Archive of Our Own

Suhwan coughs.

There’s a tickle in his throat, an unnatural feeling that is salient enough for him to look away from his screen and instantly die. The grey screen is the first to greet him when he turns back. He sighs. League of Legends is not the kind of game where you can afford to look away, after all. But it’s only solo queue on a Thursday night, so it’s not like it mattered much.

“Suhwan-ah? Are you okay?” A voice fills his ears.

Suhwan lets out a breathless laugh. “Yes, sorry,” he says, “Just a cough.”

There’s a hum, a sing-songy “Okay~”, and then nothing.

The silence doesn’t last long—it never does, really, with Minseok. Suhwan thought Hyunjoon was loud and crashed out too much for games that hardly mattered, but Minseok was on a different level. Minseok could sing one second, then cycle through almost every swear in the Korean and English language known to man. It would take a few seconds of silence before he would lock back in, often with some random English phrase like ‘let’s go’ or ‘let’s move out’ but with a heavy Korean accent. It’s amusing, of course, and Suhwan can’t help but laugh every time Minseok starts on his nonsensical mumbling about how his teammates aren’t playing their champions right and what are they even doing—

“Ah! What—”

“Huh? Hey, hey, HEY!”

“Aish, this guy—”

In short, Minseok has a lot to say.

Every time, Suhwan only chuckles and continues on. Suhwan isn’t the type to speak as he’s playing, or at least, not for longer than a second. He’ll call for Minseok occasionally, as anyone would expect from an ADC to their support, and Minseok will call back. It’s only when they die in-game or they’re waiting for a match that they talk more about other things.

“Did you see that clip of Hyunjoon staring down Zeka-seonsu after he left from his POM interview the other day?” Minseok asks.

Suhwan looks up at the ceiling for a moment. “Was it when we were setting up?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t think so. What happened?”

An airy laugh comes from the other side. “Zeka-seonsu turned around and made eye contact with Hyeonjun-hyung, and then Hyeonjun-hyung had this massive smile on his face. Hyunjoon looked up at the same time as hyung, and he was just glaring the entire time while Zeka-seonsu was walking off.”

Suhwan nods, even though Minseok can’t see. He tries to imagine Hyunjoon’s face, all serious and intimidating, which isn’t hard if you’ve watched him on stream or in matches before. The pressed lips, the half-lidded eyes with a piercing stare.

“What if he was just busy setting up?” Suhwan adds.

“Well, yeah, it probably was just that. But the fans are going crazy over it.” Minseok laughs. “They ship Hyeonjun-hyung and Hyunjoon together, and Hyunjoon just keeps giving them material like this. Have you seen the way Hyunjoon talks to hyung sometimes? I swear, it’s like he wants people to know about his crush on hyung.”

The League client comes up with a match ready for them, and they press ‘Accept’ without much thought.

“I was there once, hyung,” Suhwan says with a sigh as he picks his champion, “I was in queue with both of them and then Doran-hyung got upset. Oner-hyung started speaking all soft and asking him why he was upset.”

Minseok laughs, louder this time. “I remember seeing that clip! You were just there, playing the game, and it looked like you didn’t know what to say or when to even speak.”

“Because I didn’t.” Suhwan pouts, and then bans Draven.

“Cute.” A chuckle. Then, “I should tell Hyunjoon about this later.”

The conversation dies soon after as Suhwan locks in Aphelios and goes through all his runes. Minseok starts humming something, a sign that he’s done setting up his runes and is just waiting for the game to start.

He thinks about that moment again, he thinks about his hyungs and the way they treat each other. They (as in, the entire team, including management) had made comments about Oner’s behaviour towards Doran, and even the marketing team really pushed the agenda, what with their matching poses in photocards and their YouTube thumbnails. They were close, yes, but a crush? Did either of them ever mention that?

Their champions spawn into the fountain and the thought flies out the window just as fast as it came.

The next time Suhwan scrolls through social media, he finds something he hadn’t expected.

Sure enough, he finds the clip of Zeka, Doran, and Oner that Minseok told him about when they were playing together amidst the memes and replays of matches from the last few days. He only gives it a small smile before scrolling to the next video.

Then there’s that clip of him—or, well, T1 specifically—when he pulled out his own pledge. ‘Do the pepero game with the player on your left’. He’d passed it to Minseok then, who was distraught with the prospect of nearly-kissing any of his teammates, let alone potentially kiss Suhwan. Suhwan had only laughed as he admitted to writing it.

He had no idea why he had even written it.

The thing is, even though they played somewhat well together, Suhwan couldn’t shake off the stiffness in his interactions with Minseok. A bad game did that to everyone, sure, but that pledge seemed to haunt them now. They never properly talked about it either. To most of the team, it was simply a joke.

But what if it wasn’t? Would the Hyeonjoons actually have taken the pledge? Suhwan doesn’t remember if he really intended it for them, but marketing would’ve jumped at the chance. Sanghyeok would’ve definitely passed it or changed it entirely, as Minseok did in the end. The two players on both Sanghyeok’s left and right were the youngest of the team, which wasn’t exactly the best for such a game or his image.

Suhwan was lucky that he already had his own pledge and could pass the pepero game to someone else. But even then, would he have taken it?

He scrolls before the video can repeat itself, otherwise the other members would ask why he’s so fixated on the clip.

Unfortunately, the universe has something to prove.

The next video starts out with clips from their membership content. More specifically, it’s clips of Minseok looking at Suhwan. Suhwan already knew this since they reviewed the footage here and there during filming, but the way the video compiles it paints the moments in a different light. There’s even more clips of Minseok, in the corner, just looking at him. They’ve got clips from matches, vlogs, membership content. There’s so many that Suhwan can’t even believe it all exists.

Thankfully, the managers call for them and Suhwan closes the app.

It doesn’t stop Suhwan’s mind from spiraling.

He knows he has looked at Minseok like that before, but it had been while they were still enemies, when Minseok was still just Keria. Same lane, opposite sides of the Rift, different players at their sides. At one point, they were across oceans, too, with Suhwan in the LPL and Minseok still in the LCK. But it was simply admiration, an acknowledgement that Keria was the greatest support in the LCK of their generation. Every ADC wanted to have Keria as their support at one point, and only a small few really had that honour. Deft, Teddy, Gumayusi, Ruler, Smash, and now Suhwan himself.

But Minseok looking at Suhwan like that? Sure, Suhwan had been named an up and coming rookie by many upon his debut, and he had even made a dent in the renowned Gu-Ke bottom lane while he was in Gen.G. But Suhwan wasn’t that special. He was awkward, didn’t know how to act in certain situations, and was the youngest in the team. Not to mention, those clips were before Suhwan stupidly put that pepero pledge in the box.

