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The bass from the practice room speakers was a relentless pulse against the floorboards, but it was nothing compared to the erratic hammering in Nicholas’s chest. He missed a beat of the choreography. Then another.
He clapped a hand over his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut as a sudden, violent urge to cough tore through his throat. It felt like paper cuts lining his windpipe, dry, sharp, and suffocating.
"Take five!" the choreographer called out, noticing the lag.
Nicholas didn’t wait for the music to fade. He spun on his heel and bolted out the heavy soundproof doors, his sneakers squeaking desperately against the linoleum hallway. He ignored the confused murmurs of the members behind him, focusing only on the burning sensation climbing up his throat.
He slammed the bathroom door behind him, locking it just as his knees gave out in front of the sink.
He coughed. It started as a dry heave, his hands gripping the cold porcelain edges of the basin until his knuckles turned white. He coughed again. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes. He couldn't breathe. There was something lodged in his airway, something soft yet terrifyingly resilient. He choked, a quiet, desperate sound echoing in the empty, tiled room, and finally spat into the sink.
Nicholas froze, his chest heaving as he stared at the porcelain bowl.
There, resting starkly against the white ceramic, was a single, pristine petal. It was a white camellia. Its edges were perfectly smooth, delicate, and terribly real. At its center rested a single, tiny drop of crimson.
He reached out with a trembling finger, half-expecting it to be a hallucination born from exhaustion. But the petal was soft like velvet under his touch.
Hanahaki.
It was a word whispered in middle school folklore, a tragic plot device in the dramas they sometimes watched late at night. A disease born of unrequited love, where flowers bloom in the lungs of the infected until their feelings are returned, or until they suffocate. It wasn't supposed to be real. It was supposed to be a myth.
"Nico?"
The voice on the other side of the door was soft, muffled by the wood, but it sent a fresh spike of adrenaline straight through Nicholas’s heart.
It was Euijoo. Of course it was Euijoo. He was always the first to notice when someone was struggling, always the one trailing behind to make sure the flock was together. It was that exact, boundless warmth that had planted the seeds in Nicholas's lungs in the first place.
"Nichol, are you sick?" Euijoo’s voice was laced with that specific, gentle concern that made Nicholas want to scream. "You looked really pale. Should I get the manager?"
"No!" Nicholas rasped, his voice sounding like cracked glass. He cleared his throat, wincing at the lingering rawness. "No, EJ. I'm fine. Just swallowed water the wrong way."
"Are you sure?" Euijoo sounded unconvinced. A soft knock rattled the door. "Can I come in?"
"Just a minute," Nicholas said, panic edging into his tone.
He quickly turned on the faucet, washing the blood-specked white petal down the drain. He watched it swirl away, feeling a grim sense of finality. He splashed freezing water onto his face, trying to scrub the flush from his cheeks and the terror from his eyes. He couldn't let Euijoo see. He couldn't let anyone see.
How could he possibly explain that the leader’s gentle smiles, his grounding presence, the way he naturally leaned against Nicholas on the couch after a long day, had all taken root inside him?
Taking a deep, shuddering breath that tasted faintly of floral dust, Nicholas unlocked the door.
Euijoo was standing right there, his dark eyes wide and searching. He had a towel draped over his neck, his hair slightly damp from the grueling practice. He looked so incredibly familiar, so comforting, that Nicholas felt another terrible tickle rise in the back of his throat.
"You don't look fine," Euijoo said softly. Without hesitation, he reached out, pressing the back of his cool hand against Nicholas’s forehead.
Nicholas stopped breathing. The proximity, the smell of Euijoo's familiar citrus cologne mixed with the sterile scent of the bathroom, was overwhelming. He wanted to lean into the touch. He wanted to pull away before it killed him.
"No fever," Euijoo murmured, dropping his hand, though his eyes remained fixed on Nicholas's face. "But you're shaking. If you're pushing yourself too hard, you have to tell me, okay? As your friend, and as your leader."
The words were meant to be a comfort, a safety net. Instead, they fell like water on the blooming garden in Nicholas's chest.
"I'm okay, Euijoo," Nicholas lied, forcing the corners of his mouth up into a reassuring, practiced smirk. He stepped past him, creating a much-needed distance between them before the flowers demanded to be set free again. "Just lost my breath for a second. Let's go back."
