A couple days later, Taeyong coughs out whole white roses, including withered stems, and, more importantly, thorns. There’s blood, but just small flecks of it, not clotted in clumps, so Taeyong knows it’s from the thorns and not just what’s collected in his lungs. Still, it’s horrifying and painful.

Taeyong paces his room once he’s cleaned himself up, throat still raw and stinging. Johnny has it so easy, he finds himself thinking, bitter. Lavender is such a small, sweet flower. You would hardly be able to feel it. He immediately feels bad for thinking it, though. 

Some hope that maybe, just maybe, Johnny would love him back had come and gone over the past few months, as much as Taeyong had tried to suppress it. But now with that option being solidly out of the way, he feels almost spiteful. He still doesn’t want the surgery, of course, but he’s restless. He wants to do something, he just doesn’t know what. 

Eunyong finds him one evening on the floor of his bathroom, cleaning up spots of blood from white tile. He doesn’t get the chance to hide it, and she nearly drops the package of macarons she’s brought upstairs for them to share. 

“I thought you said no blood!” she accuses, standing in the doorway, staring.

“It’s not—it’s from the roses, not from my lungs,” Taeyong says, his voice hoarse and small. He looks down at the white flowers in his hands, and realizes tears are blurring his vision, half from the pain, half from exhaustion.

Eunyong cautiously comes up to him, setting the package on the counter and taking the paper towel from him and finishing the work. “I’ll bring you a little bag to put them in,” she says, nodding at the flowers. “We’ll throw it in the compost outside.” Taeyong makes a quiet noise so that she knows he’s listening. “I had a feeling we’d get around to roses eventually,” she continues, voice soft. “Because of course you would. And white ones at that.”

“Silent devotion,” Taeyong says, coughing out a short, wry laugh.

“Yeah,” Eunyong says. “You gonna be okay?”

“It hurts, Eunyong,” he replies, voice breaking. “It hurts, and I—” He swallows, a tear slipping down his cheek. “I don’t wanna die,” he whispers.

Eunyong stops what she’s doing, kneeling in front of him, and wraps her arms around his bony shoulders, pulling him into her chest. “I know,” she says, gentle as she can, though Taeyong recognizes that her tone is spiked with pain. “I’m so sorry.”

“Isn’t there anything we can do? Not the surgery, just something to lessen my feelings so the flowers go away?” he asks, even though he remembers Yuta wondering the same thing, and coming up with nothing. “We’re witches, we know other witches. There has to be something.”

To his surprise, though, Eunyong hums thoughtfully instead of saying no right away. “Well.” She draws back a little. “There might be something.”

Taeyong blinks at her. “What?”

“I’ve been turning it over in my head for the last couple of days,” she says slowly. “I wasn’t sure if I wanted to bring it up, because—I mean, I don’t want you to think I’m forcing it on you, you know? It’s your choice.”

“What is it?”

“When I was younger, I got lost hiking. Remember that day—you were still really young, like eleven or twelve years old—when I came home late and Mom and Dad yelled at me for hours? I was out in the woods, and I followed this girl and lost the trail. Luckily, she found me, and she was nice enough to guide me home. She’s a hereditary witch, kind of eclectic, but with ceremonial roots. I learned a little from her, and we still talk sometimes. She rarely comes into town, because it’s a bit of a walk, to be honest, and she gets everything she needs from the woods.” Eunyong smiles a little. “She’s a few years older than me. Her parents passed last year and I helped her complete a grief ritual. I’m wondering if she wouldn’t be able to throw something together for you—a sort of cord-cutting ritual to help weaken your emotions and uproot the flowers.”

“What’s her name?” Taeyong asks.

“Gyunghui. Do you want to go?”

“It won’t take my love away completely? I won’t end up like Kunhang or Yukhei?”

“I’m not sure if she can,” Eunyong warns quickly. “We’ll have to ask. But I think she might be able to at least try something.”

