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Junhui leans against the wall, waiting for the elevator to open. The surgeon shuts his eyes tightly for a second before opening them again, feeling a wave of temporary comfort engulfing his heavy eyes. Repeating the move, Junhui thinks back about how he gets into this situation. Oh, yeah, now he remembers.

Jeonghan, his dear hyung, had asked Junhui to pay a visit to Jeonghan’s VIP patient because he can’t do it himself. Yoon Jeonghan is a famous psychiatrist as much as Wen Junhui is a famous cardiac surgeon, so it’s not a surprise that his presence is sought after by many. Right now, Jeonghan just got an emergency call that requires him to go to another hospital as soon as possible.

Duty calls, Jeonghan had said. Junhui mentally scoffs at that. Jeonghan’s VIP patient is also the psychiatrist’s duty, right? And doesn’t that duty also call for Jeonghan’s presence as well? Absolutely the frick yes, but what can Junhui do? His saintly Junhui has agreed to do Jeonghan this favor, ignoring the sensible Junhui that was screaming to get some rest after another successful eight-hour open-heart surgery.

It’s just a simple visit, Junhui reminds himself. Just tell the patient that Jeonghan is unable to come, and that the psychiatrist had asked Junhui, a freaking cardiac surgeon who absolutely has nothing to do in the Psychiatry department, to pass the message to the patient because Junhui just happened to be the one that Jeonghan spotted at the time. No big deal.

A soft ding snaps Junhui back from his reverie. He steps into the elevator and, finding himself the only one who uses the vertical transportation, lets his mind wander again. If he remembers correctly, Jeonghan had provided a few background information on the VIP patient.

He is a Chinese man who moved to South Korea years ago. Recently, he got into a fatal car accident that damaged his heart. He survived, though. It’s a weird miracle, if I may say, and it baffled even the most experienced doctors. His heart just suddenly got better, but sadly, he is still dealing with the trauma. That’s why I’m doing my best to help him recover. Oh, and he’s hot!

Junhui groans at the last bit of information. Schooling his mind, he vaguely remembers the unexplainable case of a damaged-heart recovery that once baffled the medical world of South Korea. He was still a newbie surgeon at that time, so he didn’t really pay attention to the news. Well, now he’s going to meet the very patient that is related with the case. Who knows that the patient is now under the care of his friend? Such a small world.

The ding of the elevator, once again, returns Junhui’s mind to the real world. He really should tone down his tendency to let his mind wander.

#

“So you were saying that you got into a car accident on your way to a coffee shop not far from your house?” Junhui inquires.

“Yeah,” a beautiful voice responds, followed by a laugh that twinkles like the clearest of bells.

Junhui falls silent, his entire system stunned. It takes a solid three seconds for the surgeon to be able to form a sensible, respectable response: “Wow, so much for a cup of coffee.”

Or maybe not. Nevertheless, Junhui considers his response acceptable enough, if the genuine laugh coming from the other man—who has soft tufts of dark hair, a perfect masterpiece of a face, and the most beautiful pair of eyes Junhui has ever seen—in front of him is enough proof of that. For some odd reason, the fact that Junhui can elicit a laugh from the man sends a weird, cool feeling all over his body.

Junhui has found him in the hospital garden. The man’s room is connected with said garden so he can walk there freely whenever he feels like it. Right now, Junhui and the patient are sitting at the porch adjacent to the patient’s room, overlooking the garden. The view is indeed breathtaking. Rows and rows of fragrant, colorful flowers lined the garden against the equally-pleasing background that consists of trees with lush, green leaves that seem to glow under the sunlight.

“The accident was fatal, so they say,” the man chirps, his eyes radiating warmth and openness that mesmerize Junhui. “It’s a miracle that I survived.”

Junhui’s brows furrow. “But you were in a coma for a month.”

The man nods. “That’s what I mean by miracle. I might never wake up, you know.”

Junhui hums an agreement. Well, life has been a roller coaster ride for this man in front of him. Junhui is told that the man is the sole heir of a famous corporation. His father is insanely rich—hence his treatment, best doctors and all. But what worth does all that money have if he leaves the world much too soon? Junhui shudders at the thought.

“And now you’re only staying here because you still have to deal with the trauma?” Junhui asks.

At that, the man’s smile falters. Junhui mentally panics, but he doesn’t get the chance to say something to salvage the moment, because the man in front of him beats him to it.

“Yes,” the man nods, his eyes trained on the rows of yellow-colored flowers not far from them. “Jeonghan-hyung is a nice person. He always makes sure that I’m okay. I think he prioritizes me too much.”

“Well, except today,” Junhui adds, yet his tone indicates no hostility.

The man in front of him lets out a laugh. “Can’t blame him. He’s one of the best. I think I will tell him to get more rest.”

Junhui blinks. Is that a saint he heard?

“Oh, you’re also one of the best. You and Jeonghan-hyung are both the best in your respective fields,” the man hurriedly adds, his bright smile replaced with a nervous one. “You should also get more rest.”

That is definitely a saint he heard. Junhui is not offended, of course, but he is too overwhelmed that he doesn’t correct the man, who mistook Junhui’s silence as something else entirely. A second-too-late later, seeing the man still struggling with nervousness, Junhui regrets not correcting him. He has to make the situation better, somehow, because he just found out that very second that he very much prefers the man smiling.

Junhui’s gaze softened. He stares at the fidgeting figure in front of him for a second before asking, “So, you like coffee?”

The man’s face brightens up almost immediately. He nods furiously.

And that’s how Junhui met Xu Minghao, the future love of his life.

#

Two months have passed since Junhui first met Minghao, and Junhui finds himself visiting to the younger man often—a fact that doesn’t bother him. He feels happy, in fact, to be able to see Minghao almost every day whenever Junhui has time to spare.

Today is one of those rare days where Junhui doesn’t really have anything to do in his schedule. After making sure he had finished everything that has to be done, Junhui heads straight for Minghao’s room, generously flashing his charming, knee-buckling smile to everyone he passes on his way.

With a cup of pumpkin spice latte—Minghao’s favorite—in one hand, he gently knocks with his other hand, waiting for Minghao to let him enter.

When he enters, Junhui is mildly alarmed to see Minghao sitting cross-legged on the floor in a thin sweater and a pair of sweatpants, with a few sheets of papers and small crumpled ones scattered around the younger. It is very cold nowadays due to the winter, and it’s a sure thing that the hospital floor is heavily affected.

Junhui places the cup on a small table before crouching gently beside Minghao. Sensing Junhui’s presence, Minghao looks up from the semi-folded paper in his hands and his face brightens up.

Junhui smiles at that. “Minghao, why are you sitting on the floor?” he touches the elder’s shoulder. “It’s cold. Use the couch or the bed.”

“It’s okay,” Minghao replies, turning his attention back to the paper. “I’m a strong man.”

Chuckling, Junhui sits down on the floor beside Minghao, and proceeds to watch in fascination as Minghao’s fingers carefully fold the paper. After a while, Junhui scans the scattered pieces of paper around Minghao. Upon closer inspection, Junhui finds that the seemingly-crumpled papers are, in fact, paper stars—and that they are not ‘crumpled’ at all, but folded with extreme care that there are no unwanted creases.

“Look, Junhui,” Minghao’s cheerful voice reaches Junhui’s ears. The younger man shows a finished paper star in his palm. “I’m making paper stars,” Minghao says again with a small giggle.

Junhui is a famous cardiac surgeon, which means he’s used to handle touch-with-extreme-care things such as heart muscles and arteries. Yet when Minghao presents the small paper star on the palm of his hand, Junhui is suddenly gripped with dread, afraid that he will break the star. The surgeon takes it with extreme caution, as if the small star is a hundred times more fragile than the nerves of a beating heart.

“Have you ever heard about the old myth about paper stars?” Minghao begins, his eyes wide with excitement. Junhui turns his attention to Minghao.

“No, I guess,” the surgeon replies, shaking his head.

Minghao’s eyes lighten up. “It says that if you manage to make one thousand stars made of golden paper, you can trade them for one wish. And the wish will come true no matter what! How cool is that?”

And Minghao flashes a smile so blinding that it spreads something warm in Junhui’s chest, which in turn sends warmth creeping up his cheeks. The surgeon is in the middle of distracting himself from the man in front of him—who has such huge effects on Junhui—when he hears Minghao clasps his hands.

“Oh! And what do you think about my paper stars?” Minghao asks, cocking his head to the side in a way that makes Junhui melt. “I know I lack experience but I want to know what you think.”