As they walked back down the hallway, Nicholas walked a half-step behind. He watched the steady, reassuring line of Euijoo's shoulders, feeling the phantom weight of a dozen white camellias pressing against his ribs.
A week passed, and the white camellias became a secret garden Nicholas tended to in the shadows.
He learned exactly how much time he had between the initial tickle in his airway and the inevitable, choking cough. He learned to swallow down the sharp edges of the petals during vocal practice, masking the strain in his throat as a simple cold. He took on the chore of emptying the bathroom trash bins every night, burying the blood-specked evidence beneath crumpled paper towels and empty toothpaste tubes.
But the physical toll was becoming impossible to ignore.
It was past two in the morning on a Tuesday. The dorm was finally quiet, the heavy silence broken only by the low hum of the refrigerator. Nicholas stood leaning against the kitchen counter, a glass of ice water pressed to his forehead. His chest ached with a dull, constant pressure, as if a tight band was wrapped around his ribs, slowly pulling tighter with every breath.
Soft footsteps padded against the hardwood floor. Nicholas stiffened, instantly setting the glass down.
"You're up late."
Euijoo walked into the kitchen, wrapped in an oversized grey hoodie that swallowed his frame. His hair was messy from sleep, falling softly across his forehead, and his eyes were heavy with exhaustion. He looked so devastatingly soft in the dim light of the stove's overhead fan that Nicholas felt his breath hitch.
"I could say the same to you," Nicholas managed, keeping his voice carefully low and rough. He crossed his arms, trying to physically hold back the trembling that threatened to start. "Did I wake you?"
"No," Euijoo said, shuffling over to the cabinet to grab a mug. "Couldn't sleep. My mind is spinning too much about the new choreography. Figured some warm milk might help."
Euijoo poured the milk, set it in the microwave, and leaned back against the counter. He was only a few feet away, but in the quiet intimacy of the dark kitchen, it felt like no distance at all. Euijoo turned his head, his dark eyes locking onto Nicholas. The exhaustion in his gaze shifted into that familiar, piercing concern.
"You've been avoiding me," Euijoo said. It wasn't an accusation. It was an observation, quiet and undeniably sad.
Nicholas’s heart slammed against his ribcage. "I haven't. We've just been busy."
"You stand at the back of the room during breaks. You walk back to the dorms with Fuma instead of me. You barely look at me when we talk, Nichol." Euijoo stepped closer, leaving the safety of the microwave's glowing timer. "Did I do something wrong? If I made a mistake, or if I pushed you too hard during practice, you have to tell me."
The absolute sincerity in Euijoo's voice was a physical blow. He wasn't angry. He was hurt. The thought of being the source of Euijoo's sadness sent a violent twist through Nicholas's stomach.
"You didn't do anything wrong, EJ," Nicholas whispered. His throat was tightening, the air growing thin. The familiar, terrifying tickle began to scrape against the back of his windpipe. "It's not you. It's just me. I'm just tired."
Euijoo didn't stop moving until he was standing right in front of Nicholas. He reached out, his warm fingers wrapping gently around Nicholas’s wrist. The touch sent a shockwave of electricity straight to Nicholas's chest.
"We are a team, but we're also best friends," Euijoo murmured, looking up through his lashes. "You don't have to carry whatever this is alone."
The roots twisted sharply in his lungs, sinking deeper into the tissue.
A ragged, wet gasp tore out of Nicholas's mouth. He ripped his wrist out of Euijoo's grip, slapping both hands over his mouth as the first cough hit him. It was completely different from the dry, raspy coughs of the past week. This was violent, completely overtaking his body, doubling him over the kitchen island.
"Nicholas?!" Euijoo’s voice spiked with panic. He reached out, grabbing Nicholas's shoulder. "Hey, breathe. Look at me, Nico, what's wrong?"
Nicholas couldn't speak. He couldn't breathe. The petals were rushing up his throat in a suffocating wave, clawing at his vocal cords. He shoved Euijoo back, harder than he meant to, and stumbled blindly out of the kitchen.
He ran, crashing his shoulder against the doorframe of the hallway bathroom. He threw himself inside, slammed the door shut, and locked it just as his knees crashed onto the bathmat.
He hunched over the toilet and wretched.
It wasn't just petals this time. He squeezed his eyes shut, tears streaming down his face as his body forced the obstruction out. When he finally opened his eyes, gasping for air, the world spun.
