Calendulas

The air smells like him. He glances over the flowers lying in his hand: he has seen him covered with them, a glowing field of orange surrounding his frame. It was revealing. It was the seed falling to his chest. As if prophetic he has dreamt about this precise moment.

His dreams have become true and, in reality, it hurts. It hurts because he is throwing up flowers, fully bloom, beautiful and precious but the steam scratches his throat, bruising inside, leaving red traces of burning fire behind, and there is also blood scattered among the coloured petals, splashes of burgundy and pain. It darn hurts because he knows what does it mean (he knows it too well).

In the end, it doesn't matter; the flowers are pretty inside the vase, watered with tears and all the wishes that he wants for him to grant. Minho leaves it in front of his door and prays for him to find it, for him to take his bouquet with him (and, with it, his feelings, his heart).

The water is tinted in the softest orange and the fragrance of calendulas spreads across the dorm. It's hot and the petals are dissolving, infused in the lukewarm liquid in where he is soaked. His skin is as pale as milk and it gleams under the water, his slender fingers playing with the reminding bits of surviving flowers. Minho is entranced by the view he is greeted with (and the room is filled with the memories of him coughing all the calendulas that are sticking into his veins and bones, the ones he put into a glass for him and that he has taken away, has carried them with him). It's beautiful even if the reminisce brings back all the suffering, the suffocating feeling of them embedded down his neck, the aching that came from being alone, the missing and longing, craving for him to come home (to come back to him even if his love isn't meant to be).

Minho stares into him as he soaks into the water deeply, foam painted in blossoming orange covering him and he wants to taunt it. Jinwoo looks up at him and smiles, all the sadness colouring his eyes.

"I'm sorry" his voice is sweet and sorrow. Minho wants him to stop (wants to hush his words with his lips, trapping the air inside his mouth so he won't be able to speak).

He knows that he knows. Minho can read it in his pupils, dark and clouded as if about to rain and he doesn't want to see him cry (he doesn't want to be the reason behind the drops falling down, blending with the ones that come from his wet hair that sticks into his forehead).

Like this he is beautiful. Like this, Minho wants to spend his life looking at him, memorizing all his features, all the little dots that can be connected to draw his name on his skin, all the ways his lips pout and smirk. He is mesmerizing, captivating, he has always been.

Minho doesn't want him to be sorry; it's not his fault. He didn't force his heart to race for him, or his eyes to follow every step and breath he takes. He has nothing to do with the calendulas that are climbing up his chest, like vines entangled around his all body. (He is at fault, for making him fall in love, for seeding his chest with buds that now are turning into impressive flowers). Minho walks away (because the picture displayed in front of his sight is too much to take, milky skin covered in orange that glows like diamonds, Jinwoo's eyes cast on him as if enchanted and he doesn't want him to leave: Minho needs to escape, his mind is too hot to think straight and Jinwoo is so exposed, so open; his heart beats for two and his eyes look away).

"I'll love you" it sounds like a promise but he can't trust it (even when Jinwoo has always kept his word). He turns around and Jinwoo's voice dissipates through the steam and the void, like a sunrise that is going down.

It doesn’t feel alright to obligate him to love him, he knows, head hitting the desk, paints all over his cheeks, music trying to opaque his feelings, to silence his thoughts, the envision of Jinwoo soaking in the bath, all pale and wonderful (his body aches and his hands need to busy sketching his face in papers that can’t hold all the beauty that he represents).

In the end it’s a garland of calendulas what he draws until dawn and when the last beam of silver caresses the surface he is working on, it blears the pure orange of the flowers snaring his name (they are as pure as he is, fascinating and precious all the same, the share the same meaning in his heart; he feels protected and safe, reassured only when Jinwoo is next to him, only when he can hear his voice singing for him; he wants to be loved so much it hurts, he wants him to know, though, that it’s alright, even if he dies, he will die for him – he would die for him anyway, always).

When he comes home Jinwoo is sleeping on the couch, the cats purring happily and he carries him to his own room and, for once, he lets himself be selfish (he snuggles around him and lets sleep sink into him – he has never rest better and, when Jinwoo wakes up, he can feel his smile shining over his skin).

There is one good thing about coming clear to him and it’s that he doesn’t need to hide the flowers anymore; now they grow in pots that Jinwoo brings; he plants the seeds he coughs under the soil and starts gardening, letting them bloom (they are as captivating as him, bringing in light and cheers). Jinwoo giggles, content, watching them healthily burgeons, contemplating the blossoming of Minho’s heart that is meant to him and, as if a cruel metaphor, he nourishes both with care and love (Minho falls deeper with him, his chest stuffed with roots and golden like petals squishing his breath). Like this, flowers are all around, blending with the ones he is also watering inside with tears and fears and all of Jinwoo’s smiles.

“I’ll love you” he said, but he doesn’t; he looks at him and grins at him and speaks sweetly to him but it’s just the same, the same love and care as a friend (but Jinwoo counts all the times that Minho coughs and they are decreasing even if he doesn’t tell him, he knows, he is always wary of his whereabouts because he is not only concerned about losing Minho but also because he truly is attentive towards him the way he deserves – he has been so insensitive to the point that it’s not guilty anymore but something else, something far more intense that beats through the night and keeps him awake, contemplating Minho’s chest swaying up and down).

“I’ll love you” and he will (he is doing it right now).

Minho coughs in front of him but nothing comes up with it (air, pure and plain, the tangy taste of the calendula has gone and not a single petal, like a little fish out  the water, isn’t stirring on the palm of his hand, tinting his skin with yellow and orange like a sunrise). Jinwoo smiles, proudly. Minho looks at him, befuddled.

“I told you” it’s simple and clear. It’s simple and marvellous. It’s just beautiful (and kissing Jinwoo reminds him of the calendulas he was growing up, his lips taste way much sweeter, but the fragrance reminds the same).