Junhui looks up and is met with one of Minghao’s brightest smiles.

“It’s beautiful, Minghao,” Junhui smiles back.

Just like you.

#

It is not until a month later that Junhui starts to notice how he will consciously look for time—five minutes will do—to visit Minghao even though his schedule is utterly hellish, how he starts to take note of every little thing that Minghao does, or how his stomach just flips every time Minghao smiles.

It is not until a week after that month later that Junhui finally realizes one thing: that he has fallen hopelessly in love with Xu Minghao.

And it takes another one week for Junhui to finally, finally be able to confess to Minghao. The confession is simple and to the point, almost sweet, with some—a lot of—nervous fidgeting that mainly comes from Junhui. Even in the middle of his confession, Junhui can’t help but berating himself for taking so long to tell Minghao about his feelings. Jeonghan had said in the same morning earlier that Minghao is coping well with the trauma and that Minghao will be ready to go home soon. The knowledge that Minghao is about to go home in a very near future is the final push that gives Junhui his overdue boost of courage (reluctantly and indirectly thanks to Jeonghan the information giver).

Yet despite the long time that it took to lead to the moment, it only takes a solid one second for Minghao to accept Junhui’s declaration—and it takes another second for Junhui to pull Minghao into his arms.

#

“So, you’re planning to plant a red rosebush in the yard?”

Junhui nods with a tight smile, his chin gently hitting the boxes stacked in his arms. The man beside him, Hong Jisoo, only hums a friendly acknowledgement.

“Sure, I’ll help. And your secret’s safe with me,” Jisoo adds with a slight chuckle, adjusting his own stack of boxes in his arms. Junhui’s smile widens.

Currently, Junhui is helping Minghao’s friends preparing for Minghao’s coming home. Jeonghan had informed that Minghao are going to go home after another two weeks just to make sure that Minghao is one hundred per cent well.

Minghao’s friends were beyond ecstatic when they heard the news. It was when they visited Minghao after the news that they were first introduced to Junhui—Minghao’s boyfriend. This news only increased their euphoria, with every single one of them congratulating Minghao for finding an extremely eligible man to settle down with after Minghao’s countless flings in the past. Briefly wondering that apparently there was a side of Minghao that he hadn’t known about, Junhui had decided to ignore the dull pain poking at his chest, reminding himself that he and Minghao must live in the now.

Surprisingly, Junhui didn’t find any difficulty to slide into Minghao’s circle of friends. Despite those people’s social status, they are very friendly and welcoming, discarding any high-class manners and turning to normal, hyped people whenever they are around Minghao and Junhui. Junhui can tell they are trying hard to make Junhui comfortable around them. And comfortable Junhui is, indeed, to the point that he instantly agreed when Seokmin, with that contagious smile of his, asked Junhui to tag along to clean Minghao’s favorite recreation house—the one that Minghao will spend his recovery days at.

Speaking of the house, Junhui had visited the house before with Seokmin and Jisoo and was surprised when he saw that the house is luxurious yet minimalistic, with a spacious yard in front of it. It was during this first visit that Junhui couldn’t help but notice that there is a pleasant, almost loving atmosphere that lingers inside the house, yet there is also a hint of sadness that is almost tragic.

When asked about the history of the house, Jisoo only replied that the house is one of the Xu family’s many recreation houses. Minghao owns the house and it is his favorite, but he never lived in the house before; a fact which puzzled Junhui since he was sure that the house certainly doesn’t have that no-one-has-ever-lived-in-it feeling. When Jisoo was explaining, however, Junhui caught the slightest change in Seokmin’s cheerful expression. The change was very subtle, but Junhui could’ve sworn that there was a flash of sadness in the man’s face.

Back to the present, Jisoo and Seungkwan has agreed to help Junhui plant a rosebush in the mostly-empty yard. Junhui knows that Minghao loves roses, and in doing so, he hopes that it can be a nice surprise for the younger man. When asked what kind of roses he is planning to plant, Junhui settles for red roses.

“Junhui, can you get another set of gloves from the gardening box near the guest’s bathroom, please? I just got back from cleaning the living room and I want to help you guys but I forgot to take the gloves with me.”

Seungkwan’s voice snaps Junhui back to the present. Junhui quickly nods and heads inside the house, leaving the smiling Seungkwan and Jisoo, who is currently digging a patch of soil with a shovel.

Since he was the one that placed the gardening box, Junhui finds the box and the gloves in no time. When he is walking down the small hallway that leads to the front door, his steps are stopped when he heard a conversation coming from one of the two guest rooms. The door is slightly ajar, and Junhui tiptoes nearer.

“—nyoung. I don’t know, Seokmin. Everyone seems to believe that Junhui is the one for our Hao.”

Junhui swallows at the slight disbelief in the speaker’s voice. He is being doubted, it seems.

“Don’t be like that, Jihoonie. Just…”

Junhui furrows his brows, itching to hear the rest of Seokmin’s sentence.

“Just… just give him a chance, okay?”

Junhui hears Jihoon’s incredulous snort.

“He won’t be around for long, I tell you that.”

“But Hao seems very happy with Junhui, Jihoonie. And Hao is lucky to have Junhui. I can also see that Junhui loves Hao to bits.”

Junhui’s lips twitch into a smirk. Damn right Junhui is!

“Happy? You know exactly how happy I want Hao to be, Seokmin.”

“Jihoonie–”

“We know he was the happiest–”

“Jihoon, please.”

The crack in Seokmin’s voice shocks Junhui more than anything. His hands clutch the gloves tightly, waves of anticipation washing over him.

There is silence for a while before Junhui hears Jihoon’s voice.

“I just…” Jihoon’s voice is small and filled with uncertainty, so different from barely a minute ago where he was practically spitting disbelief and a little bit of contempt.

“It’s heavy, yeah?” Seokmin lets out a pained, humorless laugh.

“I’m glad I’m not the only one,” there is a smile mingled with sadness in Jihoon’s voice.

“Just give Junhui a chance. We have to,” Seokmin says, the last three words soft and pained.

“Alright,” Jihoon responds weakly. “Anyway, where do you leave the hammer? I have to replace this nail.”

“I think I left it in the gardening box. Let me take a look.”

Junhui has never sprinted so fast in his life. When he reaches the yard, he is met with Seungkwan’s concerned glance and an ‘are you okay?’ from Jisoo. Junhui quickly flashes a reassuring smile, along with a lie that he tripped over the boxes and kissed the floor back there. Jisoo and Seungkwan make sure that Junhui is alright before all three of them go and occupy themselves with some rose-planting.

All through the task, Junhui’s mind plays Jihoon and Seokmin’s conversation over and over again.

He won’t be around for long, I tell you that.

Right then and there, Junhui is determined that he will prove Jihoon wrong, and that Junhui will always be with Minghao.

#

“Junhui, would you like to accompany me in the house?”

“Of course, Minghao, for as long as you like.”

Minghao’s blooming smile is Junhui’s ultimate reward. In the back of Junhui’s mind, he is already thinking about the size of Minghao’s ring finger.

And what kind of ring would be the most perfect wrapped around it.

And what time would be the most perfect for it to happen.

#

Junhui is a man of his words. Despite his tight schedule, Junhui manages. He pushes himself, giving his all in taking care of the man he deeply loves. He calms Minghao every time the other man gets a nightmare or panic attacks, accompanies and supports Minghao whenever the latter undergoes a therapy session with the ever so understanding Jeonghan, and even takes Minghao out for simple dates, promising that there will be more expensive dates once Minghao fully recovers. They go through their days like that together, falling more and more in love with each other.

Seeing Minghao with that bright smile of his, Junhui is sure that no one will be able to love Minghao like he does.

And this is exactly how it is, only two months after they moved together, in a cold morning, with grey sky arching above him, that Minghao enters the vicinity of the yard from his morning stroll, past the glorious red roses Junhui had planted for him, and finds his beautiful eyes suddenly fixed on a small patch of dead roses.

#

Junhui watches Minghao from where he is standing.

The dead roses came with the house, and Junhui wonders how come he didn’t see them before. At a glance they don’t look like roses at all, with their browned canes nothing more than dry sticks jutting out from the ground.

It has been three days since Minghao first spotted the dead flowers. The younger man had asked Junhui about it after Junhui returned from the hospital. Their conversation ended with Junhui shrugging his shoulders and truthfully replied that he never noticed them before. Minghao had stared at Junhui after that, before his eyes looked down to some spot on the floor, with an unreadable expression on his face.