Floating in the water, stained with streaks of bright crimson, were three fully intact white camellia blossoms. The stems were broken, the leaves jagged, but the flowers were perfectly, horrifyingly whole.
Outside the door, the handle rattled violently.
"Nichol, open the door!" Euijoo was shouting now, his voice thick with fear. He pounded on the wood. "Open the door right now! I'm calling the manager, you're scaring me!"
"I'm fine!" Nicholas screamed back. The words tore his throat to shreds, and he tasted copper. He leaned his forehead against the cold porcelain, staring at the bloody flowers. "Don't come in, Euijoo! Please, just give me a minute."
The pounding stopped, replaced by the sound of Euijoo's heavy, ragged breathing on the other side of the door.
"I'm not leaving," Euijoo said, his voice dropping to a stubborn, trembling whisper. "I'm sitting right here until you come out."
Nicholas closed his eyes, a sob getting trapped behind his teeth. He reached a shaking hand out to flush the toilet, watching the flowers disappear. He had managed to hide it tonight. But with the blossoms fully formed and his time rapidly running out, he knew he couldn't hide it forever.
The clinic was a small, discreet building tucked away in a quiet district, far from the bustling agency headquarters. The doctor, an older woman with sympathetic eyes, reviewed the X-rays clipped to the glowing board.
"The roots are advancing faster than typical cases," she explained quietly, pointing to the cloudy, web-like structures wrapping around the image of Nicholas’s lungs. "Camellias are resilient. They have already anchored themselves deeply into your respiratory system."
Nicholas sat on the edge of the examination table, his hands gripping the paper sheet beneath him. "How much time do I have?"
"At this rate? A month before your airway is entirely compromised," she replied, turning to face him. "You know your options, Nicholas. You must confess your feelings to the person. If the love is returned in the same capacity, the flowers will wither and clear from your system."
"And if it's not returned?" Nicholas asked, his voice hollow.
"Then the growth will accelerate." The doctor folded her hands. "Which brings us to the surgical option. We can remove the roots and the flowers through a specialized procedure. You will survive, and your lungs will fully recover."
Nicholas looked down at his hands. "But?"
"But the flowers are born from your affection," she said gently. "To remove the roots completely, we must extract the source. If you choose the surgery, you will lose all romantic feelings for this person. Completely and permanently. You will remember them, but the love will be gone."
A heavy, suffocating silence filled the small room.
Lose his feelings for Euijoo. The thought felt like a physical amputation. How could he look at Euijoo's gentle smile, hear his bright laugh, and feel absolutely nothing? His love for Euijoo was a foundational part of who he had become. It was the quiet undercurrent to every song he sang, every stage he stood on.
But as Nicholas walked back to the dorms, the cold autumn wind biting at his jacket, a harsh reality set in.
He thought about the team. They had worked too hard, bled and cried too much, to debut. If he died, it would destroy the group. It would destroy Euijoo, who would undoubtedly blame himself for not saving his friend.
And if he confessed? Euijoo was their leader. He was kind, fiercely loyal, and carried the weight of their entire team on his shoulders. Forcing this burden onto him, forcing Euijoo to decide between a rejection that would kill his friend, or a forced acceptance out of guilt, was the cruelest thing Nicholas could imagine doing to the person he loved.
He stopped at the corner of the street, looking up at the towering building where his members were waiting. His chest ached, the camellias stirring restlessly within him, sensing his despair.
He had made his decision.
He would schedule the surgery for the end of the month, right after their promotional cycle concluded. He would endure the pain, hide the blood, and smile for the cameras. He would spend these last few weeks quietly loving Euijoo with every fractured piece of his heart.
And then, he would let him go.
Forty-eight hours.
The promotional cycle had officially wrapped up with a final, tearful fan meeting. The dorm was currently filled with the loud, chaotic sounds of the other members celebrating with greasy takeout and video games in the living room.
Nicholas sat alone in his bedroom, the door locked.
His packed duffel bag sat at the foot of his bed. The clinic had instructed him to bring loose clothing and a few personal items for the overnight recovery. To the manager and the members, he was simply visiting a private family doctor to finally address his stubborn chest infection.
A violent tremor wracked his body, and he quickly pressed a thick towel to his mouth. He coughed. The sound was muffled, but the pain was blinding. Nicholas squeezed his eyes shut, his nails digging into his thighs as a fresh wave of white camellias forced their way up his throat. When he finally pulled the towel away, a cluster of fully blossomed, blood-soaked flowers tumbled into the fabric. The roots were coming with them now, thin, green tendrils that scraped his airways like barbed wire.