Taeyong nods. “Well, we might as well. I’m dying anyway. As long as she doesn’t kill me in the process, I don’t see how it can hurt.”

Eunyong gives him a look, but just nods. “Okay,” she says. “We’ll go tomorrow, then.”

= = =

They set out in the mid-morning. Eunyong says it’ll take a couple hours to get to Gyunghui’s house, and she wants to give plenty of buffer time. She’s carrying a backpack with some snacks and water, and, of course, her wallet. Taeyong had offered to hold something, but one sharp glare from Eunyong had shut him right up.

The air is muggy and hot, and the shade of the trees offers only small comfort. Eunyong helps him when it gets steep, going on ahead to set down the pack and then coming back to guide him up the slopes. It’s very slow going, and it’s long past noon before the terrain evens out a little bit.

The undergrowth gets lusher, and Eunyong pushes past some branches, arching and crossing over one another, and the trail is gone. Still, it’s pretty level, and the grass is a soft relief after the rocks and dust, and it’s beautiful and quiet.

“Why have I never come here before?” Taeyong asks, blinking in surprise as a few birds emerge from a bush nearby. “It’s lovely.”

“It’s hard to find, and even harder to find your way out of if you don’t know what you’re doing,” Eunyong explains. “I didn’t want to bring you because I know Gyunghui likes her privacy, and I knew you’d probably tell Johnny even if I told you not to, and then eventually all of your stupid friends would be stomping through here.”

“That’s fair,” Taeyong admits, laughing to himself. “Well, my lips are sealed.”

“They better be.”

It takes what Taeyong guesses to be about another hour of walking before they come across a house. It’s beautiful—wood painted white and a dark green door, a pretty, sprawling garden that encroaches on the wilderness beyond. There’s a young woman bent over a plant out front, and she raises her head as they approach, shielding her eyes from the light.

“Eunyong,” she greets warmly. “I was wondering when you’d drop by.”

“Hi, Gyunghui,” Eunyong says. “How are you?”

“I’m good,” Gyunghui replies, dusting her hands off on the front of her skirt and stepping out into the little path that leads up to her front door. “Is this your baby brother?”

“Yes,” Eunyong says fondly. “This is Taeyong.”

“Nice to meet you,” Taeyong says, bowing quickly as they come to a stop a few feet away, not sure how to feel about baby brother .

Gyunghui surveys him for a moment, furrowing her brow. “You’re sick,” she murmurs. “I see. No use dancing around it, then. Come in. Let’s see what we can do for you.”

“It’s hanahaki,” Taeyong blurts as she turns around, leading them back inside.

“Ah,” she says, her tone suggesting she had already guessed it,. “I’m not sure how much I can do, but I can try. We’ll talk about it over tea.”

Her house is dark and cool despite the heat outside, and the apparent lack of air conditioning. She offloads some blackberries from her pockets and lights a fire under her kettle, then goes to her cupboard and pulls out a container of little cookies. “Lavender and thyme,” she explains. “And honey. Please, take as many as you like.”

“Thank you,” Eunyong says, taking a seat and gesturing for Taeyong to do the same.

When their tea is brewing in a pretty glass pot in the center of her little wooden table, she finally directs her attention to Taeyong.

“So, I’m assuming you don’t want the surgery, but you also don’t want to die,” she says, a little bluntly. “And you’ve come to me to see if there’s anything I can do to help you.”

“Yes,” Taeyong says, nodding. “If you can’t—that’s okay. I just—I don’t want to give up my love, but I don’t want to die from it, either. Is there a way to lessen it somehow, or kill the flowers without removing the love, too?”

Gyunghui taps her fingers at the table, studying the grain of the wood. “I know my grandmother used to have some kind of remedy,” she says slowly. “But my mother was young when she passed away, so she never learned it. It wasn’t perfect, but it was something. I’ve tried pouring over her old grimoires, but I haven’t found anything concrete. Some of the writing is faded, some pages are missing…” She shakes her head. “Still, I’ve pieced a little something together. I haven’t tried it before, but I’m pretty sure it won’t take your love away.”