Junhui had wondered what went through Minghao’s mind back then, especially after Junhui found Minghao standing rigidly over the patch the very next morning, with eyes dark and swirling as he studied the dead sticks. His expression was uncharacteristically hard and unreadable—almost the same as when Junhui told him he had never seen the roses the night before. Junhui didn’t call Minghao. He couldn’t. Minghao’s jaws were too clenched and the furrow of his brows was too deep.

The next day—which is today—Junhui had woken up ten minutes before his alarm went off earlier in the morning. He was overcome with annoyance until he found that Minghao’s side of the bed was empty. Junhui practically jumped off the bed, sleep quickly dissipating from his eyes. He ran all over the house, seized with panic until he spotted a lanky figure that was unmistakably Minghao crouching in the yard.

And that leads to Junhui’s current state; standing shirtless in the cold morning air, with only a pair of sweatpants, watching as his boyfriend occupies himself with tending the roses.

Junhui continues to stare, his tongue somehow tied. Apparently, his boyfriend has been awake not long ago, judging from the way that Minghao’s hair is still messy. He is wearing a ragged pair of faded jeans, with a black shirt covering his upper body. His hands are deft, turning the earth with a spade and pulling out unwanted weeds.

Junhui snaps himself from his staring and goes back inside the house. After shrugging himself into his white sweater, he grabs Minghao’s black one and a pair of gloves. He heads out and finds Minghao in the same position. Junhui walks towards his boyfriend, noticing Minghao’s determined face as he draws nearer.

“Hao,” Junhui calls as soon as he arrives beside Minghao. The called man looks up, his face somehow paler, harsher.

“Junhui,” Minghao forces a smile. Junhui ignores the weird feeling gnawing inside him at the sight.

Junhui crouches down and touches Minghao’s arm tentatively before showing the black sweater. “Wear this. It’s cold, Hao.”

Minghao’s eyes flicker to the sweater, then meets Junhui’s gaze. The harshness in his expression melts away and Junhui finally finds the usual Minghao—the Minghao that Junhui knows.

Minghao smiles his usual smile before he stands up and puts on the sweater, mumbling a quiet ‘thanks, love’ that still reaches Junhui’s ears. Junhui tries offering the gloves afterwards, but Minghao declines, saying that he wants to tend the roses with his bare hands. Junhui slightly furrows his brows at this.

Minghao resumes his crouching position. After a while, Junhui stands up, opting to observe his boyfriend from that position.

Junhui can’t shake the melancholy that is beginning to build in his chest as he watches Minghao in the middle of forcing himself in his attempts to resurrect the dead flowers as though Minghao’s life depends on it.

One particular gesture is stuck with Junhui; the gesture where Minghao moves his long fingers over the flowers’ broken shafts with such tenderness it is almost holy.

It scares Junhui, for although he knows that Minghao likes everything beautiful, Junhui has never thought that Minghao would even look for beauty in something that will never return.

Why does he do that? Junhui thinks. He’s only going to hurt himself.

And Junhui is mildly terrified of his own prediction as Minghao enters the room later on after the sun is high in the sky, with a small contented smile on his face and countless red cuts on his hands.

#

There is no change in Minghao’s new-found dedication to the dead plants. Junhui had woken up Minghao-less for three days straight after that morning; a situation that always ended up with Junhui finding Minghao crouching over the patch and tending to the roses.

Junhui has spent times accompanying Minghao during the latter’s little gardening for the past three days, and not once did Junhui find Minghao with a relaxed expression when the younger is at it. It is always the same hard expression, as if it would kill Minghao if the roses don’t come back. Junhui finds the intensity of Minghao’s dedication frightening.

And here he is, crouching beside Minghao in silence, eyes darting between the dead roses and Minghao’s face. There is this gnawing curiosity inside Junhui, and the longer it’s unspoken, the bigger it gets.

“Why are you so earnest?”

The question seems to shock Minghao, as he suddenly turns to Junhui with a slight alarm. Junhui panics for a while before he sees Minghao relaxing. The corners of Minghao’s lips tug into a smile as he averts his gaze from Junhui. The surgeon watches as Minghao looks at the dead roses with a gaze so gentle it hurts.

“They will bloom as white roses.”

And that’s it. Junhui doesn’t push further, his tongue somehow turning to lead at the sight of unexplainable tenderness in Minghao’s eyes as the man gazes at the dead roses.

Junhui doesn’t move from his spot, especially after his eyes caught a flash of color made by a small unfurling leaf emerging from one of the browned sticks.

#

If one is to observe how Junhui is feeling, to say that Junhui is bothered seems like a bad conclusion.

It seems that Junhui is not the only one who saw the green shoot. The mere finding of the sprout appears to fuel Minghao’s dedication to the extent that it borders on obsession. Junhui had shuddered when he saw something ignited in Minghao’s eyes as the man went into a state of ballistic euphoria after he spotted the green sprout.

Minghao’s love for the roses only grows after he is sure the roses are beginning to thrive—a fact that Junhui is not too keen to support. Once Minghao even panicked when the rain poured, unable to sleep thinking about the roses until Junhui calmed him down. Early the next morning, he ran out and was visibly relieved when he saw the roses were okay. He would have skipped breakfast to tend the roses if Junhui didn’t force him to eat.

It is all very worrying, and to add to Junhui’s already-there dread, he is finding himself getting increasingly jealous of Minghao’s attention to the roses. He feels that Minghao doesn’t even love Junhui’s red roses as much as he loves the dead roses, which are now very much alive.

That is why, anyone who says that Junhui is bothered must be insane.

Right now, Junhui is beyond unsettled.

#

“What are you doing, Minghao?” Jeonghan asks, his voice soft and curious.

Jeonghan and Jihoon have come to visit. They have found Minghao bent over the patch of the formerly-dead roses when they arrived. Junhui could see the surprise in Jeonghan’s face when he saw Minghao like that, yet Junhui was slightly taken aback at the way Jihoon’s face gave a slight drop in its expression, with Jihoon’s gaze overcame with something unreadable yet unmistakably sad.

“Just tending to these roses,” Minghao’s cheerful voice echoed through Junhui’s ears.

“I’m sure roses are beautiful, Hao,” Jeonghan remarks, and his smile drops just the slightest. “It’s a pity they’re dead.”

At this, Minghao’s eyes darkened. Junhui notices with dread pooling in his stomach, and one glance at Jihoon confirms that the shorter man has noticed too and is now going through the same feeling.

“They are white roses,” Minghao says, a dangerous sharpness lining his voice. His jaws hardened when he adds, “and they will bloom.”

“How do you know?” Jihoon’s voice rang boldly, albeit with a certain caution.

Instead of replying, Minghao just smiles to himself, the darkness in his eyes suddenly gone. He bends back to stroke the sprouting buds, and Jeonghan’s face softens at the sight.

“The white roses will surely be beautiful, Minghao,” he says with a genuine supportive smile.

Junhui’s heart clenches at the sight of Minghao’s proud face, yet what surprises him is the fact that Jihoon’s head moves in one sure, uncharacteristic nod at Jeonghan’s statement.

#

Junhui freezes. His eyes are now locked with a pair of stormy eyes darkened with pure rage. If looks could kill, Junhui would be no bigger than the smallest of particles right now due to being blasted away by the look of sheer anger radiating from Minghao’s eyes.

Everything has exploded, courtesy of Seungkwan’s good intention.

The hyper man had dropped by for a visit earlier in the evening with Seokmin, finding Minghao wandering the yard alone since Junhui was still at work in the hospital.

All was well at first, with Seungkwan and Seokmin entertaining Minghao with their antics and overall presence. They talked about random stuffs, with a bit of catching up on old times. By the time Junhui’s car stopped to park in the driveway and the sight of the three men entered his vision, Minghao was already tearing up from laughter caused by one of Seokmin’s lame-but-gold dad jokes.

Junhui slid easily into the conversation. Seokmin asked how Junhui’s work was, and the conversation escalated quickly to peals of laughter and hands hitting each other, which came mainly from Seungkwan, who kept hitting Seokmin until the latter almost fell off his chair.

Seokmin asked how Minghao was doing, and Minghao started telling Seokmin about the patch of dead roses he is now tending. Junhui ignored the dull jabs in his chest, focusing instead on Minghao’s wide smiles—and missing the slight drop in Seokmin’s cheerful features.

And it all came crashing down when Seungkwan let out a casual remark that dead roses don’t really go with the yard.

