Orchids

Minho smiles at him, across space in between their position and comes close to his side. Around them, the music blasts, the cheers and screams of the assistants blur the beats of his excited heart, he jumps at the same pace at them all; Minho’s hands find his way to his waist and, uninvited, they rest there for a while (Seungyoon lets the feeling to sink into his veins, the pleasant touch, unexpected, falling over his shirt like a surprise, like the rain that is soaking them now – but that he can’t find the strength to care about, not when Minho is next to him, smiling the biggest, his smell spreading all over the air that keeps them apart and his perfume (like some flowers he can’t name) dwells into his sense, remains there for a while).

It was orchid, Seungyoon realises then, all of a sudden; the fragrance that is in his hands and that lingers over Minho’s skin; he stares at the round petal that lays in his hand and that smells just like him and he knows why (he doesn’t need to check it, he has been expecting it all these years). Scrolling down his camera roll, he finds it filled with pictures of him (under the sunshine, his tanned gleaming, his white smile displayed for only him to see, his hands posing and his heart stops for a moment, counting all the photos he has collected and that display Minho alone; it’s not until reaching 100 that he breaths again, another petal, clean and rose, falling from between his plump lips like a kiss).

He thinks it’s disturbing; he coughs and flowers follow, a torrent of them falling from his parted lips as if pouring rain. It hurts his throat even when the petals are soft, like the touch of the sun and tasted just like he dreams he would (like vanilla and summer and something that is entirely Minho’s and that can’t be described). He skirts around the edges of this situation, of this garden he is growing inside, which so much intensity, with so much care, nourishing them with all the unspoken feelings that he holds dear and tight for Minho (he has always loved him too much but he doesn’t know how to love if it’s not intense and passionate, the same way he loves music or his guitar, ardently, just like the meaning under the flowers he is blooming).

Seungyoon looks at him and clicks the button in his camera, the flash illuminating his sleep, the small noise blending with Minho’s dreams and he giggles, enamoured, and he bends down just to become closer to the couch he is sleeping on. Like this he can see all that is hidden; the little freckles, the colour of his tattoos (the blue rose that stands in his chest under his name, meaning beauty and mystery, the black ink tracing letters that hold the significance of his own existence (be kind, be nice, he repeats it while inking in his significance like a mantra, like a blessing and a curse), the reversed crown in golden hues, the yellow bow, bowing to a tragedy he will never forget, permanently engraved in his skin, the reverent psalm that he prays for at night when the sun is high and he is exhausted after another night working hard. He contemplates them all, peeking under the white of his shirt, escaping under it like water and, entranced, his fingers move on their own and he caresses them all.

He tugs the blanket that lies next to the end, just where his feet are, and he covers him all, wishing to the night to give him a good rest and to bless him with nice dreams. Like a lost memory, he bends over him again and kisses his forehead, his lips lingering over his head for a second longer than needed (but he needs more, much more than only this but he lets go of him and of his feelings, of the urgency to lay next to him, to snuggle with him in this dark couch that holds all that is precious to him).

For the next week, Seunghoon doesn’t wake up to the view of flowers thrown away over the floor of their shared place (he has been there too and so he supports his friend as well as he knows how to; he breathes in reassured and smiles at the idea of Seungyoon’s feelings being returned).

Seungyoon wonders what does it mean; why the taste of the orchid is still pressed on his tongue but there is nothing coming up his throat when he coughs so hard that the motion alone hurts like a punch on his stomach? He thinks he knows the answer, but he is unsure, he doesn’t want to hasten, he will wait now that there aren’t flowers growing to suffocate him, blooming inside his blood. He has time, there is no rush; not when he has been waiting for so long.

Minho comes over to his studio, smiling shyly as if he has never come there before, as if he didn’t spend hours sitting there with him, composing songs and talking about nonsense. He comes in and his eyes are soft (Seungyoon’s heart beats out of rhythm, out loud). Minho sits pressed by his side and stares at him intently, breathing heavily (he smells it, the orchids that he has learned to associate with his skin, those flowers that are dying in his chest, replaced with butterflies now that are screaming to be released, to escape to the moon that is grazing over them, its light panting his face in silver and grey). The room is hot and so are his thoughts, steamed with the intensity that comes from Minho (like a shower, he is all wet with the feelings that are plunging over him, that belongs to his heart: Minho knows how to make it rain with only one glance).

Minho sighs and Seungyoon breaks the spell he has been captured with. He leans into him, his head resting on his shoulders and Minho’s puts his chin on top of his hair, smelling sweat and tire. It’s soft, it’s warm, it’s love and, like a phantom, Minho’s lips touch his skin, leaving a faint trace of orchids merging with his skin. Words aren't needed when they both know what this means to them, not when Minho is kissing him like this, with so much love and care, not when their fingers are interlaced and Seungyoon holds stars in his orbs.