Could Minseok still look at him like that even after the fact?

Suhwan glances at Minseok. He is talking with their coaches about drafts with his brows stitched together and lips pressed tightly.

Suhwan coughs.

He presses ‘Accept’ for the hundredth time that day, going through the motions of picking champions, banning others, setting up runes. Most of the members had long gone home, which—fair, it was nearing three in the morning and Suhwan ought to go home and sleep now. The few days between matches is supposed to be enough to both practice and rest. Yet, with the way things are going, Suhwan’s hands itch to play more often than they should.

He wants to prove something. Yes, he’s a pretty well-decorated rookie, but not as decorated as his lane partner, and certainly not as decorated as his lane partner’s previous ADC. He thinks he understands where Hyeonjun—Doran Hyeonjun—is coming from now, playing only League and grinding for so long that the others have to drag him away from the practice room sometimes. They’ve talked about it before, even, during Suhwan’s first days on the team. It’s hard trying to live up to years-long legacies of world champions.

Suhwan knew this. When he signed that contract, he knew this was going to happen. The world would have their eyes on him, after several years of Gumayusi being T1’s ADC. The world will have their eyes on the bottom lane to see just how different it’s become. He knew.

Knowing doesn’t change the fact.

The screen goes grey, but Suhwan doesn’t blink. He opens the shop, looks through his items, sells what he doesn’t need and buys what he does. He opens the leaderboard and looks at the enemies’ items. He alternates between all the lanes. It’s mindless work, yet his brain is moving a million miles a minute.

Peyz isn’t Gumayusi. That’s a fact. Peyz brings something different to T1 that Gumayusi didn’t have. They already won KeSPA. They had a good streak in the beginning of the LCK Cup until playoffs happened. Peyz brings out a different side of T1. T1 would’ve won that fight if Gumayusi was there.

But Peyz isn’t Gumayusi. Minseok knows this very well.

There’s a tickle in his throat, one that bugs him enough that he has to look away. He coughs. It’s more stubborn than the ones anyone does here and there. Like there’s something actually stuck in his throat. Suhwan takes a deep breath, then forces it all out again as he clears his throat.

“Hello?”

The screen goes grey again, but this time, Suhwan turns.

There, in the dim lights, is Minseok. The outfit he’s wearing is simple; hoodie, plain shirt underneath, sweatpants, and the notorious slippers and socks combo everyone’s done at least once. It’s nothing flashy, but Suhwan is still surprised.

Minseok is, too. “Suhwan? Why are you still here?”

Suhwan blinks a few times. “Ah, hyung,” he sputters, bringing a hand up to his neck, “I thought you already left.”

Minseok looks behind Suhwan, and then back to his face. “You should be asleep.”

Suhwan can only chuckle awkwardly as his face heats up. “I lost track of time. I’m sorry. I’ll just finish this and then go back.”

He quickly turns back to the screen, opening the shop and checking everything before he leaves the fountain. He expects Minseok to call out for him one last time, tell him that he’s going to the dorms, but nothing comes. Not even when Suhwan starts running into the enemy base and taking down turrets. Not even when the nexus explodes.

Just as Suhwan is about to press ‘Play again’, a hand takes his own.

“What are you even doing?” Minseok says.

His face burns. How is he supposed to interpret that? It wasn’t in Minseok’s usual light tone, but more like the tone he uses in matches when things start to go sideways. The kind where he’s still trying to keep an open mind but it’s clear he’s irritated.

Suhwan watches as Minseok closes the client and navigates to the shut down button. He’s supposed to respond to Minseok’s question, right? Does “Sorry, muscle memory” suffice? Or should he push to play more? But Minseok has already shut his computer down, so it would take a few more minutes to get back into that flow state. What about “I still have energy for one more”?

Then, there’s the sound of wheels rolling in front of him. When Suhwan looks up, he’s face to face with Minseok.

Minseok smiles. “Is something wrong?”

Suhwan blinks. “No…?”

Minseok judges his face. Then, “You don’t have to do that.”

The hold on Suhwan’s hand tightens for a brief moment. “You’re a great player, Suhwan-ah. You don’t have to work so hard to prove yourself.”

“But we lost.”

The words come out faster than Suhwan can stop them. His eyes go wide.

Minseok doesn’t budge. Instead, the smile on his face grows bigger. “So? We may be a Worlds-winning team, but we don’t win everything. You know that. We’ve lost before, and it won’t be the last.”

He knows, of course. But that doesn’t change the fact that T1 is still a Worlds-winning team that’s currently losing.

“There’s so many things that lead up to a loss. We talked about it in debrief with the coaches already. You don’t have to keep mulling over them now.”

A squeeze. Then, “Come home with me.”

Suhwan looks at the monitor for a moment, then sighs. With a nod, he puts on the jacket he’d brought and kept on the back of his chair, takes one last look at the setup, then follows behind Minseok as they leave. Minseok takes the liberty of turning off the lights on their way out.

As they walk, Suhwan says, “I thought you would already be asleep.”

Minseok hums. “I was waiting for you at the dorm. I was starting to get worried.”

A cold wave washes over Suhwan. Minseok was waiting for him?

“You didn’t have to.”

Minseok turns to look at him. There’s a pause. In the darkness, Suhwan can’t see the expression Minseok is making. He wishes he could.

Then, Minseok sighs. “I don’t have to, but I want to. We’re a team, aren’t we?”

A team.

Right, yes. Suhwan makes a noncommittal sound, somewhere between agreement and trying to clear his throat, as they continue up to the dorms.

Of course Minseok is only doing this for the team. If his lane partner is in good shape, then Minseok can play as he pleases. What good would Suhwan be if he got sick? They could bring in a player from the academy to substitute, sure, but then it would ruin everything they’ve been preparing. They would have to build synergy again, make new duo combos, figure out new comms.

What, then, if Suhwan were to be benched? He has a three-year contract, sure, which is more stable than what many pro players have. But then Suhwan would lose out on the opportunity to prove himself. The Asia Games are coming up and they will want the best ADC in the LCK. How can Suhwan prove that he is exactly that if he’s benched?

“Hey.”

Cold hands cup his face and Suhwan is promptly snapped out of his thoughts.

“Stop thinking, okay?” Minseok says, “Just trust the process. Can you do that for me? Can you trust that I’ll be there to cover you when you need it?”

Yes.