Minghao’s face instantly darkened, and Junhui could almost swore the temperature dropped. The look of pure terror that settled on Seokmin’s face didn’t go unnoticed by Junhui, who probably had the same expression on his own face. Yet it seemed that Seungkwan didn’t notice, further adding that Minghao has no need for dead roses, even more not so with the beautiful red-rose bush that Junhui had planted for Minghao. When Junhui and Seokmin were sure that they couldn’t be more spooked by Minghao’s increasingly-darkening expression, Seungkwan, who didn’t really know the depth of Minghao’s affection for the flowers, deepened the hole for his own grave by giving a kind, totally-friendly suggestion that Minghao should avoid doing such hard task and just clean the patch.

Everything that happened next flashed in a blur. In an unusual, uncharacteristic show of anger Junhui never knew Minghao possessed, Minghao had stood up, face red with rage, and shouted at Seungkwan to go away.

“Who are you to say my roses don’t go with my yard?” Minghao had screamed, face contorting with fury. “They are my white roses, and they will be even more beautiful than those red roses!”

Junhui was scared by Minghao’s sudden burst of emotion, yet he had found his own heart suddenly beat with one painful thump, stabbed by Minghao’s unexpected sentence. Junhui could almost feel his chest bleeding.

Seungkwan, who didn’t know where he did wrong, tried to apologize profusely, but Minghao’s anger was too great. If not for Junhui who held Minghao back and Seokmin who quickly dragged Seungkwan away, Minghao would be very likely to use physical violence on the poor ball of energy that is Seungkwan. Seokmin had pulled Seungkwan away, with both men spluttering out genuine apologies to Minghao.

So, here he is, trying to calm the still angry Minghao while also trying to survive Minghao’s dangerous bursts of emotion at the same time.

“What is wrong with you?” Junhui asks.

Minghao lets out a response, but his voice only comes out in the form of something resembling a growl.

“What was that?” Junhui asks again, stepping in closer.

“They’re mine!” Minghao suddenly cries out, fierce and frightening. He suddenly strides away, bumping Junhui’s shoulder harshly. With long, hurried steps, the man walks away towards the patch of roses.

Junhui follows him with his eyes. Minghao looks so cruel, so lost, and Junhui finds himself hurting for his boyfriend despite the gnawing pain that haunts his heart from Minghao’s earlier remark about how the dead roses are going to be more beautiful than Junhui’s red roses.

Junhui watches the retreating back of his boyfriend, and suddenly a series of weird, crushing feelings bubbled up in his chest. Junhui feels hot all over, and not from positive cause.

What the fuck is happening with his beloved Xu Minghao?

Junhui follows Minghao, his legs moving fast to close the distance between them. When Minghao is within his reach, Junhui grabs the other’s wrist and turns Minghao to face him.

“What is wrong with you, Hao?” Junhui asks, his voice harsher than he intended it to be.

Minghao only stares at him with wide, wild eyes. His jaws clench, and there is a foreign harshness on his features. Junhui can’t take it anymore.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Junhui snaps.

“Those white roses are mine, Junhui!” Minghao shouts. A shadow falls over his whole being, and the sight of it sends chills through Junhui. The shadow frightens him more than his boyfriend’s sudden obsession with the roses.

“You’re sick, honey,” Junhui says, “Please don’t do this. You must leave them–”

“You won’t understand! They will be beautiful! They have always been–”

“They’re fucking dead, Hao!”

Junhui’s scream stuns even himself. A stark, sudden silence follows. But it is the look of sheer horror in Minghao’s wide, glistening eyes that enlightens Junhui of what has really happened. The look is so dreadful it makes Junhui realizes that, in his anger, he has kicked the budding sticks, crushing some of them with a sickening crunch.

“Ju…” Minghao lets out the tiniest stutter, drops of tear falling down his cheeks. A crushing wave of guilt hits Junhui.

“Hao,” Junhui steps closer, and he is stunned when Minghao suddenly falls down and crumbles on himself.

“They’re important… the white roses… my beloved white roses…” Minghao mumbles, tears cascading down his face.

Then Minghao’s breaths begin to hitch painfully, and Junhui is seized with utter dread as he lunges forward and collects the broken man in his arms. Junhui doesn’t feel his thundering heart or the way his own tears are flowing. He can only feel how Minghao shakes and convulses violently against his chest, and a sickening feeling squeezes his soul.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, God, I’m sorry…”

What has he done?

#

Junhui wakes up the next morning to find Minghao still fast asleep, curling on his side and facing Junhui’s way. Junhui watches as Minghao’s chest rises and falls with every breath, and something twists his insides when he sees his boyfriend’s pale face contorting with discomfort—no doubt the remaining strain from their last night’s fight.

After preparing breakfast and Minghao’s usual cup of coffee, Junhui decides that he needs to make it up to Minghao. He has to. He has hurt him badly yesterday.

Yet Junhui himself is in turmoil deep inside. Sure, his own anger is long gone by now, replaced by genuine concern and guilt, but somehow, Junhui knows that he still needs time to calm down before throwing himself under Minghao’s feet for forgiveness. For now, he needs a simple, brief, mind-clearing morning walk.

Junhui mentally steels himself before he changes into more presentable clothes. He picks up his jacket and heads out after he left a note that will notify Minghao of the reason of his absence.

On his way out, Junhui momentarily stops to examine the patch of once-dead roses. It doesn’t take him long to notice that the rosebuds are green again.

Strange, they were kind of ruined yesterday, Junhui thinks as he crouches down to touch the buds. Guilt instantly makes its way to Junhui’s heart when he remembers that the buds were ruined yesterday because of him. In an attempt to ease his guilt, he picks up the watering can beside the patch and waters the roses before he leaves.

#

“I don’t know you run a coffee shop, Jihoon,” Junhui says with an awed expression on his face. “This place is awesome.”

His remark is met with Jihoon’s shrug and proud, lopsided smile. “Yeah,” Jihoon replies. “Just a small business. It’s doing great.”

Jihoon proceeds to lead the other two men to one of the tables for four people before leaving to take a menu, flashing a smile to his friend, a man with a ‘Min Yoongi’ nametag on his red shirt, who is running the cashier. Seokmin pulls out a chair for Junhui, earning a smile and a small ‘thanks’ from the latter, before Seokmin himself sits down beside Junhui. Junhui’s eyes wander to Jihoon, who is now talking with Yoongi and a man who is wearing a ‘Kim Taehyung’ nametag.

Of all Minghao’s friends, Junhui feels that Jihoon is the one Junhui is the least connected with. Sure, Jihoon is a nice person, with his kind smile and small yet expressive eyes, but Junhui can’t shake the feeling that Jihoon doesn’t really trust him since day one, especially with Minghao. To be honest, it bothers him, even more so with the fact that everyone often remarks that Jihoon is the closest to Minghao.

“Jihoonie can be very cold, I know,” Seokmin’s voice echoes, as if expressing his maybe-it’s-there ability to read Junhui’s mind. Junhui dismisses that unsettling thought away, focusing instead to give the older a nod to show that he’s paying attention.

“But he’s a good man. All of us can attest to that. After the accident, he’s constantly worried for Minghao. Sure, Minghao is fine, but it turns out that the trauma is no joke. Don’t worry, I’m sure Jihoon understands the depth of your love for Minghao. He’ll open up to you in no time.” Seokmin finishes with a smile, patting the other man’s shoulder.

Junhui flashes a smile, and if his uncertainty still lingers on his expression, Seokmin doesn’t mention it. The Chinese then averts his gaze and chooses to look around the place.

He had met Seokmin on his morning stroll earlier, and the ball of sunshine had invited him to tag along since Seokmin is on his way to visit Jihoon’s business place. Junhui was about to refuse, but Seokmin said that, judging from the Chinese’s obviously wrecked state, Junhui looked like he could use some company. Junhui then relented, mentally making a promise that he would buy something for Minghao before he goes back home. And now here he is, in Jihoon’s business place: a modern yet comfortable coffee shop named ‘Diamond’.

“This place is very nice,” Junhui comments, his eyes roaming around to inspect the cozy coffee shop, mentally giving two thumbs up to the decoration. “Minghao never told me about it.”

“Huh,” Seokmin’s voice reaches Junhui’s ears. “Minghao never told you about his history with this coffee shop?”

Junhui turns to face him. “What history?”

“Well, this coffee shop is the same coffee shop that he was about to go to when the accident happened.”

Oh. Junhui doesn’t know about that.

“That accident was unfortunate,” comes his response.

“Yeah,” Seokmin’s smile turns sour. He looks another way and mutters, “It’s inevitable, though.”

Junhui doesn’t catch that. “What?”