He wrapped the towel tightly, hiding the evidence, and let his head fall back against the wall. He was so completely exhausted.
Nicholas picked up his phone from the nightstand. His thumb hovered over the screen, eventually tapping on the hidden album he had created months ago.
It was an archive of Euijoo.
There were candid photos of the leader asleep on the practice room floor, short videos of him laughing at a terrible joke, and blurry selfies they had taken during their trainee days. Nicholas swiped slowly through them, forcing his tired eyes to absorb every pixel. He needed to memorize the exact shade of Euijoo’s smile. He needed to commit it to bone, because by Tuesday morning, looking at these photos would evoke absolutely nothing.
The lock on his bedroom door clicked open.
Nicholas scrambled to toss his phone onto the mattress, kicking the bloody towel under his bed just as the door pushed open. Euijoo walked in, holding a plate stacked precariously high with fried chicken.
"You locked it, but I know where K hides the spare key," Euijoo announced, pushing the door shut behind him with his foot. He walked over, setting the plate on the small desk before sitting on the edge of Nicholas’s bed. "You weren't coming out. So, the party comes to you."
"I told you I wasn't hungry, EJ," Nicholas rasped. His voice was barely a whisper now, ruined by the thorns.
"I know. But you need to eat, Nico. You’ve lost so much weight." Euijoo’s gaze swept over him, taking in the pale skin and the dark circles under Nicholas's eyes. The leader's expression softened into that familiar, devastating tenderness. "Just a few bites. Please?"
Nicholas looked at the chicken, then back to Euijoo. The simple, domestic care in the gesture made his chest ache so fiercely he thought his ribs might finally crack.
"Okay," Nicholas whispered. "In a minute."
Euijoo nodded, seemingly satisfied with the small victory. He kicked his slippers off and pulled his legs up onto the bed, leaning his back against the wall right next to Nicholas. Their shoulders brushed. The heat of Euijoo's body seared through Nicholas’s shirt, sending a flurry of phantom petals swirling in his lungs.
"It's going to be nice to sleep in," Euijoo murmured, resting his head back and closing his eyes. "I was thinking that when your throat feels better, we should take a day trip. Just the two of us. We haven't done that since before the debut."
Nicholas’s breath hitched. A day trip. Just the two of them.
Months ago, that invitation would have sent him over the moon. Now, it felt like reading the final sentence of a beautiful book that was about to be burned.
"Yeah," Nicholas managed to say, his voice thick with unshed tears. "That sounds really nice."
Euijoo hummed in agreement, the sound vibrating in his chest. "I want to go to the ocean. We can bundle up. You can bring your camera. I want to take a lot of pictures."
Euijoo was talking about the future. A future where they were together, where they were making memories. But Euijoo didn't know that the boy sitting next to him wasn't going to be there. A hollow replica would be standing in his place, a version of Nicholas who could sing and dance and smile, but who wouldn't love Byun Euijoo.
Without thinking, driven by a desperate, dying instinct, Nicholas shifted. He rested his head gently on Euijoo's shoulder.
Euijoo stopped talking, his breath catching slightly in surprise. He didn't pull away. Instead, a moment later, Euijoo slowly rested his own head on top of Nicholas's, his cheek pressed against Nicholas's hair.
"Get some rest, Nico," Euijoo whispered into the quiet room. "You're going to get better. I promise."
Tears finally spilled over Nicholas's eyelashes, tracking silently down his cheeks to soak into the fabric of Euijoo's shirt. He closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of citrus and warmth one last time. He let himself feel it all. The crushing weight of the camellias, the terrifying depth of his affection, the bittersweet agony of holding the person he loved while simultaneously letting him go.
"Goodbye, Juju," Nicholas whispered.
Euijoo shifted slightly. "What was that? Goodnight?"
Nicholas kept his eyes closed, pressing closer into the warmth of Euijoo's shoulder. He forced the distance back into his voice.
"Yeah," Nicholas lied softly, the final petal resting heavy on his tongue. "Goodnight, EJ."
The overhead lights of the operating room were blindingly white, a stark contrast to the colorful, chaotic world Nicholas was leaving behind.
"Count backward from ten for me, Nicholas," the anesthesiologist murmured, adjusting the mask over his nose and mouth.