“Are there any risks?” Eunyong asks before Taeyong can even open his mouth.

“It could make it worse,” Gyunghui says with a heavy sigh, giving them both a very apologetic look. “As I said, I’ve never tried it before. But I think the idea is similar to how viruses can become drug-resistant. If it doesn’t kill the flowers, then it’s highly likely they’ll come back stronger than before. The goal is to uproot them but not remove them, to preserve the love, and to create an emotional environment in the body that no longer fosters their growth, so that they cannot take root again. But if they do manage to take root, the same ritual won’t have any effect, because they will have already adapted to survive in the new environment. It would probably advance your symptoms. I wouldn’t be able to help you there.”

Eunyong presses her lips together and turns to Taeyong. “I don’t like it,” she says. “But it’s up to you.”

“I don’t have a whole lot longer,” he says, picking at his cuticles. “Shortening that time by a little won’t make a huge difference. Honestly, at this point I wouldn’t mind. It wouldn’t be so drawn out that way. If that’s the worst that can happen, and there’s a chance it could work… I want to do it.”

Eunyong sighs. “I thought you might say that,” she says. “But I understand.” She looks over at Gyunghui. “I’d like to help, if I can.”

Gyunghui nods. “It’ll probably be good to have an extra set of hands on deck, especially if it’s someone as skilled as you.” She gives Taeyong a kind smile. “It’s good you come from a family of witches, too,” she says. “Less explaining to do.” She glances at the clock on the wall. “It’ll be better to do it around sunset,” she says. “We have a couple of hours to kill, and it’s never good to go into strenuous rituals like these on an empty stomach. How about some real food?”

= = =

The kitchen is glowing orange from the sun by the time they’ve finished washing the dishes. Gyunghui grabs a few things from the cupboard, and tells Eunyong to get an egg from the fridge. Taeyong smiles a little in understanding; it’s common in grief spells, especially self-administered ones—the egg is used to absorb negative energies. Despite his predicament, Taeyong finds himself trying to store everything away in his mind. He always likes learning new magic. Maybe that’s why he feels so calm.

Gyunghui leads them upstairs to a big room, empty in the center and lined all around with cabinets, counters, and other shelving. Everywhere he looks, Taeyong sees various magical tools or ingredients. It’s like the Nakamoto’s apothecary and the herbalist shop that Kunhang works at smashed into one, but with an even wider selection. Taeyong turns in a circle in the center of the room as Gyunghui rummages through the drawers for candles and matches.

“Taeyong, if you could stay right there for the moment, that would be good. Oh, but take off your shirt, if you don’t mind. We need access to your bare chest.” She says it offhand as she deposits a pile of black and silver candles on the ground and crosses the room to another cupboard.

Taeyong nods, tugging his shirt off and handing it to Eunyong, who hangs it on the little coat rack by the door. “Are, um, are my shorts okay?” he asks.

“Yes, that’s fine,” Gyunghui says. She’s found what she needed, cradling a large assortment of objects in her arms. “Eunyong, could you grab a couple of these? I need to go down to the stream to fill this with water.” Eunyong takes a few of the items from her gingerly and together they lay them out on the ground. “It should only take me a moment,” Gyunghui continues. “Taeyong, could you dress those candles? Lilac on the black ones, base to tip, and lavender on the silver, tip to base. Eunyong, matches are there. Would you mind cleansing the room with that sage bundle? There’s ceramic trays in this drawer.” Gyunghui taps a drawer near the door with the hand that isn’t holding an ornate glass bowl. “Start in the far corner—”

“—because you’ll still need to come back in the door, yes,” Eunyong says, catching on. 