But Suhwan can’t open his mouth to say that, not when Minseok is this close. So, he just nods. The motion is enough for Minseok to move away, and Suhwan has to fight the urge to reach for those hands again.

“Alright. Goodnight, Suhwan-ie. See you later.”

“See you later, hyung,” Suhwan says, his voice a little rough.

In the dim hallway lights, Suhwan watches as Minseok disappears into his room. Then, the door clicks shut.

Maybe his parents were right when they said it’s the damn phone. Then again, it’s not like Suhwan can really escape it. His whole life revolves around the internet, reading patch notes every other day, watching clips from games to see what the new meta is, and queueing into League to test the limits of his champions. He can’t just avoid the internet. But that means that in between all of that, he is bound to come across something he shouldn’t.

Suhwan is in the T1 cafe with Doran Hyeonjun when it happens. As they’re waiting for their drinks, they scroll reels and TikToks and occasionally talk about how their scrim is going.

Suhwan scrolls once and the video starts with clips from their membership again, the same ones from before where Minseok had that dreamy look in his eyes as he stared at Suhwan. But it quickly follows up with clips of an old player by Minseok’s side.

It’s old, old clips, given the differences in hairstyles and softer facial features, but Suhwan recognizes them all the same. He has grown up watching those clips of T1, where Keria would jump into Gumayusi’s arms as soon as a match finished, the way their gazes naturally found each other, even that one clip where Keria sat in the corner while Gumayusi continued his stream

But what really got Suhwan was the final clip.

It’s hard to tell where it came from, probably an old fan meeting or maybe even a homeground event. There’s Gumayusi and Keria, sitting side by side with microphones in their hands, and while Gumayusi is looking off into the distance, Keria’s got that same dreamy look and gentle smile on his face as he stares at Gumayusi. It’s subtle, but when Gumayusi turns slightly towards Keria, Keria’s smile goes impossibly soft.

Minseok doesn’t look at him like that.

Suhwan’s chest suddenly aches. He takes a deep breath, forcing more air to go through his nostrils and down into his lungs. But as he exhales, something catches onto the air and lodges itself into his throat.

Suhwan coughs, and coughs, and coughs, but whatever it is that’s in his throat won’t budge. He coughs. It still won’t move.

A hand comes onto his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

He has to open his mouth to respond, but it helps his cough reach deeper and finally dislodge the foreign material. He covers his mouth, eyes going wide as something soft lands into his palm.

When Suhwan brings his hand away from his mouth, he sees it.

A bright purple petal. Multiple, to be precise.

“Suhwan-ah?”

He looks up to find Hyeonjun’s eyes blown wide. Hyeonjun has this natural sad face when his expression is resting, but the face he’s making now is more akin to a heart breaking in real time.

The barista calls their name, and before Suhwan can respond to everything, Hyeonjun scrambles around, putting his phone in his pocket, looking at Suhwan’s open hand with purple petals inside, and then taking Suhwan’s hand in his own as he closes it. Hyeonjun turns back to the barista and takes their drinks, thanks them, and then he’s walking out of the place so fast that Suhwan almost has to sprint to catch up. 

Instead of going back to the practice room, Hyeonjun bumps shoulder-first into the emergency exit door and pushes the knob down with his elbow until it opens. Suhwan stands outside the door, a bit stunned by the suddenness of everything, but he doesn’t linger as Hyeonjun gestures into the emergency stairwell.

As soon as the door clicks shut behind Suhwan, Hyeonjun’s hands are on Suhwan’s, opening his hand up to stare at the petals.

A pause. Then, “Is this normal, hyung?”

Hyeonjun looks up at Suhwan, and instantly, he knows it’s the wrong question. Suhwan can only watch, still unsure of what’s happening, as Hyeonjun closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and then tightens his grip around Suhwan’s hand.

“No, it’s not,” Hyeonjun says.

“What is it?”

Another pause. “Have you ever heard of Hanahaki disease?”

Suhwan shakes his head.

Hyeonjun looks down at their joined hands, then back at Suhwan. “Do you like anyone, Suhwan?”

He blinks. “Uh, I like all of you… I like all of my previous teammates.”

Hyeonjun lets out a laugh, somewhere between a sigh and a chuckle. “Not like that. Hanahaki disease is when you start throwing up flowers because you like someone, romantically, but they don’t like you back.” He stares at Suhwan for a moment. “It happens when you love someone, but they don’t love you in the same way.”

That’s ridiculous, is the first thought. Suhwan is too busy playing League to even consider romantic relationships. He spends all his time with other guys who are in a similar boat as him.

Well, mostly. His only baseline for ‘romantic relationships’ currently are the two Hyeonjoons, if they count, with how loud Oner is in his affections towards Doran. There was Jihoon and Doran when he was in Gen.G, and he’d also seen how affectionate Jaehyuk and Siwoo were before he had become Gen.G’s ADC, but those two looked like they were joking around more often than not.

So, with the Hyeonjoons as his baseline, he thinks of people he has treated like that, which is promptly no one. He has been the maknae of all his teams since his debut, so everyone treated him more like their little brother than someone who could be a love interest. Perfectly reasonable, of course. Suhwan was too busy trying to make a name for himself to look at everyone in a light other than teammates.

But now, Suhwan likes someone like that, enough to start coughing up petals.

Who?

The answer comes to him faster than he would like to admit. It’s a simple game of elimination. There’s only so many people Suhwan interacts with on a daily basis. Sanghyeok is not someone Suhwan would ever consider as a love interest, not with their age difference and also because Suhwan has always seen him as more of an idol than anything else; it would be hard to take him out of that mental compartment. Since the two Hyeonjoons are already so deeply intertwined, and because Suhwan also filed Doran away into an older brother compartment way before this, there’s only really one answer.

Suhwan’s throat seizes. He’s doubling over again, hand over his mouth, and he retches. It’s ugly, it hurts so much, and he can feel the petal skim the walls of his throat but it won’t budge. Hyeonjun pulls him in, a hand rubbing circles on his back as he coughs, and coughs, and coughs.

He’s not sure how long it takes before the petal falls out, but it’s even longer for him to come back to his senses. When he pulls away, his hand is full of purple petals.

(Sometimes, he doubts he really loves Minseok. Surely it’s just admiration and the joy of being able to play alongside the support he has always admired. But he remembers the clips of Minseok looking at him, and then he sees the clips of Minseok and Gumayusi-seonsu looking at one another, falling into each other’s arms, making matching poses.