“Nothing,” Seokmin forces a smile. “Oh, Jihoon’s back.”

The clack of Jihoon’s shoes hitting the polished wooden floor catches Junhui’s attention. The older man has returned to their table with a menu on his hands. He pulls a chair opposite Seokmin and sits down, pushing the menu towards the other two.

“Might as well choose something expensive,” Jihoon says, “My treat.” He finishes with a wink, mildly surprising Junhui and earning a small ‘yay’ from Seokmin.

Junhui is in the middle of scanning the menu—oh, they have pumpkin spice latte! Might as well buy it for Minghao—when he hears Jihoon clears his throat. Junhui carefully looks up and is met with the sight of Jihoon leaning closer over the table, staring at him with his half-lidded but unmistakably prying eyes.

“How are things with Minghao?” Jihoon drawls.

Junhui swallows and looks back down at the menu. Jihoon will surely kill him if he knows that Junhui and Minghao just had a fight. The fact that now Minghao is not in the best condition because of that doesn’t help, either.

“Not good, eh?” Jihoon’s sudden statement causes Junhui to look up again, only to catch a meaningful look exchanged between Jihoon and Seokmin, who is surprisingly quiet.

Junhui’s inner self is already buzzing with fear when suddenly Jihoon flashes him a genuine smile, dousing Junhui’s dread completely.

“I hope you guys will get better soon,” Jihoon says, his smile lingering.

Well… Junhui hadn’t expected that, but it’s a good thing.

They placed their order after that. Junhui settles for a glass of vanilla milkshake—along with a take-away pumpkin spice latte for Minghao—while Seokmin opts for a cup of hot chocolate with marshmallows on top. They are gently swept in a casual conversation for a while before Jihoon stands up all of a sudden, resulting in the other two male eyeing him questioningly.

Jihoon flashes an apologetic smile. “Guys, I’ll be back. I have to talk to my friend Jimin over there for a bit. He’s bringing new books for the bookshop.”

Junhui’s eyes widen. “You have a bookshop, too?”

“Just a small one,” Jihoon shrugs, a small tight smile playing on his lips. He points to a section at the corner, filled with rows of tall shelves stacked with books, accessories, and many kinds of knick-knacks that Junhui hadn’t seen since he entered the building. “It’s part of this coffee shop, by the way. You can take a look if you want.”

“Yeah, Junhui,” Seokmin chirps with a wide grin. “Might as well find something for Minghao, too, when you’re at it. Jihoon’s small bookshop houses a huge array of interesting things.”

It turns out that the bookshop is larger than it looks like from their table, with the shelves stocked with more books and stuffs than Junhui had seen from his seat earlier. Jihoon had accompanied him for around three minutes, explaining which section offers what before the shorter man disappeared around a corner with a small ‘enjoy’ and a wide smile Junhui is thankful to get. Before long, Junhui has found himself immersed in examining many things that the bookshop has to offer, his head repeatedly going up and down and sideways to make sure nothing escapes his scrutiny.

Junhui is running his hand carefully along rows of books—thinking that maybe he can buy Minghao a keychain or something—when suddenly he spots a rather big jar made of glass that contains paper stars sitting on one of the shelves.

They must be exactly one thousand, Junhui muses, instantly remembering Minghao’s story about that particular myth. His lips twitch into a slight smile at the memory of Minghao folding papers into the shape of stars back then.

How time flies, Junhui thought, as he carefully touches the jar, his fingers trailing over the silver, stainless lid. He briefly wonders who made the stars, and why the stars are made from white papers when they are supposed to be made of golden ones. Then he remembers that Minghao told him once that the golden stars will become white when the wish is made, with the golden color being the magic that carries out the wish.

Junhui hums, mulling over whether the owner made the stars from white paper just for fun or that the owner must be out there somewhere enjoying his wish. Junhui, thinking that the jar of stars maybe just serves as a decoration, decides to just settle on the first option, not caring if he’s wrong or not.

His focus in examining the perfectly-shaped stars inside the jar is broken when he spots something behind the jar: a book leaning against the wall, with its underside supported by the jar’s presence. The book looks vintage, with a hard cover made of leather and the title written in golden ink.

From what Junhui can deduce from the book’s appearance, it’s a book on the care of roses, and his face lights up as he thinks it might be a good present for Minghao, who has just found a new hobby that includes gardening and tending to roses—and perhaps it can also mend the dent in their relationship made by their fight last night.

He hurriedly goes back to his table, finding Jihoon and Seokmin in the middle of a conversation, which smoothly stops when they see Junhui’s nearing figure. Junhui pays no mind to the forced smiles on the other two’s faces, assuming they are just being polite. He gently puts the book on the table.

“I’ll buy that one,” he says. “I’m sure Minghao will like it.”

And Junhui is so overwhelmed with the image of Minghao’s bright smile which elicits a hopeful smile on Junhui’s own face that he doesn’t notice how Jihoon and Seokmin’s smile drop at the sight of the book, or how Seokmin follows the disappearance of his smile by shutting his eyes tightly for a second and Jihoon letting out an inaudible resigned sigh.

“Oh, wow,” Seokmin says, forcing one of his brightest smiles. “You have good taste, Junhui. That one’s in Jihoon’s personal collection. It’s a good read, I tell you. I’ve read it before and it’s good, though personally I don’t do gardening.”

Jihoon’s personal collection? Then why is it on display?

Junhui dismisses his thoughts. He looks at Jihoon questioningly, then with a silent plea when he sees that Jihoon looks reluctant to sell him the book.

“Come on, Jihoonie,” Seokmin says, a genuine—and somewhat encouraging?—smile on his face. “You wouldn’t want our beloved couple to miss on a good story, right?”

There is a hint of something wistful in Seokmin’s eyes. Jihoon looks up and his eyes reflect the same gaze as the man in front of him, yet Junhui doesn’t notice. He is too busy praying that Jihoon will soften; and soften Jihoon does, after a solid and very long three seconds.

 “Alright, then, Junhui,” Jihoon says with a smile. “I’ll give you a special price since the book will be a gift for Minghao.”

They settle for another simple conversation after that, with Junhui taking the time to finish his glass of vanilla milkshake. They are in the middle of Jihoon telling a story about Seungcheol’s lame-as-hell dad jokes when Seokmin suddenly reminds Junhui that he has to go home because Minghao will be waiting. Junhui is thankful that Minghao is surrounded by these kinds of people.

After paying for the drinks and the book, Junhui quickly leaves the coffee shop, one hand holding Minghao’s cup of pumpkin spice latte and the other clutching a leather-bound copy of On Taking Care of Your Roses by Kwon Soonyoung.

#

“Do you think Junhui will read it?”

The smile on Seokmin’s lips remains, yet sadness creeps into his gaze.

“Oh, he will,” Seokmin answers, “He must.”

#

Minghao is awake when Junhui arrives home. The younger man is sitting at the kitchen’s table, with a cup of coffee in his hand and a tired smile on his face. It’s such a domestic sight that Junhui can’t help but want this kind of life with Minghao for as long as possible and maybe more.

Seeing Minghao, suddenly Junhui chickens out from giving his boyfriend the leather-bound book. Unsure whether to give it or not, Junhui puts the book face-down on the kitchen counter, mildly relieved when Minghao doesn’t notice anything. Putting down the cup of pumpkin spice latte in front of the beaming Minghao, Junhui makes a split-second decision that he will ask Minghao for forgiveness first before there is any present-giving.

And that’s exactly what Junhui does. Steeling himself, he seats himself on the chair opposite his boyfriend. He takes the older man’s hands in his, and suddenly, seeing Minghao’s tired face and puffy eyes, Junhui breaks down. He cries openly in front of Minghao, crushing guilt pouring out of his every movement and the sincerest apologies flowing out in stutters from his lips.

After a minute of confusion, Minghao stands up at the sight of his boyfriend crying. The elder cradles the younger in his arms, whispering calming words in the latter’s ears, making sure that his acceptance of Junhui’s apology comes through the sobbing man’s being.

Minghao then leads Junhui to their bedroom, calming the younger down all the way from the kitchen to the soft mattress of their bed. Junhui instantly stops crying when Minghao’s soft lips land on his quivering ones. A series of ‘I forgive you’s come flowing out in gentle whispers from Minghao’s mouth, and it is not long until Junhui finds the two of them tangled on the bed—and the room filled with both their wonderful moans and the sounds of their skins meeting one another.

For a while, the book is forgotten.

