Suddenly, things get very busy. Johnny’s coming back in a few days, and Mark’s birthday is right around the corner—he’s turning nineteen, and Yuta wants it to be the perfect celebration of his last year as a teenager, so they’re all working hard to put something together. Chenle offers up his parents’ house, and they start working on decorations right away. Taeyong is charged with the flowers, of course, so he spends a lot of his time preparing as much as he can, obviously unable to actually make the arrangements until the night before. 

Eunyong pitches in, even though she’s gotten busy with her work again, and even offers to pick Johnny up from the airport so Taeyong can come with.

“You should really get a driver’s license,” she says to him. “You’re too old not to have one.”

“I don’t need one,” Taeyong says. “I have friends who can drive, and almost always, everything I need is within walking distance. Plus cars are scary.”

“You’re bizarre,” she informs him, shaking her head.

Taeyong’s managed to pull his appearance together a little bit, at least during the day when he sees his friends. He’s lucky he was Eunyong’s guinea pig for new makeup looks when they were younger because it gave him the chance to learn how to use it. He knows how to make his skin look healthy, how to hide his dark circles and the harsh lines of his cheekbones. Though he does lose his breath easily, and sometimes he has to slip away to vomit up more flowers, his friends don’t seem suspicious of anything, so their preparations go smoothly.

Still, it keeps Taeyong really busy, and when he comes home and takes the makeup off, his parents can see that he’s unwell. He refuses a trip to the doctor’s because he knows they’ll be able to tell right away, instead making up excuses about feeling a little under the weather, or spending so much time with his friends.

“Why don’t you not worry about the flower shop for a little while, then?” his mother suggests. “You and Eunyong gave your father and I plenty of rest. Now it’s your turn, okay?”

Taeyong doesn’t know how he would argue even if he wanted to, or had the energy, so he goes to bed early that night, drawing all his blinds closed tight, and doesn’t set an alarm.

When he opens his eyes, he’s standing on a tiny little planet. The wind ruffles his hair slightly as he looks around. The sky is growing, and stars twinkle in the distance; it seems it’s nearing dusk. He takes an unsteady step, unsure how to reckon with the fact that he can see the curvature of the land he’s standing on. But nothing happens. He doesn’t fall off into the abyss. The planet doesn’t crack and crumble beneath his feet. The wind keeps its gentle whispering, the flowers and grasses at Taeyong’s feet rustling with it and tickling his ankles.

With nothing else to do, Taeyong decides to keep walking, just one step after another, away from the growing darkness on the horizon. He doesn’t walk for very long until he sees a young boy sitting in a little wooden chair a few paces before him. He’s wearing a clean little outfit, the collar of his shirt popped against the light breeze, and a long flowing scarf. He turns, and seeing Taeyong, smiles in greeting. Taeyong realizes there’s an empty chair next to him, and finds himself going to sit in it.

“Hello,” he says cautiously.

“Hello,” the boy returns placidly. “What brings you to my planet?”

“I…” Taeyong blinks, confused. “I don’t know. I’m just here, I guess.”

“That’s funny,” the boy says, letting out a bright peal of laughter.

“What—what are you doing? Sitting here?” Taeyong asks.

“We are waiting for the sunset,” the boy says, nodding at the sky, and then gesturing down to his feet. Taeyong follows his hand and sees that there is a single red rose growing there. 

“I’ll wait with you, then,” he says.

The boy laughs again. “I’m only waiting because she cannot move. But you came from the direction of the sunsets. Why wait?”

Taeyong doesn’t know how to respond to that. Something about this feels familiar, but he can’t put his finger on it, so he trains his gaze back to the skies. 

Presently, he hears a faint cough. It sounds too light to come from the boy, and Taeyong frowns, flicking his eyes around, trying to see who else could be here. And then, a little voice speaks.

“The glass globe?”

“It’s not night yet.” The boy’s voice has changed, and Taeyong’s eyes widen in surprise to see that it’s now Yukhei before him; dressed differently, too, in a long, billowing blue coat, with golden stars affixed to the shoulders, and tall black boots. “And why should I bother, really? You’ll survive without it.”

“I will catch cold!” Taeyong realizes it’s the flower talking. She protests as fiercely as a little thing such as herself can. 