When he remembers it all, the first emotion is disgusting amounts of jealousy. Suhwan and Minseok don’t do anything of the sort when they win a game, not even a high five or a pat on the back. It could just be the fact that Suhwan is new to the team and Minseok is still finding his footing on how to be close to his ADC after having the same one for nearly five years, but it doesn’t stop Suhwan from feeling angry.

Then, the pain digs its claws into Suhwan’s chest as the petals force their way up.

It’s a warning sign, his body’s way of telling him to let go. But when he sees those clips of Minseok looking at him, there’s a dim hope that maybe there is a chance.

But Suhwan would consider himself delusional if he thought for even a second that Minseok liked him like that.)

Doran Hyeonjun never got the chance to tell him since they had to run back to practice by the time Suhwan regained his footing. Similarly, Suhwan doesn’t find the time to search it up—how can he when they’re in the middle of a season? Instead, he keeps grinding solo queue, reviewing VODs, watching other teams’ matches, making a phone note of things to test and things to avoid in matches. He doesn’t allow himself to mull over the diagnosis Hyeonjun gave him.

But Hyeonjun turns into a sort of mother hen after the incident. It’s equal parts endearing and absolutely mortifying, because now the rest of the team is catching on that there’s something wrong with Suhwan. He knows Hyeonjun is doing it with good intentions, but now it feels like he’s just wearing a sign that says “OUR SUHWAN IS SICK” and that’s the last thing Suhwan wants to announce to everyone.

Whenever he walks into a room, everyone’s eyes are on him for much longer than he would like. Usually, people look to see who walks in and then look away once they realize it’s a familiar face. Now, people ask him if he needs anything, if he needs water, if he wants to lay down for a bit. 

It’s insane.

Even Hyunjoon—Oner Hyunjoon—who either hovers around him like the older brother trying to make sure Suhwan is included in things or is pestering him about taking Doran’s attention away from him, is all over him. Last night, Hyunjoon came into Suhwan’s streaming room all because he wanted to see if Suhwan was okay.

(Suhwan’s coughs had become more persistent, so he permanently (at least, indefinitely) moved to the private streaming rooms to practice. He was in the middle of throwing the purple petals into the bin when Hyunjoon walked in. He nearly jumped out of his own seat trying to maneuver himself between the bin and Oner.

Suhwan would like to believe that Hyunjoon saw nothing, since he didn’t mention it.)

If Doran is the mother hen, then Oner is right behind him. Is there a male equivalent for the mother hen saying? Because that’s what Oner is becoming.

Younger Suhwan would’ve been ecstatic with the attention he’s getting now. But Suhwan now is exhausted. The coddling is too much. Some days, he thinks they don’t trust him to win because he isn’t in his best condition.

So, before Doran Hyeonjun is about to start his stream, Suhwan walks into his room.

Hyeonjun turns as soon as Suhwan opens the door. His eyes go wide, the kind he makes when he’s waiting for something, because Suhwan normally doesn’t go into others’ streaming rooms without warning them first.

“Is everything alright?” Hyeonjun asks.

No, Suhwan wants to say. I have flowers in my lungs and you know, and you’ve been trying to take care of me but it’s too much because everyone’s worried about me now when I never wanted them to be. Everyone looks at me like I’m too fragile and I never wanted that.

Suhwan doesn’t say any of that.

Instead, what he says next surprises him.

“Hyung,” Suhwan starts, and he cringes at how breathy his voice sounds.

There’s a pause. Then, Hyeonjun asks, “Yes?”

“I’m scared.”

To that, Hyeonjun crumbles. His face softens in seconds. Before Suhwan can say anything more, Hyeonjun’s already up and out of his chair and pulling Suhwan into his arms.

Suhwan breathes in Hyeonjun’s scent and immediately brings his arms around him. A long time ago, Suhwan had worn Hyeonjun’s jacket. It was an accident, then, and it hadn’t happened again. But he remembers the clean and soft warmth that held him for a brief moment. How did he live without this for two years?

They sway a little as Hyeonjun has a hand in Suhwan’s hair and the other around his waist. They’re about the same height, so Suhwan rests his chin on Hyeonjun’s shoulder. It’s not nearly as comforting as he wishes, but he can smell Hyeonjun’s shampoo and the cologne he put on and it’s enough for now.

“Oh, Suhwan,” Hyeonjun whispers.

Suhwan closes his eyes and takes a deep breath in. “I haven’t had time to really look up what Hanahaki disease is, but—” he says into Hyeonjun’s skin— “The way you’re treating me is scaring me.”

The grip around his head and his waist tightens. “I’m sorry.”

“Am I going to be okay, hyung?”

Their swaying falters for just a moment, and had Suhwan been less observant, he would’ve thought nothing of it.

Hyeonjun’s silence is deafening.

“Yes,” he eventually replies.

“Are you sure?”

Hyeonjun doesn’t say anything to that. He wishes he did. Suhwan is forced to leave as his hyung starts up his stream.

Unfortunately, Minseok is not called the ‘Genius Monster’ for no reason. Suhwan wishes it only applied to League.

Then again, he really doomed himself from the beginning by choosing to play ADC. ADCs and their supports are, by design, meant to be close. ADCs could only do the amount of damage they did because supports did the heavy lifting in the beginning, giving them shields or heals, warding the map and keeping an eye out for ganks. Once the ADC was strong enough, they would return the favour.

Supports are meant to hover around their ADCs. Minseok is no different.

As soon as practice ends, Suhwan bolts to the private streaming rooms. He hacks, and coughs, and retches face first into the bin underneath the table. It’s his best friend now, for better or for worse.

Every few seconds, he thinks the petals have stopped. He doesn’t breathe. But once he does, the cycle starts again.

Hack, cough, retch.

Hack.

Cough.

Retch.

It’s only a few minutes of this, but Suhwan has had enough.

He forces himself upright and breathes. He puffs out his chest and looks up at the ceiling in the hopes the tears don’t run down his face. They probably already have. He forces his chest to expand far more than it should, and for a brief second, it hurts everywhere. Behind him, in front of him, inside him—

But no more petals come, and that’s consolation enough.

There’s a knock at the door. Then, “Suhwan-ah? Are you in there?”

Suhwan doesn’t dare breathe.

Go away, he thinks to the person behind the door. Don’t breathe, he thinks to himself as he remains hunched over the bin. If he doesn’t make any noise, they’ll move on to the next room. He should pretend he was never here to begin with.

But these rooms aren’t soundproof, unfortunately. Suhwan has had the pleasure of experiencing it through the Hyeonjoons who take the liberty of yelling through the walls whenever Doran’s Discord audio supposedly isn’t working. But even without Doran, Oner is loud enough on his own.