Taeyong sits, scooping his materials towards him. Violet on black, away to banish grief and anger; lavender on silver, towards to bring it sweetness and reassurance, he reminds himself as he unscrews the cap to the violet essential oil. Gyunghui is down the stairs before Eunyong even retrieves the dish. She plucks up the bundle—black sage, from what Taeyong can tell—and lays it on the dish, pausing on her way to the back corner of the room to open the window. It’s silent, except for the sound of a match striking the box.

Taeyong waits until Eunyong has the bundle on a steady, low smoke before he speaks. “Thank you for being here,” he says quietly.

“I would never leave you all alone,” Eunyong replies simply, and a melancholy guilt bubbles up in his stomach. He knows it’s not what she means, but he can’t help but think that’s how she feels. For an instant, he considers getting the surgery, if only for his sister, but he knows he wouldn’t be able to live with that decision. It would kill him, so it wouldn’t make a difference in the long run. 

He watches in between candles as she makes her steady way around the room. Gyunghui comes back in and sets the bowl down, shutting the door, and the two women work around each other, Eunyong finishing the saging, while Gyunghui pours some Florida water out onto a black cloth and swipes it in a large circle around Taeyong, pausing before closing it and looking up to where Eunyong is finishing back where she started.

“Done?” she asks, and Eunyong nods. “Enter here, then,” she says, nodding to the space next to her hand. Eunyong puts the sage back down on the little tray and steps through delicately where Gyunghui indicated. Once she’s safely inside, Gyunghui swipes the rag over the open space and then drops it on the ground. She takes the sage from Eunyong and uses it to cleanse herself, then Eunyong, and finally Taeyong. Taeyong holds his breath stiffly to avoid choking on the smoke as Gyunghui uses her free hand to fan it, before replacing the now very small bundle back on the tray and putting it on the floor to burn out. 

She bunches up the top layer of her skirt to create a sling, and puts the now-anointed black and silver candles in it. She picks up a beautiful selenite athame, with a thin black cord wound tight around the handle and a tri-moon symbol carved into the base of the blade, and moves directly behind Taeyong, facing the wall. He glances over his shoulder to watch. Eunyong has picked up the matches and stands close by.

Gyunghui raises the athame to eye level for a moment, then lowers it to the floor at her feet, blade pointing out. “Watchtowers of the East, Spirits of Air, I call upon you to witness our rites and watch over this sacred circle.” She extracts first a black candle and then a silver one, and alternates with about a foot of space between them, marking off the circle. Eunyong follows behind, lighting them as they go. Facing the wall to Taeyong’s left, now, she takes from the pile of supplies a large red candle, wick already black, and places it ninety degrees around the circle from the athame. “Watchtowers of the South, Spirits of Fire, I call upon you to witness our rites and watch over this sacred circle.” She nods to Eunyong to light it, and they continue down this side of the circle with the black and silver candles until they reach the center of the wall in front of Taeyong. 

Gyunghui takes the dish of water and places it carefully on the floor. “Watchtowers of the West, Spirits of Water, I call upon you to witness our rites and watch over this sacred circle.” Again, they place the candles after, following the shape Gyunghui had traced with the Florida water, until they are across the circle from the red candle. Gyunghui drags a heavy stone dish, filled nearly to the top with black salt, to her feet. Taeyong can see the candlelight and weakening sunlight glinting off the large metal pentacle that rests on top of the salt. “Watchtowers of the North, Spirits of Earth, I call upon you to witness our rites and watch over this sacred ritual.” They finish filling the last empty area with candles, and then come back to the center, in front of Taeyong. Gyunghui looks first to the ground, then the ceiling, and then closes her eyes. “Thank you. The circle is cast.”

When she opens her eyes, they are on Taeyong, who is still sitting cross-legged on the floor. Though it’s warm, he shivers a little. He rarely casts circles, as his mother had instilled a healthy fear of the spirits in both him and Eunyong at an early age. 