“You won’t,” Yukhei argues. “You can survive on your own, without my help. You have your thorns.”

“Claws,” she corrects sullenly. “Didn’t you say you loved me? Why won’t you help me?”

“How can I love you when you don’t love me back?” Yukhei asks.

“You’re cold and selfish!” the flower accuses. “You can’t love anybody else if you don’t love me. You know it’s true.”

Yukhei makes an angry, frustrated noise, lunging forward. Before Taeyong can stop him, he has both his hands in the dirt. It’s like he’s trying to strangle the flower to death—but then he uproots her. She’s squirming weakly in his grip, waving her little thorns. Yukhei is crying.

“I loved you,” he whispered. “I loved you and it almost killed me. I bled for you, because you keep your useless thorns. You grow your thorns just for spite. And it almost killed me!”

Taeyong is frozen, and he watches as Yukhei shoves the flower in his mouth, swallowing it whole. The little planet is still once more; the sun has begun to dip far below the horizon, now, and it paints the landscape a deep scarlet. The wind still blows, and Taeyong shivers. 

“Yukhei?” he asks.

Yukhei turns to him, but then pain contorts his features, and he lurches off the chair onto the ground on his hands and knees, coughing. He coughs so hard he begins to retch, and little drops of blood spray against the ground in front of him.

Taeyong crouches beside him, feeling panic rise in his chest. “Yukhei!” But, just like before, there’s nothing he can do to help him. Yukhei heaves, drawing in rattling breaths, his giant, strong frame suddenly seeming so small and frail. The blood flows more heavily now, and then the flowers come, dozens and dozens of roses, stems and all, thorns streaked a dark red. They erupt from his throat and scatter around their hands, but he doesn’t stop. There’s ringing in Taeyong’s ears and he realizes distantly that he’s crying.

“Yukhei, just breathe. It’s okay, you’ll be okay,” he repeats over and over. He rubs his back, flinching as another round of flowers come up, trailing blood that glints in the fading light.

And then, it all stops. Taeyong looks up at his face, and then falls backwards, seeing Johnny’s eyes staring back at him. He looks around desperately, but the flowers and the blood are all gone. 

Johnny reaches out and swipes a tear from Taeyong’s cheek. “Will you forgive me?” he asks, soft. 

“Forgive you for what?” Taeyong asks.

“I have been silly…” Taeyong’s senses fade in and out, and he feels anxious tightness gather in his chest. Johnny’s voice pitches and distorts as Taeyong’s vision goes out of focus. “I ask your forgiveness…”

The last thing he sees is a red rose, so close to his eyes that it blocks out the light of the sun.

He lurches upright in bed, gasping and coughing. His room is dark, but he can see slivers of light squeezing in around his curtains. He coughs again, the sound deep and booming in his lungs. He hopes Eunyong isn’t home. Shaking, he throws the covers off, and tries to get out of bed. But his body is being wracked by the horrible coughs, and he slips and falls to the floor with a crash. He in a breath, but it’s like trying to drink a smoothie through a thin straw; the small amount of air he captures nearly whistles on its journey to his lungs.

Red petals spill into his hand, wet and sticky from his spit, clumped to one another. They keep coming, overflowing from his palms to the floor, and he hears feet thundering up the stairs. His breathing slows and evens, and he blinks his eyes open, vision blurry from his tears.

“Oh my god, Taeyong!” It’s Eunyong, and she’s standing, frozen in horror, at the top of the stairs, hand that’s gripping the railing white.

“Can you—can you get the light?” he asks, voice hoarse. “I need to check.”

Despite her shock, she does as he asks, reaching over to the wall and flipping the light switch. Taeyong’s eyes burn from the sudden brightness, but he blinks it away, sifting through the pile of flowers in front of him, and then breathes out a sigh of relief.

“Taeyong, what’s going on?” Eunyong’s voice is tight with fear.

“It’s okay,” Taeyong says. “It’s not blood. It’s just red camellias.”

“Red c—Taeyong!” Eunyong hurries to his side, brushing some hair from his eyes. “Oh, Taeyong,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “Let’s clean this up, hmm?”