The handle turns.

Suhwan should have locked the door.

He scrambles off the floor, pulling the chair in front of the bin as much as possible. Anything to hide the purple petals. He grips the table like a vice, trying to steady his footing. He feels like a child again, hiding something terrible from his parents.

Then again, he is hiding something terrible, just not from his parents.

“Ah, you are here.”

Suhwan doesn’t have to look to know who it is.

He turns around, and before Suhwan can make an excuse for running out of practice as quickly as he did, Minseok’s hand is already on his forehead.

Suhwan freezes.

Minseok presses his lips forward. He hums. “Hyeonjun-hyung said you weren’t sick. But you don’t look like you’re in good condition, either.”

“I’m fine,” he says quickly. His voice is still scratchy. He hopes Minseok doesn’t notice.

Minseok takes his hand off Suhwan’s face. Then, he takes a breath and hums as he exhales. “You’ve been coughing a lot lately.”

“Yeah,” Suhwan says quite dumbly.

What is he supposed to say to that? He is still not entirely sure what Hanahaki disease entails, only that he’s vomiting flowers because of his newly discovered feelings towards his lane partner. Doran Hyeonjun hadn’t been able to tell him much in between their busy schedules. Suhwan wishes he did now.

Thankfully, Minseok doesn’t press. “Do you need any medicine for your cough? We can go get it for you. We’ve got some time before scrims.”

Suhwan has a feeling that, because it is petals and not phlegm, the medicine will have no effect. Unless modern medicine had evolved to deal with such things, cough medicine would be more of a placebo than an actual remedy.

He shakes his head. “Thank you, but I’ll be okay.” He pauses. “I’ll make sure to drink water and monitor my condition.”

“Will you promise to tell us if it gets worse?” Minseok asks.

“Yes,” Suhwan says. He is not sure if he actually believes in it.

Suhwan watches as Minseok’s eyes linger on his, then on his lips, and then wanders off. Minseok steps back and then nods.

When Suhwan looks back at this moment, he wonders what would have happened if he just told Minseok then.

When someone is stressed, their body goes into fight-or-flight mode. This is the first stage of general adaptation syndrome, otherwise known as the ‘alarm’ stage. If the stress isn’t immediately relieved, the body moves into a ‘resistance’ stage where homeostatic processes occur to try to adapt to the heightened physiological reactions to stress.

Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on your perspective), the body cannot sustain itself in the ‘resistance’ stage without real consequences. The body will enter ‘exhaustion’, where all of its resources have been depleted in an effort to try to regulate the stress. There’s only so much the body can do before it all comes crashing down and you’re forced to confront the source of the stress. The point beyond ‘exhaustion’ is known as burnout.

Emotions work in a similar manner. There’s only so much a bottle can hold before it overflows or, worse, explodes.

And Suhwan explodes.

He doesn’t even make it half-way through the door when his body collapses on itself. He does still have enough consciousness to lock the door this time before he falls to the floor and lets the pain take hold.

Somehow, it’s worse than the persistent coughs and the occasional fits. A sharp pain sinks its teeth beneath his sternum and, before he can try to soothe the single point, it floods to the outer reaches of his lungs. The breath he was meant to take is quickly ripped out of his chest. He hacks, and coughs, and retches until his vision goes black.

It’s terrifying, really, how much it hurts.

It’s never hurt this much before, he thinks. Losing his sight only adds to the terror. Has anything in his life ever hurt this much that he had lost a sense before? Somehow, it makes the pain worse. He feels the claws of the disease force their way between his ribs and drag until there’s only pain, pain, pain.

Suhwan hacks, and coughs, and retches.

By the time his vision comes back, the only thing he sees is purple.

He takes in a shaky breath. His chest is still tight and it hurts to breathe, but he can breathe. His body freezes for a minute as he tries to breathe through his nose, only for a wall to block any incoming air. He gasps. The air flows in through his mouth instead.

Suhwan’s face is wet—or, well, it was. His face is cold now, cold and sticky with dried tears. He lifts a weak arm to his face and rubs the feeling off. He breathes.

It takes longer for him to gather the strength to get up and see the damage. He would’ve been content to sleep on the floor, but something tells him the team (particularly his hyungs, the coaches, and the managers) would be furious if he did. He expects to just scoop all the petals up and throw them into the trash, maybe throw in a snack wrapper or some paper on top to hide it. What he doesn’t expect to see is a bundle of purple petals, each grouped in fours to form a single flower, attached to a stem.

Hanahaki Disease has always felt like a myth more than a ghost. How could flowers grow in your lungs? Plants needed sunlight and water to grow, no? Lungs didn’t have that. There was no scientific way for them to survive in such a dark environment.

Except they could, and Suhwan couldn’t breathe properly anymore. He had flowers growing in his lungs. What used to be a mindless task consumed at least half of his mental load now, not just on the Rift but off it, too.

Unfortunately, Suhwan has never been a plant enthusiast nor does he have any substantial experience in naming flowers. He’s a gamer, a pro player, an e-sports athlete. None of those titles ever involve the language of flowers as part of their job description. It’s a good thing, then, that he’s born in the generation where anything can be discovered with a Google search. He first snaps a picture of the flower bundle with Google Lens. Then, with the educated guess the lens takes, he opens several tabs. It takes a few minutes of scrolling, staring at different shades of purple and different shapes of petals before he decides on the flower.

Lilacs. The flower of first loves.

Suhwan laughs, but it comes out as more of a cough than a sigh. He taps his keyboard a few more times.

There’s a cure—multiple, depending on the goal of the victim—but they come with their own risks.

He could confess his feelings and hope they are reciprocated. But on the likely chance he is rejected, the growth will only accelerate until he suffocates.

He could get surgery, cut the problem at its root right now and be done with it. His parents could probably find him the best doctor for it, too, to mitigate the risk and ensure there’s no side effects during recovery. Maybe he wouldn’t need his parents at all; T1 has a great support system for their staff and players. He is sure that, if he asked, they would find something for him. But there’s a chance if he does cut the roots, he will lose his memories of the one he loves. Fifty percent, to be precise.

It’s only a coin toss, but Suhwan knows. If he forgets, it will mess up the team’s synergy, their coordination, the teamwork they’ve worked so hard to scrape together. They’ve worked so hard to play to a point where everyone knows everyone’s tells, everyone’s thoughts, everyone’s limits. Forgetting even just one person would create a hole in that synergy. There will be a gap in their strategy where everything has to be planned to a T, and if anyone forgets even a single step, everything will fall apart.