Nicholas blinked up at the ceiling. Ten. He thought of the way Euijoo’s eyes crinkled when he laughed. Nine. He thought of the warmth of Euijoo's shoulder against his in the dark bedroom. Eight. He remembered the smell of citrus and clean laundry. Seven.
A single, phantom tear slipped from the corner of his eye, disappearing into his hairline.
I love you, he thought into the blinding white silence. Six.
Then, there was nothing.
Waking up felt like breaking the surface of a frozen lake.
Nicholas took a sharp, desperate gasp, his body bracing for the familiar, agonizing tear of thorns and the suffocating rush of petals. He waited for the blood. He waited for the pain.
Nothing happened.
The air flowed into his lungs. Cool, crisp, and entirely unobstructed. He breathed out. He breathed in again, deeper this time, expanding his chest as far as it would go. It felt unbelievably light. It felt empty.
"The surgery was a complete success," the doctor said softly, stepping into his line of vision. She offered a gentle, sympathetic smile. "We removed the entire root system. There was minor scarring on your vocal cords, but with a few days of rest, you'll be perfectly fine to sing again."
Nicholas slowly sat up, resting his hand against his sternum. The relentless pressure that had lived there for months was completely gone.
"How do you feel?" she asked.
Nicholas stared at the blank white wall opposite his bed. He actively tried to conjure the image of Euijoo. He pictured the leader's smile, the gentle way he took care of the members, the late-night talks on the balcony. He remembered all the facts perfectly. He remembered that Euijoo was kind. He remembered that Euijoo was his best friend. He remembered that, just yesterday, he would have gladly died for him.
But the memory was like reading a biography of a stranger. The facts were there, but the music was gone. The colors were muted. The desperate, aching gravity that had tied his soul to Byun Euijoo had been severed clean.
"I feel fine," Nicholas whispered. And it was the absolute, terrifying truth.
It took a month for Nicholas to learn how to exist in the same orbit as Byun Euijoo without stumbling.
For years, his devotion had dictated the way he stood in a room, the way his eyes naturally tracked the leader, and the way he instinctively reached out to offer comfort. Unlearning that was like trying to write with his wrong hand. He would find himself shifting on the couch to make room for Euijoo to lean against him, only to remember a fraction of a second later that the frantic, desperate warmth that usually accompanied the action was simply absent.
He wasn't cold. Euijoo was still his teammate, his confidant. But the love was entirely safe now. It was a calm, flat lake rather than a raging storm.
For Nicholas, the peace was a miracle. For Euijoo, the shift was an agonizing mystery.
In late December, they finally took their promised day trip to the coast.
The winter sea was violent and beautiful, the grey waves crashing loudly against the icy, rocky shoreline. The beach was entirely abandoned, leaving just the two of them bundled in thick wool coats, walking side-by-side along the damp sand.
Euijoo had brought his vintage film camera. He spent the first hour snapping photos of the scenery, the seagulls, and mostly, of Nicholas.
Nicholas stood near the water's edge, letting the freezing wind whip through his hair. He smiled for the lens, an easy expression that he hadn't been capable of wearing a month ago. He wasn't hiding any pain. He wasn't choking on blood.
"You look good," Euijoo said softly, his voice barely carrying over the roar of the ocean. He lowered the camera, letting it rest against his chest.
"The salt air helps," Nicholas replied, kicking a piece of driftwood. He turned to look at Euijoo, but his smile faltered.
Euijoo looked incredibly fragile. The wind had bitten his cheeks pink, but his dark eyes were heavy with a sorrow that Nicholas hadn't seen in years. Euijoo took a few slow steps forward.
"You've been so different, Nico," Euijoo murmured, his hands stuffed deep into his coat pockets. "Ever since you got sick last month. You're right here, you're smiling, but you feel a million miles away. It feels like I lost you."
Nicholas frowned. "EJ, I'm right here. I'm just healthier now."
"But you don't look at me anymore," Euijoo said, his voice cracking.
Nicholas froze.
"You used to look at me like I was the only person in the room," Euijoo continued, his gaze dropping to the sand. "You used to lean into my space. I thought it was just our dynamic. But then you came back from that doctor, and all of it was gone."
Euijoo looked back up, a single tear breaking free and tracing a hot line down his freezing cheek.
"And the terrible part is, the second it disappeared, I realized I couldn't live without it. I realized I didn't just want you to look at me like that because we were friends. I wanted it because I'm in love with you."