“What now?” he asks.

“Intention is key, as it always is with magic.” Gyunghui unwinds a black rope, wrapping it six times in loops from her palm to her elbow as she speaks. “You must be willing to loosen your grip on the love you have buried so deep in your chest in order for this to work. I am not asking you to give it up, I’m simply asking you to give it space. Can you do that?”

“Yes,” Taeyong says. I’ll try . 

“Good.” She crouches in front of him. “I’m going to bind your ankles and wrists with this, and Eunyong will roll the egg across your skin. As she does this, I want you to visualize the negative and stifling energies that are holding you hostage being out with its movement. Once it reaches your hands, you will cut yourself free with a dagger. Eunyong will use the Florida water to seal and protect this action while I burn the rope, and then we will close the circle, and you’ll be free to go. And we will hope it worked.”

Taeyong nods solemnly and offers his wrists. She wraps the rope around them, leaving a short length of it in between—he assumes this is so he can reach it with the dagger when it’s time to cut it. Once it’s secure, she connects it to his feet, twining it around his ankles and tying it in a knot. She moves back to light some incense—sandalwood and dragon's blood and something else he can’t place—and Eunyong picks up the egg and sits in front of him.

Taeyong closes his eyes, following the movement of the egg with his mind, the smooth, cool shell raising goosebumps in its wake. He imagines his hands clasped so tightly around his red string of fate that leads not to Johnny or anybody else but into the darkness. Maybe there’s nothing on the other end, or something worse, but either way in order to find out he knows he has to let go. He’s lulled by the sounds of the bugs coming out as the sun sets, by Eunyong’s steady breathing, by the red light from the candles that filters in through his eyelids. The air is heavy with incense and smoke. He imagines each breath clearing his lungs.

He’s shaking by the time Eunyong takes the egg away. Something about the mental exercise, however easy it felt to complete, has drained him. Gyunghui is holding out a dagger, sharp, curved silver, balanced on her flat palms a few inches from his hand. He takes it and poises it under the rope binding his feet.

“Before each cut, repeat this: ‘I release the ties that bind me.’ Slice back and forth,” she instructs. “I just sharpened that blade, so just be sure to hold the rope as taut as you can. It shouldn’t be hard.”

Taeyong swallows, and nods. He spreads his feet as far as the rope will allow. “I release the ties that bind me,” he repeats, and draws his arm upward, through the rope.

“Good, and again.”

It takes a little maneuvering, but he manages to hold the knife over the rope between his hands. “I release the ties that bind me.” This cut is harder, partially because of the angle, and partially because his hands and arms feel limp and weak, but he forces it through. 

Gyunghui tugs him free of the rope as it falls, taking the knife back, and collecting all the pieces of the rope in a small black cauldron. Taeyong is shaking violently now, uncontrollably, and Eunyong eases him onto his back, kneeling by his side, bottle of Florida water in one hand. She spreads it across his chest with the pads of her fingers, starting from the center and drawing deliberate out, down to his ribs and up his neck to his chin. Taeyong blinks, trying to focus his eyes, but the edges are hazy and he can barely make out the lines of the ceiling above him. He hears the matches again, and smells the acrid tang of fresh smoke.

Eunyong’s face appears in his field of vision, blurry and swimming before his eyes. “Hey, Taeyong? Are you okay? You’re shivering so hard I can hear your teeth knocking against each other.”

Taeyong tries to form a reply, but his lips are heavy, cheeks are heavy, eyelids, all so heavy. He didn’t even realize he was shivering until she said it, but now the rattling of his teeth in his skull is all he can hear.

“Taeyong?” Eunyong repeats, definitely afraid now. I’m okay, he thinks. Just so tired. “Gyunghui-unnie, come here, something’s wrong—”

Taeyong’s vision goes black. The last thing he remembers is feeling a thud when Gyunghui sets the cauldron down, reverberating in his spine.