So, Suhwan ultimately decides to do nothing about it.

He can’t be the reason T1 falls apart this year.

Suhwan turns off his phone and lays on his back, staring at the darkness. His contract is three years long and he hasn’t even reached the one year mark.

If I don’t do anything, how long do I even have left?

The room stays silent.

hyeonjun-hyung

doran-doran

?

what’s up?

a few days ago

i started coughing up flowers

like

full flowers

with stems

i don’t think i’m okay

doran-doran

oh no

that’s not good

i looked it up

there’s surgery

but i could potentially forget

i don’t think it would be good

for the team

if i did

doran-doran

suhwan-ah

you matter more than the team

your life matters more than the team

i’m sure i’m not the only one who would be sad if you died

and we could have prevented it

who is your hanahaki for?

it’s minseok-hyung

doran-doran is typing…

hyung

if i forget minseok-hyung

the team will suffer

botlane will fall apart

doran-doran

but i don’t want you to die

can’t you reconsider?

suhwan-ah

suhwan

please

don’t do anything reckless

minseok

did you get home safely

i did

minseok

good

are you okay?

yes

i’m okay

just sick

minseok

is it still your cough?

didn’t i tell you to tell me

if it got worse?

i just need some time to rest

it’s okay

minseok

i can bring something back for you

after haidilao

what do you want?

it’s not necessary

thank you hyung

minseok

i’ll get you something from the convenience store

i’ll be back soon

you don’t have to

stay with them

it’s fine

minseok

i want to

go rest

i’ll call you when i get back

hyung

really

it’s okay

“Hey.”

Suhwan groans, though it’s somewhere between a cough and grumble. His throat is still itchy from the last fit. He swallows his saliva, hoping it will relieve him of the itch, but it has no effect.

There’s a hum. For a few moments, there’s shuffling around him and the rustling of a plastic bag with a few items as each product hits the table one by one. Then, the bed dips next to him.

Alarmed, Suhwan opens his eyes.

He’s not sure why he is so worried. Only T1 staff can access the dorms. So when Minseok gives him a gentle smile, Suhwan melts back into the sheets.

“How are you feeling?” Minseok asks.

“Tired,” Suhwan replies after a few seconds.

“Did you manage to sleep easily?”

Suhwan shakes his head.

Minseok frowns. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m just sick, hyung,” Suhwan sighs, “It’s okay. I just need to rest.”

“A persistent cough that slowly sucks your energy isn’t normal, Suhwan-ah.” His frown deepens. “You should go see the doctor about this.”

Suhwan’s throat chooses this moment to close up. He closes his eyes. If only he knew, Suhwan thinks. The doctor would tell him everything he already knows—the reciprocation of feelings or surgery, and the consequences of it. There’s no other cure. There’s not even medicine to slow it down or at least mitigate the symptoms. Suhwan has to live with his feelings. It may very well kill him, but forgetting seems like a more terrible outcome than dying. At least, when he dies, he’ll have proof that he lived and loved. If he lives but forgets, he’ll be haunted by the ghost of a love he could’ve had.

Death is, by far, kinder than living.

Suhwan opens his eyes again and looks up. Minseok is fussing over the items he brought—a box of painkillers, a takeaway container of sorts, an abundant selection of drinks like Pocari Sweat and teas, and other things Suhwan can’t really see. He hears Minseok mumbling about everything, likely talking about what he bought and what Suhwan should have now, but Suhwan doesn’t listen. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because Minseok’s words go in one ear and out the other without translating into real thoughts in Suhwan’s head.

Minseok is… handsome doesn’t seem like the right word for this situation. His skin is impossibly soft, and if Suhwan wasn’t bedridden, he would have reached to touch them now. Minseok has beautiful eyes. Suhwan watches his lips as he speaks. Were they always so red? Minseok kept a lip balm on him, yes, but Suhwan doesn’t remember if it is tinted or not. His lips look soft, too.

Minseok looks heavenly.

Suhwan smiles. “Thank you, hyung.”

Minseok stops. He looks over to Suhwan. Then, he breaks into an awkward laugh. “It’s nothing.”

He puts a hand on Suhwan’s arm and squeezes once. “Get well soon, okay?” He squeezes again. “We missed you at dinner today.”

Suhwan nods. “I missed you, too.”

(Some nights, he dreams of what it would be like to be loved by Minseok.

He dreams of the skinship—the light touches, the slaps on the back or arm or thigh which would look violent but is actually an act of affection, and, oh, don’t forget the hugs. He dreams of Minseok’s gaze on him, soft, gentle, in love.

He thinks of how strict Minseok is, how he voices exactly what he wants. Minseok is especially strict on him. But the strictness is how they make each other better, because Suhwan knows exactly how to please Minseok, if not more, and Minseok knows exactly how to push Suhwan past his limits.

Isn’t that what love is? Making each other better?

He thinks of the bag of supplies Minseok bought for him after Suhwan had missed on Haidilao with the team. Suhwan hadn’t told him to get anything specifically. In fact, Suhwan hadn’t wanted him to get anything at all. But Minseok showed up with a bag anyway.

He dreams of holding Minseok, putting his arms around the smaller boy’s waist and just laying there while letting the rest of the world fall away. He dreams of resting his head on Minseok’s shoulder during car rides, plane rides, even if he knows only Minseok could ever do that with their height difference.

Then, Suhwan wakes up alone. The flowers are the one to greet him good morning instead.)

The words are muffled over the blood roaring in Suhwan’s ears, but he hears it all the same.

“It’s okay,” Hyeonjun—Doran Hyeonjun—says as he rubs circles on his back, “It’s okay, you’re okay.”

Is it really? is all he thinks as his chest seizes for the nth time, the ache of retching digging its claws on his back, his throat, his heart—

He opens his nostrils as much as he can, forces his chest to expand more than it physically should, all in an attempt to get some air into the crevices where roots and stems and petals and flowers haven’t yet sunk their teeth into. But no matter how big of a breath he takes, no amount of oxygen is enough to stop the tears filling his eyes.

Not that there’s much to see, anyway, besides the purple sea of petals and flowers staining the toilet bowl.

He stops breathing, which is the exact opposite Hyeonjun has been asking him to do for the past five minutes since they’ve gotten into the bathroom. The hand on his back slows for a moment. Suhwan counts.

One.

Two.

Then, its claws are ripping apart Suhwan’s lungs again.