#

It is almost midnight when Junhui wakes up. Minghao is still sleeping, and Junhui lets him be. Against his body’s stubbornness to stay in the comfort of the bed, Junhui decides that a trip to the kitchen will be worth it to relieve the burning sensation in his throat.

Junhui goes downstairs and makes a beeline towards the kitchen. Sleep is still ruling over his body, evident from the fact that he almost drops his glass on his way to the water jug that stands on the kitchen counter. Junhui carefully pours himself a glass of cold water, and as he sends the liquid down his throat, his eyes caught sight of the copy that he had bought this morning from Jihoon’s coffee shop.

Junhui blinks, his sleepiness suddenly ebbing away. How could he forget about the book?

Before he knows it, he has sat down at the kitchen table, his glass of water standing beside the book. Junhui then opens the book to the first page.

#

On Taking Care of Your Roses

by Kwon Soonyoung

When it comes to the life of roses, you must understand that there are things that must be remembered. For instance, roses do not come to be as easily as the other flowers. Their existence is a harsh one, but once they rise from the dark, they will give their all; their beauty, their fragrance, and even their thorns.

Second, there is no such thing as a perfect rose. In this life, you can only get the most beautiful rose. The most beautiful rose is the one that will bleed with you when you sliced your hands against wild thorns and sharp weeds in the unyielding soil. The most beautiful rose is the one that will suffer with you and yet, despite its bent canes and dead buds, you will not pull it out and throw it out like trash. The most beautiful rose is the one you will let grow to its heart's content; and when they do, they will live for you—the one who give them life.

Now, every rose can love a person, yet it is rare for a man to be able to love roses as they would love a living, breathing lover.

But roses are alive. What is there as a witness but their love?

#

Junhui blinks in mild surprise. He turns the page. He has expected something more how-to than philosophical. Surprisingly, he finds himself enjoying it and, if his time with Minghao doesn’t fail him, he is sure Minghao will appreciate it as well.

Curious, he continues reading.

#

As I have said, it is difficult for a man to be able to love things of little importance such as roses, who live solely to give their beauty to the one who have brought them to life. It is rare for a man who is able to find it in his heart to love a rose, but that is not the case with the Lover.

The Lover is a beautiful man. He has always been beautiful. He is ethereal, unlike the roses that will come to love him. He understands the darkness of a man’s soul, and his touch can melt the coldest of hearts. His face is an art, with his smile as the final masterpiece. But the most beautiful are his eyes. They are dark, rich, mesmerizing. His eyes are honey against the dying rays of the setting sun, and at times, they can even turn into sunsets on their own. When they water, they will glow with the light of a thousand stars, and under the sunlight, they will turn into a pair of perfectly clear orbs the same shade as the earth after the sky sends kisses in a rain.

In the case of the Lover, he will not recognize the roses straight away. He will walk past them. He will not see how the earth had trampled them down. Before he finds the roses, he will find happiness. He will find another, who will warm both his heart and his bed. And as his life comes together like a perfect picture he once threw away the right to have, he will see the roses.

He will not understand why he is drawn to the roses, or why his beautiful hands will protect them against the beatings of nature. The roses will call like a song to his heart. Not just any song. The roses will sing of sorrowful longing for him, of unnumbered tears they had shed for him, but most important, they will call to him with a song of love that will not die even under the earth.

As foreign as he will be with the roses that will be waiting for him, there was a time in his life when he raised a whole garden of lovely scented flowers by himself. Yet it was with the man that he loved the most that he once raised a small patch of roses. They were white, and they were his favorite. He described them beautifully, saying that the roses ‘bore the color of virgin snow, a good splash of the purity of an angel’s wings, and topped with the stolen glow of a pearl’.

The Lover is a beautiful man. It’s not a surprise that he also wants beauty. For a while, he found it in his white roses.

But then the stars will realign, and the Lover will find another man, who will be beautiful, though not as beautiful as him. And the roses, for whom the Lover had given all of his heart and who had loved him back with the same passion, will be forgotten.

There is this another thing with roses: they are patient. Unlike their existence, their forgiveness will easily come like drops of morning dew even when the one they love neglect them for a long time. The roses will wait, always, with their love and forgiveness ready to be given whenever their loved one returns.

The Lover would then find beauty in anything he chooses. He had found it in intricate dancing steps, fluffy puppies, even a laundry list of lovers. Eventually, he will find the utmost beauty in his perfect life together with his beloved. He does not have to find it in a rose, but he will still find himself drawn to them. When he doesn’t have the need for another beauty, his heart will answer to the roses that had been erased from his memory but have loved him all the same; and there is a reason for this.

He will not remember the reason.

He must never remember it.

I forbid him to.

There was a time I was a stranger to love, let alone to the pain that always comes with it. In my eyes, love had seemed like something that was plucked straight out of a fairy tale. It was fleeting and temporary and I didn’t think it was worth any second of my life.

It was the Lover who taught me about this seemingly transient thing. He taught me that love is imperfect, and yet it is the very thing that makes love perfect. He taught me that love means unexpected beauty, fluttering hearts, bittersweet sacrifices, contented souls, and a plethora of kisses. He taught me all of them—one slow, torturous lesson at a time.

The Lover will not remember any of these, however, because I forbid him to.

But if he could remember, he would remember that once he chose to look for his daily dose of caffeine in a coffee shop down the road instead of his usual cup of La Esmeralda. That one event led into another and, like a crumbling mosaic in the walls of a castle, he gave up his perfect life piece by piece. In the end, he abandoned his crown for one man—a man that didn’t deserve even the slightest twitch of his mouth when it curled into a blinding smile. The Lover had gone down the road to the world that is utterly unworthy of his beautiful self, but he had claimed that it was what he wanted; a relationship where he learned to love a broken man who didn’t belong to anywhere but in the dark.

Yet even with what was left of his life, the broken man had loved the Lover back in return with the same passion—no, with so much more that it burned. How could he not, when despite everything, the broken man had fell painfully hard for Minghao, who didn’t have even the slightest taint in his soul?

#

What the fuck?

Junhui furrows his brows and turns the page.

#

I first met Minghao in the coffee shop that is ridiculously named ‘Diamond’. Its owner was a friend of mine; a short, dangerous-looking man who eyed me warily the whole time I ordered my latte, as if wondering what kind of trouble I was up to at that moment—I wasn’t.

My latte was finished. I took them in my hands and I was just turning around to leave when the stars above decided to strike.

I spilled my coffee all over Minghao’s suit.

“That’s Armani.” I remembered the tall man—a friend of him that I would later knew as Mingyu—beside him said.

And it still rang clear in my head when he said “That’s okay.” with that beautiful smile of his. He then offered to buy me another latte.

That was the event that led our paths to intertwine, that led to our blissful story that would surely end with his own destruction—if I hadn’t intervened.

Yes, his own destruction.

The thing is, Xu Minghao was the very definition of a modern prince. He was the sole heir of a business empire so famous and successful that even his shoes practically screamed money that was worth several pure gold bars. He was well-mannered, educated, and possessed the looks that put angels to shame. His heart was like a saint’s, and everyone loved him. Basically, he was the epitome of a perfect man.

And while Xu Minghao was the epitome of a perfect man, I was the epitome of a society trash who was always up to no good. I was the leader of a feared gang in the city. I had a great influence in the world underneath the functioning society, a world of drugs and underdogs and shady life choices. Everybody put me in their black list and would want nothing to do with me. I got a name for myself. Unlike Minghao’s, however, it was a bad one.

A scoundrel who fell in love with a prince. A prince who left his palace to be with a scum.

I knew that, somewhere up there, there was absolutely no constellation that would agree to align to make a happy ending out of this anomaly.

But we managed to write our own story—for a time.

I was the one who initiated the confession, and his reaction was so pure and beautiful that it was one of my favorite memories of him—but then again, every memory of him was my favorite.

It was during our time together that I learned so many things about him.

On our first date, I realized the depth of his affection for me, and how much of a hopeless romantic he was. He had arrived in a suit the exact same model as the Armani one that stood as a witness for our first meeting, with the brightest smile on his face and a bouquet of rare roses in his hands—and I would never have the heart to tell him I didn’t like flowers. It rained when we got out of the fancy restaurant that he had booked exclusively for our date, and I remembered him putting his suit over me, effectively making me the reason for the destruction of both his limited-edition Armani suits. He got a cold for three days after that.

Minghao was one expressive lover. He never failed to surprise me in everything we did together; during our dates, our times in bed, or even during days when we did the most mundane of things.

Everything about him is endearing, almost ethereal.

