Taeyong wakes to an empty, quiet house. Strange, he muses to himself as he rolls out of bed. It’s nestled in the corner of his room. He got the loft because the master bedroom is on the second floor, and his sister didn’t like the slope of the ceiling. He’s happy with it, though, only having to duck slightly when he reaches across to make his bed. He’s got a window that overlooks their sprawling backyard and their greenhouse, situated on one side, and a big skylight over his bed. His dresser is one his father made by hand, and it sits opposite his bed between his closet and his armchairs. They’d installed a bathroom, too, next to the stairs, so Taeyong didn’t have to navigate the slippery hardwood in the night. He goes to it now, splashing water onto his face and brushing his teeth. The white tile is cool beneath his feet, the light from the small window above the toilet bright enough to fill the little room, even so early in the morning. It’s going to be a beautiful day. 

Taeyong changes somewhat haphazardly, still not fully awake, and then he pads down to the kitchen. There is a note on the counter from his mother.

Funeral arrangements to be made—got called in early by the mother of a victim of hanahaki. Porridge in the fridge. Come in when able, but don’t rush.

Hanahaki. Flower-vomit disease. Taeyong presses his lips into a thin line, opening the fridge. The porridge is in a big ceramic pot on the second shelf, and he carefully tugs it out and places it on the stove, lighting a match to start the fire under it. It was a rare illness, but deaths were more common in their little town than in big cities. Most people in the city opted for the surgery. The doctors and equipment were better, there was less risk of complications, and they all had very fast-paced lives, knew soon they’d meet somebody else and they’d have a second chance, and another second chance.

Here, it’s different. There are fewer people and typically, those who were old enough to make medical decisions on their own were old enough to have moved away long ago, but chose to stay because the idyllic atmosphere fit their romantic natures. As such, rarely did those afflicted choose to get the surgery. They’d rather die for their love than have it taken away from them. Besides, there’s only one little hospital, and while the doctors and the healers aren’t bad, the equipment sometimes fails, often resulting in not just the standard removal of flowers and feelings for the person in question, but sometimes memories of them as well, or the ability to love altogether.

Taeyong knows what he’d choose, of course. He’d never accept the surgery. He decided that long ago, the fear of losing the ability to love much more devastating to him than the fear of dying. Besides, if he ever loved someone so strongly that flowers began to bloom in his lungs for them, he wouldn’t ever want to give that love up.

Some of his friends had, in recent years, come down with hanahaki and overcome it, in one way or another. Yuta had been the most recent—he’d almost died, choking on sunflowers, unwilling to undergo surgery. Taeyong had nursed him through it, and he’d bore witness to Mark’s tearful confession that had saved him. His other friend, Kunhang, had fallen into a one-sided love with a boy at his university, Dejun. His university was in the city, and his mother forced him to get surgery there. He came out of it just fine, and his affection for that boy had been taken away. 

“How does it feel?” Taeyong had asked when he’d returned for winter break.

“It’s strange.” Kunhang’s voice had been absent, his expression vacant. “I remember loving him, but… now there’s nothing there. I feel… empty.” He’d given Taeyong an unstable smile. “But I’m not coughing up carnations anymore, so that’s good.”

Of course, there were happy endings, too, and not ones as traumatic as Yuta and Mark’s. When they were in high school, two of Taeyong’s neighbors, Jaemin and Jeno, had begun spitting up cherry blossoms. They’d hid it from their parents, but they’d told one another. Within a week or two, they realized they were in love with each other, and the symptoms disappeared instantly. They’d been together ever since.

And, of course, there were tragic cases, too. Take today’s victim, for example. Taeyong runs it through his mind as he waits for his porridge to cool. The flowers had taken root in their lungs and their heart, and they’d suffocated. Or take Yukhei—his had been a particularly strong case, not just with one type of flower, symbolizing how he felt about his relationship with the one he loved, or perhaps a flower favored by either or both of them; but multiple types, depending on the day and on his mood. Taeyong had seen the carnage of roses for the first time that spring, not just the normal blood that came in late stages of the disease, but blood from the many thorns.

“It’s like in The Little Prince,” Yukhei had rasped out on the way to the hospital, Taeyong in the backseat trying his best to keep him stable. “The prince asks what use flowers have for thorns, and the narrator says that they’re of no use at all, that flowers have thorns just for spite. And the prince gets angry and says that flowers keep their thorns because they need protecting, and they think them to be terrible weapons.” He gave a weak laugh, and another red rose petal had come up and gotten stuck to his lower lip. “The flowers are right. They are terrible weapons. I don’t know how animals can eat them.”

