Chapter Text
Writing lyrics about leaves tasting like ash feels too obvious, Hanbin decides, attempting to brush the taste of lilacs out of his mouth. He can't help but sigh heavily, thinking bitterly about how much stock in dental hygiene products he's going to have to buy to find any semblance of a silver lining in all this. He makes a mental note: Buy a book on that dumb flower language.
He tries to hate Bobby, tries to convince himself this is temporary. But the time for temporary has long-since passed him by, he realizes as he stares down at a picture of purple lilacs in his new floriography book. Lilacs, it reads in fancy script, the First Emotions of Love. The wall behind him provides a brief respite to his misery--the sound of his head bouncing off the surface making a particularly catchy hook for a new song.
There's a brief moment when he thinks about considering telling Jinhwan the position he's in, the disease he's suddenly been cursed with. And maybe that's the key, he comforts himself, lyrics about a curse or a fairytale? The rushed notes he scribbles into his notebook are incomplete, incoherent, nothing more than spilled ink, but it helps. The clouds in his head are starting to clear, the air doesn't seem so thick, so he fishes the small stem of lilac off the top of his garbage can.
The imagery isn't lost on him. Chuckling darkly, he looks down on the stack of three books on his desk. A thin novel he never bothered to open, a piece of white paper piled gently upon it, followed by the lilac bunch, more paper, and the two largest books he owns. Just compress the flowers down into fucking dust, Hanbin, he thinks to himself, just crush it all down like you usually do.
His book on floriography has become a sort of security blanket for him, never getting too far out of reach. After hours of prodding from the other members he pretends to crack, telling them he's been wanting to take up floral arranging. Its not the answer the group has been expecting, he can tell, but it'll buy him some breathing (or in his case, coughing) room for the foreseeable future. The lilacs appear once a day every three days for about four months. The color purple is starting to make him nauseous.
The first time he retches up a stem of Acacia his hands tremble as he flips through his book. His throat hurts, Acacia blossoms aren't the most esophagus-friendly shape, compounded by the tightening of his windpipe as he reads the delicate cursive under the full Latin name, Concealed, Secret Love. His handwriting in his notebook is careless, he'll barely be able to read it later, a helpless rage flowing out of the pen instead of ink. He grips the flower stem so hard it snaps in half, the tiniest voice from the edge of his consciousness is jealous. It's swallowed down into silence as he tries to research how to make his flower pressing more efficient.
If you asked the other members, they couldn't pinpoint when Hanbin starts compulsively chewing cinnamon gum. Hanbin cant bring himself to admit that the burn of spice always tastes better than bitter greenery perpetually stuck between his teeth. Some of the flowers taste better than others, he realizes the day he chokes out a Daffodil, Pink Camellia and Red Chrysanthemum within a 12 hour block. Daffodils are the most insulting flowers, he decides, but they tasted better than the other two. As he slides the large yellow bloom into a vase he's been adorning all week in the corner of his room, he hears the small footfalls of another member entering his room.
"Here I was ready to beat you up for smoking," Jinhwan says. Hanbin wishes his problem was cigarettes.
"How long has this been going on," He asks, stepping further into the room. Hanbin can't help but sigh shakily.
"About a year, more or less," Hanbin replies, staring at the bouquet he made this week.
He can hear the question Jinhwan is about to ask before he asks it, "Why didn't you tell me?"
Hanbin glances over his shoulder guiltily, shrugging pitifully as he responds, "I didn't want you to worry. You have enough to worry about right now."
"You're so stupid sometimes, you know that," Jinhwan asks, a distinct watery tremble dripping off his words. "People have died from this Hanbin."
The younger can't help but whirl around, hurt Jinhwan would even jump that far ahead. "What do you expect me to do, Jinhwan? I can't condemn someone to loving me just so I won't die. That's not fair to them. I'll figure something out."
"Hanbin--" Jaehwan starts, cutting himself off, "You don't have to hold up the world by yourself. I can help you, you know? I can help you flirt with this person, I know you need the help."
The laughter they share is warm in Hanbin's throat, a comforting softness after the surprising harshness of leaves. It dies in his throat just as fast as the blooms tend to appear, his next words tasting bitter in his mouth. "I don't know if you can help me on this one."
Turning back to the vase, Hanbin can't help but sniffle, feeling more pitiful now that someone else knows the position he's in. He hasn't even told his mom. "Only one person can help and that's the problem."