How long have they been in this bathroom now, lock turned, and Suhwan hunched over the toilet bowl? Realistically, it shouldn’t be more than three minutes, but time has a way of passing so quickly when pain and fear and grief cloud your mind. The others must be worried now, unless they’re occupied with their usual T1 duties like streaming or filming some membership content. Maybe they’re not even working. Maybe Sanghyeok is reading a book, as he always does in their downtime; the other Hyunjoon could be at the gym; Minseok—

He hears a sharp intake of breath, and perhaps a sniffle. The room smells too much like metal.

Suhwan’s body hasn’t felt like his own in a long time.

Despite his best efforts at trying to persuade Hyeonjun that he is fine and is capable of cleaning up after himself, Hyeonjun is the one to flush the purple flowers and wipe the blood off of Suhwan’s lips. Hyeonjun is the one to bring Suhwan back to his room and into his bed.

“Suhwan-ah,” Hyeonjun says softly.

Suhwan opens his eyes, but he doesn’t move.

Hyeonjun squeezes his shoulder gently. “Drink some water, please?”

It takes a few more moments of staring at one another, Hyeonjun squeezing Suhwan’s shoulder a few more times, before the younger boy manages to sit up against the wall and take the glass into his hands.

The glass is too slippery, or maybe his hands are too sweaty—no, his muscles are definitely weak because why can’t he even force his fingers to wrap around the cup more tightly? It’s going to fall out and then he’ll spill water on himself. Even worse, he’ll break the cup and then Hyeonjun has to be the one to clean it because Suhwan can’t even hold the damn cup—

Hyeonjun takes the cup again and puts it on the nightstand. His lips are moving, but Suhwan can’t seem to process anything except—

“I’m sorry, hyung.”

Hyeonjun shakes his head and simply reaches for Suhwan. The younger boy falls into his embrace.

They sit like that for a while. Not talking. Hyeonjun’s arms wrap around Suhwan while Suhwan’s arms awkwardly hang by his side, hands open and empty. Should he hug his hyung back? He is really tired, though. Suhwan’s head rises and falls with Hyeonjun’s chest as they breathe together.

Suhwan closes his eyes.

It must hurt for Hyeonjun to see him like this. Even though they’d been apart for two years, Suhwan couldn’t help but reach for him again when he returned to Korea and arrived at the T1 building, and Hyeonjun had extended his hand all the same.

Hyeonjun was the one to show him around the headquarters—whether he wanted to or was asked to by staff due to their prior connection, or just the fact that Doran was a recent addition to T1 much like Peyz, Suhwan didn’t care. Then, Hyeonjun was the first to check in on him during his first stream as T1 Peyz. It was awkward, yes. But for a brief moment, Suhwan could only smile as, together, they watched the chat and donations go by until Hyeonjun left.

Suhwan is T1’s maknae, of course. But Suhwan has been Hyeonjun’s maknae longer. 

But he also knows Hyeonjun and Minseok used to be close. Correction: they still are, to a degree. They were on DRX together in 2020, and while Minseok had been away for military service when Hyeonjun joined T1 in 2024, Suhwan could guess that they reached for each other as Suhwan did for Hyeonjun.

Minseok used to be Hyeonjun’s maknae, too.

For Hyeonjun to see two of his teammates so closely intertwined both in and out of the Rift, and the pain it’s causing them, Suhwan knows it hurts.

There’s a few more moments of silence.

Just before sleep finally takes a hold of him, he hears a shaky breath. He thinks he hears someone cry.

When he wakes up, he expects to be alone in his room. If not alone, then there’s Hyeonjun beside him. He wouldn’t be upset if he was alone, though. Hyeonjun had stayed up for most of the night with Suhwan, helping him through the vomiting and getting him back into bed. If Hyeonjun wanted to sleep comfortably in his own bed after that, Suhwan wouldn’t be upset.

He moves his arm to push himself up, only to be brought back down with a tug. Suhwan’s eyes widen. He brings his other arm down his body and finds it.

So maybe Hyeonjun did fall asleep in his bed.

There’s an arm around his waist. It’s a foreign feeling. Usually, when he slept with his hyungs, they would end up on the edges of the bed and facing outwards. They may start out cuddling, but by the end of the night, they usually separate.

There’s a groan. “Suhwan?”

Suhwan freezes.

That voice is decidedly not Hyeonjun.

His first thought is, I must be dreaming, because there’s absolutely no way in heaven or hell that the Ryu Minseok, the Keria, would be in his bed with his arms around Suhwan.

His mind goes farther than that and decides he must’ve died in the middle of the night. Cause of death: suffocation on flowers. Tragic. Poetic. The news would paint him as a hopeless boy, who had so much potential to become the best player of his generation only to be taken away by a primal need to love and be loved.

Or maybe he is actively dying and this is the final seven minutes he gets to have where he can dream of his wish coming true. Is that how the ‘seven minutes’ thing worked?

Suhwan suddenly breaks into a fit of coughing, and the sickly taste of phlegm fills his throat.

“Hey,” the voice—Minseok’s voice—calls out for him again.

The bed shifts and Suhwan is pulled up against the wall. He hacks, and coughs, and retches. All the while, a hand rubs at his shoulder. There’s another noise, but his mind is too preoccupied with trying to clear his throat to understand what’s being said. The telltale brush of a petal clawing its way up has Suhwan bringing a hand over his mouth, then coughing as hard as he can so that the petal can come up. When he brings his hand away from his mouth, a single purple petal sits in his palm.

Okay, so Suhwan is definitely not dead.

He closes his hand and looks up at Minseok.

Minseok looks tired, which is strange because he’s not the one who stayed up with Suhwan during the night. Did Minseok have a schedule late into the night? His eyes are slightly red at the edges, which makes Suhwan frown. Did Minseok cry? What could’ve happened that made Minseok cry?

Even with the red eyes, Minseok smiles. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay,” Suhwan says quickly. A reflex.

Minseok’s smile disappears in seconds. Suhwan stops breathing.

Minseok closes his eyes. There’s a few moments of silence.

“Don’t lie to me, please.” He opens his eyes and looks up at Suhwan. Suhwan feels his neck go hot. “You can lie about everything else, but please, just this once, don’t lie to me.”

“I am okay, though,” Suhwan says again, whether to convince Minseok or convince himself, he’s not really sure.

Minseok doesn’t need any convincing because it doesn’t work. “You’re not.”

Suhwan sighs. He isn’t. He knows that much. Coughing up purple petals had already been an unnatural event. Then, the flowers multiplied until Suhwan would periodically lose his senses and wake up moments later, barely conscious. He doesn’t remember there being a day where he would remember everything that happened from start to finish. How many times in the last couple of months had Suhwan been in death’s arms?