It had worried Taeyong something awful, because Yukhei didn’t like to read. He never said who he’d been so in love with, but Taeyong knew he must have been suffering, even before the disease took hold. And when he came out of surgery, they slowly discovered that he would never love again. It was years ago, and Yukhei had never found interest in another person. But at least he wasn’t dead.

Taeyong puts his dishes in the sink, leaving them to soak, and climbs back up the stairs to wash up and pack his bag. Though he feels bad for thinking it, he kind of hopes their customer is gone by the time he gets there. He never knew what to do when someone came in for bouquets for the funeral of a hanahaki victim. It seems sick to him, almost, to adorn their grave with the very thing that killed them.

He steps out the front door and is surprised to see his father in their vast garden. Though some plants in their shop have to be imported, his parents always try to grow as many right in their yard as they can.

His father turns off the hose and waves. “Going to join your mother?” he calls.

“Yes,” Taeyong replies as he laces his shoes. “You didn’t go with her?”

“Garden needs tending,” his father explains. “And… she’s usually better with grief than I am.”

Taeyong nods his understanding. “Well, I’m sure Mom will call you in once the customer is gone to help with preparations,” Taeyong said.

His father nods back. “Yeah, I’m sure. Well, don’t let me keep you. She probably needs all the help she can get.”

Taeyong starts down the little path that leads to the road, closing and latching the gate behind him, and begins the short trek into town. The bustle of people grows louder as the town comes into view, and he smiles, watching the neighbors he’s known his whole life scurry to and fro. The market is alive today, with townsfolk and tourists alike, and he decides he’ll go for some honey sticks later, once things are less busy at the shop.

For now, though, he hurries down the street to the doors of his parents’ flower shop. His sister, Eunyong, had been his mother’s trusted assistant when Taeyong was away at college, but now that he had graduated, she moved to the city to pursue a career in the fashion industry. Taeyong is okay with that, happy to be the one to inherit the shop. He’s a green witch, just like his sister and his mom, so he’s worked with plants his whole life. It’s peaceful work, for the most part, and he loves being surrounded by the blooms, loves the small town and its simplicity.

Today isn’t so peaceful, though. The customer is an older woman, perhaps in her 50s or so, and she clutches a little handkerchief, watching through watery eyes as Taeyong’s mother demonstrates arrangements of non-flowering plants, mostly ferns and grasses. He bows awkwardly to the woman as he passes, but she doesn’t spare him a glance.

“Ah, Taeyong.” His mother’s voice is even, gentle. “Would you mind fetching some ostrich ferns from the back, please?” To the woman, she adds, “The ostrich fern is a beautiful bright green, and it has long, delicate fronds.”

“It sounds lovely,” the woman agrees.

Soon, her order is placed and she’s out the door. Taeyong’s mother sighs, clearing away debris.

“What happened?” Taeyong ventures to ask, helping her clean up.

“Her daughter,” she says. “She didn’t know until she was already gone.”

“That’s terrible,” Taeyong murmurs.

“She left her a note, at least.” His mother shrugs, and rearranges a few of the bouquets displayed in the window. “Though of course she didn’t say who she was in love with. She found her with white lilies pillowed around her head.”

“Maybe it was a girl,” Taeyong speculates. “Maybe that’s why she couldn’t say.”

“Maybe. Maybe she just liked lilies.” Taeyong’s mother brushes her hands off and turns to face him. “It’s always nice to have your help around the shop, but today’s probably going to be slow. The market is popular, so people won’t want to come indoors since it’s so nice out. I can ring your father.”

“It’s not like I have anywhere else to be,” Taeyong points out, confused.

“No, sorry, I should have led with this. Johnny’s back!” His mother gestures to the bakery across the street. 

Johnny. Johnny, one of Taeyong’s oldest friends, his neighbor and his classmate. Johnny, who’d stood up to Taeyong’s middle school bullies. Johnny, who was the reason Taeyong hadn’t flunked out of his calculus course in university. Johnny, who’d gone on a yearlong trip abroad to a culinary school so he could take over his parents’ bakery when they retired. 

Johnny’s back.

“Oh,” he squeaks out. “He didn’t text me! I thought he wasn’t coming for another week or two!”

“He wanted to surprise you,” his mother says with a laugh. “Just bad timing with this funeral. Go, go see him. He said he wanted to get back to work right away, but I think he’d appreciate your company.”

Taeyong already has his hand on the door. “Let me know if you end up needing me!” he calls over his shoulder as the bell on the shop door jingles. He jogs across the street after checking for cars, and ducks into the bakery.

The warm smell of baked goods almost bowls him over as soon as the door closes behind him. Like the flower shop, the bakery is pretty empty today, too, though he knows Johnny’s dad probably opened a stall down at the market.