The crash of the waves seemed to fade into a dull, rushing static.
Nicholas stared at the boy standing in front of him. The words hung in the freezing air, heavy and impossible.
For a moment, there was absolute silence.
Then, a laugh ripped out of Nicholas’s throat. It wasn't his usual bright sound. It was harsh, jagged, and ugly. It startled the seagulls nearby, sending them scattering into the grey sky.
Euijoo flinched, his eyes widening in confusion and hurt. "Nico?"
"You're in love with me," Nicholas repeated, his voice dropping to a dangerous, trembling register. He took a step forward, the calm, flat lake inside of him instantly boiling over into pure, unfiltered rage. "Now? You're telling me this now?"
"I didn't realize until you pulled away."
"Do you have any idea what I did for you?!" Nicholas yelled, the sound tearing from his throat, completely drowning out the ocean. He didn't care about the cold. He didn't care about anything. The sheer, blinding unfairness of the universe was a physical weight pressing down on him.
Euijoo took a frightened step back. "What are you talking about?"
"I didn't have a chest infection, Euijoo! I had Hanahaki!" Nicholas stepped into Euijoo's space, his chest heaving, pointing a shaking finger at his own sternum. "I was coughing up white camellias. Whole, bloody flowers! I was dying on the bathroom floor while you were making me tea in the kitchen!"
All the color instantly drained from Euijoo's face. His mouth parted in silent horror. He knew the stories. Everyone knew the stories.
"You..." Euijoo choked out, his knees buckling slightly. "Because of me?"
"Because of you," Nicholas spat, the anger making him reckless and cruel. "For months, I choked on my own blood because I loved you so much, and you didn't feel the same. I counted the days. I threw up petals into the staff toilets before we went on stage. I hid the towels under my bed so you wouldn't find out and blame yourself!"
"Nico, please." Euijoo reached out with trembling hands, tears spilling freely down his face now.
Nicholas violently slapped his hands away. "Don't touch me! Do you know what they do at that clinic, EJ? They cut it out. To save my life, they had to surgically remove the roots from my lungs. And to do that, they have to remove the feelings."
Euijoo let out a devastated, broken sob, his hands flying to cover his mouth.
"I laid on an operating table and let them scrape the best part of me out of my ribs," Nicholas sneered, his eyes wild and burning with unshed tears of absolute fury. "I forced myself to stop loving you. And you're telling me that if I had just held on for four more weeks, if I had just choked on my own blood for one more month, I wouldn't have had to do it?!"
"I'm sorry," Euijoo wailed, completely breaking down, sinking onto his knees in the freezing, wet sand. He grasped at the hem of Nicholas's coat. "I'm so sorry, I didn't know, Nico, I swear I didn't know."
"It doesn't matter if you knew!" Nicholas shouted down at him. The anger had burned so hot and so fast that it was already turning to ash. He looked down at the boy sobbing at his feet, the boy he had practically worshipped just thirty days ago.
He waited for his heart to break at the sight of Euijoo crying. He waited for the instinct to drop to his knees and pull the leader into his arms.
But there was nothing. Just an empty, hollow cavity where a beautiful garden used to be.
Nicholas ripped the hem of his coat out of Euijoo's grip and took a step back, looking down at him with eyes as cold and grey as the winter sea.
"You're a month too late, Euijoo," Nicholas said, his voice terrifyingly calm now, the fire entirely burned out. "I don't feel anything for you anymore."
Nicholas turned his back on the ocean, and on the boy sobbing into the sand, and began the long, silent walk back to the car alone.
The drive back to the city was an agonizing stretch of silence.
The shift in the dorms upon their return was immediate and suffocating. The electric fence went up between them. Euijoo stopped lingering in the practice room. He stopped leaving cartons of strawberry milk on Nicholas's bag. Nicholas watched it all happen with a chilling sense of detachment, recognizing Euijoo's punishing guilt but feeling entirely separated from it.
Late one night, Euijoo had cornered him in the dark kitchen. The leader had apologized, a broken, shattered admission of his own blindness. He had promised to step back, to lock his own feelings away, and to never burden Nicholas with his unrequited love. Nicholas had simply agreed and walked away, leaving Euijoo to tend to his own lonely garden.
Nicholas assumed that would be the end of it. He assumed they would live out the rest of their careers as polite, distant colleagues playing a part for the cameras.
But Euijoo didn't give up.
