserve to be tied to this stone, only sinking to the bottom. But he had, and was still staying close.
Jisung carefully ran his fingers over the soil — and was surprised to realize that the clump was damp, as if it had been watered just yesterday. Even though Jisung himself had been postponing the reminder for a week already, so why...
At that very moment, there was noise in the hallway, then the sound of a door slamming. Minho's gentle voice cooed:
"Soonie-ya, baby, hi!" a plastic bag rustled softly. "That's not for you, greedy, that's for Hannie, come on..."
"Hey, jagi," Jisung peeked out and saw his most beloved person taking off his jacket, covered in beads of melted snow. "How was work?"
Minho looked up, smiling so brightly as if he'd seen the sun — and Jisung couldn't help but step right up to him and smile back.
"The kids are sick again," Minho huffed, pulling Jisung in and pressing his face straight against a prickly sweater, slightly damp with sweat. His hands clasped behind his back, scratching between his shoulder blades. "Cancelled both of the hip-hop groups tonight so the remaining ones wouldn't infect each other."
"You're so caring," Jisung chuckled. "You won't get sick yourself?"
"I would never," Minho snorted in response, and lightly kicked the bag with the toe of his shoe. "Will you take it? There's those stupid flies of yours. And chips."
Jisung crouched down while the older one took off his shoes, holding a jar of fluttering insects in front of his face.
"Was it you who watered the plants?" he asked quietly.
"No, of course not. It was Doongie," came a chuckle from above. "Or that ghost you saw outside the window last week?"
At the memory — of how foolishly he had squealed at the sight of a snow-covered tree, and how Minho had burst out of the kitchen with a knife in his hand — Jisung laughed.
"Thank you, baby," he stood up again, and Minho was suddenly incredibly close, studying him with a serious look. "Otherwise, I would’ve finished them off."
"You won't," the elder's voice was gentle. "It's just winter now. Spring will come soon, there will be more light, and everything will be better."
Jisung touched his nose to Minho’s, rubbed his cheek against his affectionately, and closed his eyes, exhaling.