He also loved to tell me his favorite stories. His favorite folktale was the one that believes if someone manages to make one thousand stars made of golden papers, those stars can be traded for one wish and it sure will come true. One of the reasons he loved that story the most was that in the original folktale, the protagonist’s name was the same as my street name: ‘Hoshi’.

‘Hoshi’ was my street name, and it was always voiced in fear and even hate. Yet it was only from Minghao’s lips that my dreaded street name could always come flowing out with pure love lacing its syllables. Minghao used that feared name of mine a lot, saying that I was his ‘Hoshi’, his ‘star’, and that with me as his ‘star’, he had everything he could ever wished for.

And for that I wondered how exactly that Minghao could pick up something so foul and turn it into something so utterly beautiful.

His father had given him many recreation houses, but his favorite was the one located in the lower part of the mountains at the city’s edge, the one that has a fountain and a huge garden around it. I agreed that this particular house was the most beautiful, and somehow the house suited Minghao, who loved to bring me to the house with him often.

Minghao loved flowers. The garden was full of them. One day, he asked me if I would plant white roses with him in the house’s garden. Of course I had agreed, no matter how much I didn’t like flowers. We planted a small patch of white roses among the colorful flowers that were already there. Minghao said the white roses were his favorite because they were the only ones that he had planted with me.

Due to some reasons, when I heard Minghao’s laugh after the roses bloomed, those roses became the only flowers that I had ever liked.

#

Junhui’s hands are shaking. He hasn’t finished reading the book yet, but the sounds of footsteps nearing the kitchen forced him to stop his activity—for now. Minghao hasn’t appeared yet, and Junhui uses what seconds he has left to turn the book in his hands. His eyes scan the cover thoroughly, and his heart quickens at the complete lack of clue that could lead to the book’s origins, or its purpose, and most importantly, why Minghao is even mentioned at all.

This alone is frightening, and Junhui has to remind himself that he is living in the now, and that every single thing is real. Minghao is with him, and both of them are real. And if it’s any help, the name ‘Kwon Soonyoung’ doesn’t ring a bell at all in his head, and no one ever mentioned that name, either, not even Minghao.

It’s just a manual, Junhui repeats in his head. A gardening manual on roses, that just happens to have Minghao’s complete name, Minghao’s life background, and Minghao’s everything.

Then, something hits him.

Why would Jihoon have this book in his personal collection?

A sudden movement catapults Junhui’s terror into a whole new level. He jerks back, almost falling over his chair. Junhui quickly slams the book down and looks up to see a sleepy Minghao entering the kitchen.

“Good morning, Junhui.”

“Morning, Hao,” Junhui forces a smile, his hand moving to spread its fingers across the book, effectively hiding the title.

“I was just thirsty,” Minghao flashes a smile. He pours himself a glass of water and lazily brings the glass to his lips. He drinks a few gulps before stopping, taking a few deep breaths, his eyes unfocused.

Junhui watches his every move. He takes every detail of Minghao; his messy hair, his half-lidded eyes that hide rich, mesmerizing pupils, his perfectly-shaped nose, the way his body slightly hunches from the sleepiness. Even in this state, Minghao still does look like a prince, one that could find it in his heart to love a broken rose…

“The Rose’s Lover,” Junhui whispers, his eyes never leaving his boyfriend, and suddenly Minghao looks up, meeting Junhui’s gaze with dark eyes that are free of sleep for a fraction of second. Minghao raises his glass and flashes a blinding smile before his features return to his former, tired state.

Junhui smiles and continues to stare as Minghao mumbles something along the line of ‘I’m going back to bed’ and makes his way to the kitchen’s exit.

Junhui’s smile lingers until his fingers touched the coarse cover of the book that has given him goosebumps not long ago. Ignoring the memory of his terror earlier, Junhui decides to delve in again.

#

Minghao kept our time secret from everyone, except from our closest friends, who were the most supportive people I knew. His own closest friends came from the upper circle, which was expected, yet they wholeheartedly supported our relationship, commenting on how Minghao was the happiest when he was with me.

I was also the happiest when I was with Minghao.

For a time, our story was well-written, but I’ve always known it won’t last.

As I said, my story with Minghao was an anomaly, and no matter how kind-hearted the stars are in Minghao’s stories, they are tied to fate, still.

Fate is always surprising.

And sometimes I forgot that fate is also cruel.

It was when Minghao went to my house one night and told me he just had the biggest fight with his loving father that I started to make the stars.

I had seen the way Minghao looked at me with a smile that hid the pain in his chest. I remembered him saying that he won’t be coming back home to his family, that Minghao will live in his recreation house with me, and that his father had given him consent to continue our relationship—and for the last part, Minghao was always a terrible liar.

I had never met Mr. Xu, but I knew that the man loved Minghao too much to really mean he won’t ever receive Minghao back in the house.

It was at the same night, right after Minghao fell asleep that I went home to my own house and started to carefully fold golden papers with my trembling, made-for-killing hands. It had felt foreign. My hands, the same hands that claimed the lives of many in the shadowy world, were now creating small stars that seemed to glow under the dim light of my gloomy living room.

I remembered that Minghao had visited my house and found me once, his eyes widening in mirth when he saw me folding a piece of square-shaped golden paper. He asked me how many stars I have made.

“Around fifty.” I had answered.

I had made around fifty… plus another five hundred and fifty.

He couldn't know—none of them could—that the great, infamous Kwon Soonyoung believed in an old myth that equals one thousand paper stars to one wish.

It was a silly thing for me to do, but back then, I had believed Minghao’s stories with all my heart, including that particular one.

And maybe if I had not learned something about the nature of love…

Maybe if I had never met the Lover…

I would not be sorry at all to continue being a selfish bastard that I was.

But that is not what happened.

Forcing myself to a hundred stars every night, I spent almost two weeks working my fingers off until I reached a point where every muscle in my hands remembered every step and every crease that has to be made in order to create something so fragile yet so beautiful.

With every star that dropped to join the others, the same three questions would buzz in my head: Should I do it? Will I regret it? Will Minghao miss me?

Even until the nine hundred and ninetieth star I was still plagued with uncertainty, with those three questions running around in my mind, chasing one another endlessly.

And then something happened; something that sealed my decision.

I found out not long after I became Minghao’s boyfriend that some of my fellow leaders were not so thrilled at the news, and fact that Minghao came from a respected rich family fueled their dislike even more. One of the most affected gang leaders was Chanyeol. Aside from being a gang leader infamous for his recklessness and sadistic tendencies, he was my friend slash rival, and he was not at all happy to see me going around with some ‘stuck-up, rich boy’.

Chanyeol and his gang met me one night when I was walking home from a convenience store with Minghao. They openly threw stink eyes towards Minghao, who only smiled politely in return. Chanyeol asked me to come back with him, to return to my former business. I refused politely, but Chanyeol, being a volatile time bomb that he was, didn’t take it very well.

They dragged me and Minghao to an alley and started to threaten me, reveling in the fact that I was alone. When I continued to refuse, Chanyeol’s men started to use violence. I retaliated, knocking some of them down. But then they started to lay their hands on Minghao, and I was rendered powerless.

I let them hit me as many times as they want, as long as they leave Minghao alone. Yet Minghao being Minghao, he begged them to leave me alone, and Chanyeol wouldn’t be Chanyeol if he didn’t indulge his sadistic side.

A sickening slap echoed through the dark alley, sending Minghao tumbling to the ground. Chanyeol’s men quickly grabbed him, holding him down in place.

A weak ‘please’ escaped my bleeding mouth, and Chanyeol sneered. He yanked my head and told me to say it again.

I repeated the word over and over, not caring if each syllable tore a hole in my pride, but in the end, it was no use.

I could only watch with dread as they pulled at Minghao’s button-up, ripping the fabric and exposing his naked body to the cold air. Obviously not satisfied, they shoved Minghao’s face down to the dirty asphalt before forcefully tearing his trousers open.

“Watch,” Chanyeol growled in my ear, voice dripping with venom, as he held my head by the hair.

Rough fingers gripped Minghao’s fragile hips, digging red half-moons into his flawless skin. A hand closed in around his delicate neck, and I could feel something tore out from my throat: a scream, which was silenced by a kick to my stomach.

For a split second before the inevitable, Minghao had looked at me. His eyes directly bore into mine. Tears began to rim his eyes, yet his bleeding lips curled into a reassuring smile, which sent sharp pangs into my soul like thousands of needles. He mouthed something aimed towards me before it was cut by a cruel thrust that sent his body lurching forward.