Taeyong nods, letting her pull him to his feet and guide him back to his bed. He sits and watches as she sweeps up the petals and throws them in the trash, and then brings him a damp washcloth to clean his face with. He presses the cool fabric to his cheek and she sits down beside him and rests her head against his shoulder.

“You can’t tell Mom and Dad,” Taeyong says. “Not yet. I don’t want them to worry when—when there’s nothing they can do.”

“I understand,” Eunyong murmurs. 

They’re quiet for a moment. Taeyong feels more tears gather behind his eyes. 

“It’s Johnny,” he says softly. “I love him.”

Eunyong lets out a short sigh. “You stupid, stupid boy,” she says. “And you’re just going to die for him?”

“I don’t have any other choice,” Taeyong says, feeling hot tears spill over and roll down his cheeks. “I love him.”

“Oh, Taeyong,” Eunyong says again, sitting up and gathering him in her arms. Taeyong sobs into her shoulder, and she rubs soothing circles into his back. “I know. You’ve loved him since you were little. He wouldn’t want this. He loves you, too, you know.”

“Not like this,” Taeyong says. “Not like how I want him too.”

Eunyong hums in acknowledgment, and rocks him a little, lets him cry until he’s worn himself out. The sun is coming more insistently through the gaps of his blinds. Reluctantly, he pulls away.

“What time is it?”

“It’s almost noon,” Eunyong replies. “I want to say I’m glad you were able to sleep well, but I don’t think that was the case.”

“No,” Taeyong admits.

“He doesn’t deserve you,” Eunyong says. “Red camellia. You love him so much. That kind of love is hard to find.” She gives him a sad look. “You’ve always been like that, though. Heart a million sizes too big for your body. Love the size of a building and nowhere to put it. It’s what I love the most about you.”

Taeyong smiles in spite of his tears. “Thanks, I think.”

“So.” She stands, and offers him her hand. “No blood. How long, do you think, until there is blood?”

“Um,” Taeyong says. “I’m expecting it in a couple weeks, probably.”

“Oh. When did it start?” She tugs him along, and they carefully make their way down the stairs.

“Right at the end of May, beginning of June. Around when Johnny came back,” Taeyong tells her. “The flowers, they keep changing.”

“You’re lucky, then,” Eunyong observes. “Usually it takes over much quicker, when the flowers are always changing.”

“I know,” Taeyong says. “I expected to be a lot worse by now, but… for some reason, I’m still here.”

“I was wondering what the was going on with you. Mom said she was worried you were relapsing, except none of it was adding up—like, you’re eating normally, and you don’t seem like you’re throwing up after every meal.” Eunyong gives him a look as she lights the fire under the kettle. “It makes sense now.”

“I hate that it’s worrying her so much,” Taeyong says. “But I think it’s better this way, for now.”

“Mm,” Eunyong says. “No, I agree. And I think it should be you who tells them, anyway. Don’t wait too long, though. I think the longer you wait, the scarier it will be.”

“Yeah.” Taeyong seats himself at the table.

“You still up for picking Johnny up at the airport tomorrow? We can always ask one of the others to go. I’m sure Jaehyun wouldn’t mind.”

“Of course I still want to go,” Taeyong says firmly. “Besides, Jaehyun probably needs to stay on his farm if he’s going to make it to Mark’s birthday party.”

“Okay.” Eunyong sits across from him, passing him a coffee. “Well, for now, then, let’s head over to the bakery to see if they need anything. Mrs. Seo said she’d make us lunch if we helped clean up Johnny’s room upstairs.” She laughs. “He’s only been gone for a month, and she’s acting like years worth of dust has settled over everything. Still,” she continues. “I think it’ll be nice if we can tidy up a little, maybe bring over some flowers. Sound good?”

“Yeah,” Taeyong agrees, blowing on his coffee to cool it before taking a sip. “Sounds good.”

Eunyong takes his free hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. “Hey,” she says. “This , yeah? But all of us are simply doing what we can with the hand we were dealt. Some hands are a lot worse than others. But that doesn’t mean every day has to be garbage. Right? The world has some good in store for you yet.”

“I’d like to believe that,” Taeyong says, squeezing back. “Thank you.”

“Now come on. The Seo’s food is waiting for us, and I’m starving!” Eunyong says it with a laugh, and Taeyong finds himself laughing, too.