Even though Jinhwan is smaller than Hanbin, the feel of a hug wrapped around Hanbin's back is enough to tip him over the edge. Somewhere between all his sobs, he chokes out a small Peony blossom. Suddenly his situation feels more sinister than ever. Later that night he finds his lyrics about curses and bangs his head against the wall until a rhythm appears.
To his credit, Jinhwan doesn't immediately press for answers about who Hanbin's pining after. He's stolen the floriography more times than Hanbin can count, trying to collect data about every bud Hanbin wheezes out of his body, who he talked to that day, what each flower means. The day he ejects tens of White Carnation petals off their balcony is the day Jinhwan can't play it cool any longer.
"I've been trying to keep my distance for months but you aren't getting better," he exclaims, shutting the sliding door behind them, "In fact, I think you're getting worse. Tell me who it is."
Hunched over the railing, Hanbin shakes his head, wheezes out a pitiful, "No," as another white petal falls out of his mouth.
"It's worth a shot to talk to them about this! You never know what might happen."
More head shaking.
"There's too much at stake, Jinhwan," Hanbin says, finally looking up at him. And he knows he looks pitiful--hunched over their balcony, hurling petals into the wind over some boy who doesn't love him back--but he can't bring himself to cross that bridge yet. As soon as Hanbin says their name out loud, its all real. At least this way he can pretend he's in some nightmarish hellscape and not reality.
"I'll get some hot water started for tea," Jinhwan says after a comfortable silence hangs in the air so long it becomes uncomfortable. As he leaves the younger on the balcony, Hanbin can't help but think cruelly, Maybe I'll cough up some hibiscus, make some tea out of that.
Jinhwan figures it out about two months after that, when Bobby is off on a solo schedule for several days and Hanbin feigns a stomach bug to conceal his almost-non-stop parade of Pink Camellia petals. The oldest member volunteers to take care of Hanbin, shooing the younger members out of the dorm, some lies thrown out about quarantining the virus. After an hour of talking to Hanbin, he finally gags around a full Pink Camellia blossom, the hopeful rosiness laughing at him as he throws it across the room.
"He's only going to be gone a few days, you know. He'll be back before you know it."
He's trying to be helpful, Hanbin knows this much, but the fact that he's been found out makes him want to melt into the paint on the walls.
"Do you think the others know what's going on," Hanbin asks pathetically, curled up in a ball on his bed. Jinhwan offers a dismissive grunt.
"They think you're sick with the flu. If this keeps up though, they might start to notice. They're goofballs, not brainless."
Miserably, Hanbin offers a nod, acknowledging the older member. The weight of the conversation hanging precariously in the air like a baby's mobile--arms holding other arms holding trinkets waving through the air as they're held up by a single string. Hanbin raises his head to finally look at Jinhwan and suddenly isn't sure when his room became filled with so many dried daffodils.
The next few months feel like tissue paper to Hanbin. His conversations with Bobby are flimsy, he's feeling too much pressure to 'woo' him to be natural. The other members were sure to pick up on how strange Hanbin was being, and they did. He has to pretend he picked up smoking just to get peace on the balcony while he retches up Myrtle, after Violets, after Daffodils. Sometimes he lights a cigarette to smell anything that's not pollen or flora. They've been leaving him mostly alone by the railing to let the petals tumble out of his mouth as he pleases.
Studio work proves to be the most excellent excuse to get out of the dorm and out of prying eyes. He's been the most productive he's felt in months, latching on the opportunity to wallow in self-pity for profit. It's not until he has a whole mini album's worth of flower-themed songs that the cold fist of Dread punches him in the stomach. You're in deep, dumbass.
Bobby doesn't make it any easier on Hanbin, but isn't that why he fell in love in the first place? Stopping by the studio late at night to drop off a meal or coffee, practically demanding Hanbin unloads some of his burdens onto him, offering to do his chores around the dorm. One evening after a particularly long cold walk back to the dorm, he found Bobby waiting outside the bathroom for him, long past the time everyone else had gone to sleep. Suddenly, warm pajamas were thrust into his arms, Bobby's only explanation being, "you looked cold when you came in, so I put your pajamas in the dryer for a few minutes while you were in the shower."
He coughed up Lilacs all over again, bunches and bunches of Purple Lilacs. They were so beautiful and delicate he almost felt guilty throwing them off the edge of the building. Almost.