Euijoo had promised to step back, but he hadn't promised to stop loving Nicholas. Over the next few months, Nicholas began to notice the quiet, relentless ways Euijoo fought for him.
It wasn't grand gestures. Euijoo didn't force physical contact or demand long conversations. Instead, it was an absolute, unwavering dedication. When Nicholas was exhausted after a shoot, he would find his favorite takeout meal already waiting on his desk. When the press crowded them at the airport, Euijoo was always there, discreetly using his body to shield Nicholas from the flashing cameras. If Nicholas mentioned an obscure song he liked in passing, it would be playing softly from the speaker in Euijoo's room the next day.
Euijoo was pouring every ounce of his unrequited love into simply making Nicholas’s life easier. He was loving him loudly in silence.
Spring arrived, melting the snow and bringing a soft warmth back to the city.
They were in the studio late one evening, working through a difficult vocal track. The other members had already headed back to the dorm. Nicholas sat on the small couch in the back of the room, rubbing his tired eyes.
A paper cup of hot green tea suddenly appeared in his line of sight.
Nicholas looked up. Euijoo was standing there, offering a small, hesitant smile. He looked tired, but the sorrow that had clouded his eyes for months had shifted into a quiet, enduring patience.
"You've been singing for three hours," Euijoo said softly. "The producer said we can take a break."
Nicholas took the cup, feeling the warmth seep into his cold fingers. "Thanks."
Euijoo nodded and walked over to the other side of the room, keeping a respectful distance. He sat down in a desk chair, pulling his phone out, completely content to just exist in the same space without demanding anything in return.
Nicholas took a sip of his tea, watching Euijoo over the rim of his cup.
He looked at the way Euijoo's dark hair fell softly into his eyes. He noticed the gentle curve of his jaw, and the way his shoulders relaxed when he thought no one was watching.
Suddenly, Nicholas felt a strange flutter in his chest.
He froze, his breath catching in his throat. Panic flared in his mind. He waited for the sharp pain. He waited for the terrifying scrape of a petal against his windpipe. He braced his hands against his knees, terrified that the roots had somehow grown back.
But the pain never came.
There were no flowers. There were no thorns.
Instead, the flutter smoothed out into a steady, warm rhythm. It was just a heartbeat. An ordinary, entirely natural heartbeat, reacting to the boy across the room.
The surgery had removed the desperate, magical sickness that had tried to kill him. It had scraped away the obsession. But sitting there in the quiet studio, watching Euijoo patiently wait for him, Nicholas realized something profound.
The clinic could remove the flowers, but they couldn't rewrite his soul.
He wasn't suffering from Hanahaki anymore. He was simply a boy, falling in love with his best friend all over again. It was slow this time. It was built on the foundation of Euijoo's quiet devotion, his endless apologies, and his absolute refusal to stop caring. Nicholas was just meant to love Euijoo. It was written in his very bones.
"Juju," Nicholas called out softly into the quiet room.
Euijoo looked up, instantly attentive at the sound of the old, familiar nickname. "Yeah? Do you need something?"
Nicholas looked down at his tea, a small, genuine smile finally breaking across his face. It was the first real smile he had directed at Euijoo in six months.
"Come sit with me," Nicholas said, patting the empty spot on the couch beside him.
Euijoo's eyes widened, completely caught off guard. He stood up slowly, as if afraid any sudden movements would shatter the fragile invitation. He walked over and sat down on the far end of the couch, leaving a wide gap between them.
Nicholas shook his head gently. He shifted over, closing the distance until their shoulders were just barely brushing.
Euijoo let out a quiet, shaky breath, looking at Nicholas with eyes full of overwhelming, hopeful disbelief.
"Are you sure?" Euijoo whispered, terrified to break the spell.
"Yeah," Nicholas replied softly, leaning back against the cushions. He let his shoulder rest fully against Euijoo's. The warmth that radiated from the leader didn't bring any phantom petals or sharp pains. It just felt like coming home. "I'm sure."
Euijoo smiled, the expression blindingly bright and devastatingly beautiful. He didn't push. He just leaned back, matching Nicholas's posture, and let their shoulders rest together.
It wasn't a sudden fix. There were still conversations to be had, and a lot of healing left to do. But as Nicholas sat there, feeling the steady, living warmth of the boy beside him, he knew that the winter was finally over. The artificial garden had been destroyed, but the real one was just beginning to bloom.