He knew this would happen, of course. Once he finally looked up Hanahaki Disease and looked at the treatment options, he knew this would happen. But the agony of slowly dying doesn’t make it bearable.

There were days where he thought about just… dying. Walking on the street and having an unfortunate accident. Something blowing up in his face without him realizing it until nothing mattered anymore. Falling off a high place. Anything just to make the pain end.

It’s an awful thought to have, Suhwan knows. But dying men don’t have the liberty of pondering morality when they’re on the stairs to heaven.

“I heard a commotion last night,” Minseok starts. His voice breaks Suhwan out of his thoughts. “I went outside to see what was happening and I ran into Hyeonjun-hyung.”

“He was crying, Suhwan-ah.” Minseok looks like he might cry, too, with how much he blinks. “I thought it was just about how scrims went yesterday, but he was crying so hard.”

When it comes to talking about emotions, Suhwan never knows what to say. All he knows is that he feels bad, the kind that makes his chest ache and his stomach churn. He knows why Hyeonjun was crying, and he feels bad.

Suhwan opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. What is he meant to say? He doesn’t want Minseok to cry either.

“He told me that you were really sick and that if you didn’t do something about it, you would die.” Minseok’s voice cracks. “So please, be honest with me. What’s wrong?”

Suhwan’s resolve cracks.

“I…”

Suhwan hates this.

“I have Hanahaki disease.”

This is it, he thinks. Minseok’s eyes go impossibly wide and his jaw hits the mattress. Suhwan looks away. There’s a spot on the wall that still hasn’t been painted over from when he scratched it trying to move his things in. It’s not a big scratch, and he can easily hide it by putting something in front of it. But his conscience will remind him that the scratch is still there. Inside, Suhwan laughs. He needs to get that fixed.

Eventually, Minseok breaks him out of his trance. “For who?”

Suhwan’s eyes go wide. “You know what it is?”

“A bit,” Minseok says, “I just didn’t think… It was real.”

Suhwan exhales with a slight smile. “Me too.”

“Who is it?” Minseok asks again. His tone is sharper.

Suhwan goes back to staring at the wall and thinking about the scratch on the wall. “It’s stupid.”

“Suhwan-ah,” he says, enunciating every syllable. Suhwan-ah.

He hasn’t heard anyone say his name with such care in a while. Most people slurred it together, and it ended up sounding like the English word ‘swan’ more often than not. But not Minseok.

Minseok takes his hand and squeezes it. “It’s not stupid if it’s going to kill you.”

“I…” Suhwan starts, but stops again.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

“It’s you.”

This is it. Suhwan has officially messed this up for them, and there’s no turning back. They won’t be able to go back to whatever ‘coworkers’ relationship they had before. They won’t even be able to go back to friends, if they were even that in the first place.

Suhwan quickly adds, “I’m sorry.”

I tried so hard to bury my feelings, he tries to say, but the words don’t form on his tongue. A sharp pain grips his chest. He flattens his tongue to let his teeth sink into the soft tissue. He doesn’t bite hard enough to bleed, but it still hurts.

Minseok squeezes his hand again. When Suhwan opens his eyes, Minseok is closer than before.

“Why are you sorry?” Minseok asks.

“I don’t want to force you.” I don’t want to force you to love me back when you don’t.

Another squeeze. “Hey, Suhwan-ah.”

There it is again, the way Minseok says his name. Suhwan’s parents gave him that name, yes, but it sounds different when Minseok says it. Su-hwan-ah. Each syllable clearly enunciated, the ‘H’ a gentle exhale rather than a harsh wind. Su-hwan-ah.

If he could, Suhwan would have a voice recording of Minseok saying his name and repeat it forever. He would make it his alarm, his ringtone, his notification sound. Anything just to hear Minseok saying his name all the time like this.

Suhwan looks up at Minseok and, there it is. The soft smile he’s only ever seen in playbacks when they review footage for their content, the one he sees in those videos fans make of them. Aimed at him and only for him to see. Suhwan can’t help but smile in return.

But then, fear washes over him. It absolutely ruins the moment.

His smile drops as quickly as it came. Minseok is going to let him down slowly, Suhwan realizes. Suhwan is going to have to get the surgery and just hope he is not the fifty percent who forget because it would be disastrous if T1’s ADC forgot their support. The chances of Suhwan being benched have skyrocketed now, because there’s no way the organization will want an ADC who needs to start from zero to synergize with their support. Suhwan is going to lose his chance of playing and winning with Minseok. He will let everyone down. How can he be so selfish? All because he wants something he can’t have. He has already caused Hyeonjun so much pain by making his hyung watch as he nearly died many times over. Clearly, Suhwan’s so selfish that he wants to make everyone suffer, too.

Minseok must sense this predicament, because he moves closer to Suhwan until they’re practically knee to knee and nose to nose. They’re holding hands now, both hands, and Minseok squeezes Suhwan’s.

Suhwan looks up and meets Minseok’s gaze. His eyes are still soft and his smile is still gentle. Suhwan isn’t sure what guilt should look like, but he thinks Minseok doesn’t have it. His gaze is steady, unmoving, and Suhwan can’t help but look away.

It’s too much.

Minseok chuckles. “I may not show it to you in a way that you understand yet,” he starts slowly, which is different from the usual Minseok whose mouth moves quicker than his brain at times. “But don’t think for a second that I don’t love you.”

A pause.

Before Suhwan can interject, Minseok continues. “There’s so much love that I have for you here.” Minseok brings a hand over his chest. “And not just in a ‘bot duo’ kind of way.”

There’s a pause here and there. It helps Suhwan a little bit, while he is still processing everything. Minseok speaks slowly, even more so than when he gets invited to an interview on stage where every word has to be meticulously picked out and then said with confidence. Here, the words are said with a whisper, like it’s their little secret, and Minseok ends every other word with a slight intonation.

Suhwan blinks. “Really?”

Minseok’s smile widens and his cheekbones reach his eyes. “Is it so hard to believe that I could fall for you?”

Suhwan doesn’t know what to say to that.

Then, Minseok is tugging on his sleeve as he lies back down. “Let’s stay like this for a bit longer.”

Suhwan still isn’t sure what this all entails, but he follows Minseok anyway. He melts into the bed, back flat against the mattress, and turns his head to Minseok. Minseok puts his arm back around Suhwan’s waist and pulls them closer together until Minseok’s chin is resting on Suhwan’s shoulder.

It’s not much, but it’s a start.

Minseok hums. “When did you first realize that you liked me?”

Suhwan blinks. “Ah, uh, it was…”