Johnny’s mom smiles, coming out from behind the counter when she sees him, arms outstretched. “Taeyong!” She cradles his cheeks in her palms, pressing a quick kiss to one side. Even though he only just saw her last week, she’s acting like it’s been years. She always does, though, and Taeyong always indulges her. “Johnny’s in the back,” she tells him. “He’s excited to see you.”

“Hi, Mrs. Seo. Thank you.” Taeyong tries to ease his strides, fighting against the impulse to run, and slips into the kitchen. Johnny’s got his back to the door, shoulders broader than Taeyong remembers, kneading some dough, but he turns when he hears the whoosh of the doors.

“Taeyong,” he says softly, eyes sparkling.

“You said not until the end of the month!” Taeyong accuses, wrapping him in a big hug.

“Careful, I’m covered in flour,” Johnny protests, but he’s laughing.

“I don’t care,” Taeyong says into his chest, petulant. “Jesus, have you been working out or something? Your arms are the size of my head.”

“I think you’re vastly underestimating the size of your head, Taeyong,” Johnny says dryly. “If my arms were the size of your head, I could knock out the Incredible Hulk.”

“Whatever,” Taeyong grumbles, settling back against the counter. 

“And no, I haven’t been working out. Bread-making is just strenuous,” Johnny quips, punctuating this statement by slamming the ball of dough onto the counter in front of him. “Let me finish this so I can set it to rise, and then how does a cup of coffee sound?”

“Wonderful,” Taeyong replies, happy to watch him work.

“So what have I missed?” Johnny asks as they head down the street, bread dough happily rising under a damp cloth. 

“Not much,” Taeyong says. “I told you about Yuta and Mark already.”

“Yeah, that was scary,” Johnny says, holding the door to the coffee shop open for him. “I never thought Yuta would be such a romantic.”

“He really was ready to let it kill him,” Taeyong tells him. “I didn’t know what to do.”

“Good thing Mark came to his senses. You said the flowers grew to the size of your palms.”

“Yeah.” Taeyong smiles at Kun, who is waiting behind the register. “Kun, look who’s back!”

“Hey, Taeyong. Yeah, he stopped by this morning. Told me to keep my mouth shut.” Kun grins. “What can I get you guys? It’s on the house, my mom would kill me if she found out I was making my friends pay.”

Taeyong rolls his eyes, letting Johnny order while he fishes out a few bills and shoves them in the tip jar. “No take-backsies!” He hops out of reach when Kun raises a hand to smack him.

Johnny follows him to a booth in the corner, drinks in hand, and slides in across from him, handing him his cold brew.

“Thanks,” Taeyong says. “How was culinary school?”

“Good.” Johnny smiles really big. “I learned so much! And I had so much fun. I have so many ideas for new items at the bakery. Some of them I made when I was there, but others, I’m going to need a test subject. Are you in?”

“As long as you don’t poison me,” Taeyong jokes. 

“I will try my best,” Johnny promises, and Taeyong laughs. 

“Meet anybody while you were there?” Taeyong asks, a little nervously.

“Not really,” Johnny says. “I was too busy with all my classes. Besides, most of them were pretty cutthroat. I just wanted to make cute bread loaves, you know?”

“That’s fair.” Taeyong takes a sip of his coffee.

“Oh, by the way.” Johnny says. “My mom wants you and your family over for dinner tonight. She told me to tell you.”

“I can help cook,” Taeyong offers immediately. “You can outdo me, and your mom can try to convert me into being a kitchen witch. It’ll be just like old times.”

“Yeah.” The corners of Johnny’s eyes crinkle sweetly with his smile and the familiar shape comforts Taeyong’s heart. “Just like old times.”

That night, in the warmth of the Seos’ kitchen, cedar-scented candles flickering, Taeyong finally feels like his life is back on track. He doesn’t have to miss his best friend anymore. His work at the shop is coming along nicely, and the spring has been a good one. The summer will be hot but not scorching, and on warm days he and Johnny can go to the beach until they’re sun-drunk and tired, and then they can come back and have homemade ice cream, maybe visit Jaehyun’s ranch a little ways out of town in the evenings to hang out with his horses, Johnny’s bread as payment. They can watch the stars and make up for the months they spent apart.

It’ll be good. Just like old times.

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(A/N): thank you for reading! as i mentioned in the foreword, I'll be linking to my friend's contribution to this soon! for now, you can find me on tumblr or buy me a coffee, or just let me know what you think in the comments! please also check out my other works if you like nct ^^ thanks again! I hope everyone is staying safe and healthy