I let out another animalistic scream, which was quickly drowned by the laughs from my enemies.

I didn’t care if they humiliate me, kick me, beat me, stomp on my head, but Minghao… my Minghao… my beautiful water lily…

One by one, those beasts pounded into him. All of them took him from behind, like some sort of an animal, with such brutality I didn’t know a human could possess.

I could no longer count how many times I screamed, pleaded, begged for them to stop. I could only feel the taste of blood in my mouth and the burning fire in my chest.

Yet Minghao, with his face dirty and his body held like an animal, stayed silent. His only visible response was the muscles in his skinny arms that bulged with every thrust, along with his bleeding fingers that resulted from him gripping the dirt so tightly. He refused to scream, even though I knew full well that he was in horrific pain. It was not until the third man—Kai, the most vicious member—that Minghao’s bloody lips would slightly part a few times in small, pained gasps.

Despite all the pain and the humiliation, Minghao didn’t tear his eyes away from mine. Not even for a second. Tears stained his face, and his eyes were red, but he continued to look at me. He flashed me the same reassuring smile, the same smile that had calmed me down countless times before. Some thrusts were painful enough to cause his smile to falter, but it always came back. It always came back the whole time.

It was as if he was reassuring me that I will be fine, and that I will be okay.

When the last man pulled out of him, Minghao slumped down, his whole weight crashing down on the hard asphalt.

The moment his eyes fluttered shut, I was lost.

Before I could register anything, I was thrown down, my head hitting the hard pavement. My vision was blurred and my senses were numbed, and I wanted nothing more than to hold Minghao, but before I could crawl to him, multiple kicks connected with my body. I could no longer feel the blood that spurted out continuously from my mouth or the sickening thuds that reverberated whenever a blow landed on me.

It was when the beatings stopped had I realized that Chanyeol’s gang had left. I hadn’t heard their laughter, or even their footsteps, but then again, I couldn’t hear anything, couldn’t feel anything.

Somehow, I found the strength to push my broken body towards Minghao, inch by painful inch. When he was well within my reach, my trembling fingers reached for his hand.

Minghao’s eyes opened, and he looked at me. His gaze was gentle, as if we were in our bedroom and he hadn’t just received the most abominable degradation in his life. He looked at me so lovingly that it hurt.

Then, weakly, he smiled.

“Soonyoung…” his voice was barely even a breath.

Again, somehow, for the second time, I found the strength to pull myself up and cradled his shaking body in my arms. Minghao slowly raised a hand and held the fabric of my t-shirt. His fingers were weak and loose, yet there was something in his touch, as if I was his anchor—as if he would die if he didn’t hold on to me. I choked back my sobs, my own pain forgotten. I couldn’t feel the wounds nor the bruises on my body. Right there and then, the things that truly pained me were the sight of the filthy blood that trickled down his quivering thighs and the angelic smile plastered on his tear-stained face.

And it was when I was holding him in my trembling arms that I realized what he had mouthed to me earlier:

“You’re alright, love.”

#

Junhui releases his breath in an audible, slow gasp, not realizing he has been holding it for quite a while. He looks down and sees that his hands are shaking. He breathes deeply a few times in an attempt to calm his hammering heart.

A movement from the corner of Junhui’s eyes catches his attention. He moves his head and spots Minghao through the kitchen’s window as the man walks towards the roses, clad in Junhui’s white sweater and a pair of sweatpants.

Junhui lets out an open-mouthed sigh. Did Minghao really go through all that?

As much as the mere thought of it is making him absolutely sick to the core, Junhui couldn’t stop his eyes from returning to the pages of the book.

#

I didn’t know what kind of strength was given to me when I went the very next day to the very lair of my enemies, or when I single-handedly turned them all from gloating swines to a tangled bloody mess on the ground. Certainly it wasn’t the memory of my pride being shattered the night before, nor the fact that my body was broken in many places. I stopped caring about those things—or myself on that matter—ever since they laid hands on Minghao and defiled his entire being. I didn’t even remember what I felt afterwards, seeing those beasts lying half-dead on the ground.

But what I did remember was every time my fists connected with one of those people, the image of Minghao’s beautiful smile flashed before my eyes.

Later that evening, I found Minghao in our house—he had called his house ours. He was sleeping on the couch, his hair messy and his breathing slightly ragged. He was wearing my faded grey sweater and a pair of equally-faded loose jeans. Even with the shabby clothes, he still looked every bit of a prince that he is.

I noticed right away that the sweater was much looser than the last time I saw him wore that. A heavy feeling seized my gut, and the sight of his jutting collarbones peeking from under the sweater’s loose collar only added to the sick presence in my insides.

My mind painfully replayed the incident that happened yesterday. How Minghao had borne the assault without any sound except for a few almost inaudible whimpers. How he had received the insolence without losing that noble spark in his watering eyes, knowing full well that his dignity was being ripped to shreds right in front of his face.

How he had endured it all—for me.

My fingers found their way towards the hem of the sweater. I lifted the coarse fabric gingerly, careful not to wake him.

What I saw underneath sent a stab to the very core of my being.

Lined on his flat stomach and bony hips were a set of bruises so sickeningly dark that they looked like a blasphemy to his smooth, porcelain skin. Around the bruises were angry red marks with fading traces of blood. Nails, I quickly deduced, as the back of my eyes began to burn.

As hot liquid began to rim my eyes, I began to notice the things that I didn’t two minutes ago. Reddening skins beneath his fingernails, dark splotches peeking from under the collar and the sleeves’ openings, faint finger-like bruises marring the sides of his neck, a slightly-bleeding cut on his lower lip…

Then I remembered that Minghao never liked wearing long-sleeved sweaters in summer days. And suddenly my bleeding knuckles didn’t hurt at all.

I fell to my knees.

I cried.

I cried.

And I cried.

Minghao, my beautiful, beautiful prince was losing bit by bit of his weight—and what was left of his life.

Minghao had vowed that he loved me and accepted me for me, and I told him that I believed him. I truly believed him, believed that he loved me.

And God, did I love him, too.

But from where he was, he was incapable of understanding just how much he had sacrificed for me—for this god-forsaken scoundrel.

I admit that I’ve always been a selfish man, but I will be more than willing to make an exception—for Minghao. I had no doubts that he is more than capable to love me until the end, but if I continued this dream, then I would be the one letting him be killed by his own ignorance. God forbids.

I wished that Minghao was a little bit selfish, but he was a saint. He had broken his heart too many times, and God knows he would do that over and over again for my sake—but he wouldn’t be able to find it in his pure soul to break my heart.

The thing is, Minghao wanted to give me the world at the expense of his own.

If that’s the case, then I will be the one that will do the breaking.

#

Junhui stops for a while. He has to.

His heart is still drumming against his ribs, and Junhui doesn’t know if he can continue to read the rest of the book.

Yet it feels as if the pages are calling out to him, and who is Junhui to resist its pull?

The surgeon gulps down a glass of water before he sits back down and buries his attention back in the book.

#

It was when the one thousandth golden paper star slipped out of my hands and fell into the jar along with all the nine hundred and ninety-nine others that I came to full realization about what I was really planning—and the full consequences.

I had made a choice to tell Jihoon and Seokmin of my plan—and I thought it was a mistake. They were so mad, telling me that I’m an idiot. But what do they know? They weren’t the one who witnessed Minghao’s undoing.

I had promised Jihoon and Seokmin one thing before I act out my plan. They had extracted the promise out of me after hours of nagging and forcing, guilt-tripping me that I should grant them this since they had been so nice to me my whole life and that they were the bestest friends of me and Minghao (well, Seokmin’s one of my few, accepted-by-the-society best friends and Jihoon, Seokmin’s soon-to-be boyfriend, just happened to be Minghao’s closest brother from another mother).

Jihoon, being the logical man that he was, had brought up the topic of ‘what if the myth is a bullshit’ and if I had made myself a complete fool by believing in it. I had thought about it, actually, and even if it didn’t work, it didn’t matter.

I would still find another way. There was always another way.

I thought about all of this as I made my way to our—Minghao’s—house. My steps were heavy, each one more difficult than the last. It felt like an eternity until I reached the place. Upon entering, I found him curled on the sofa in the living room. It was such a usual sight, and I knew, with a sinking feeling pooling in my stomach, that this would be the last time I would find him waiting for me.

"Minghao," I murmured, and it woke him. He was still sore, and I stepped away as he found his footing. It cut somewhere inside me to see him so hurt.

His face brightened almost immediately when his bleary eyes landed on me. He stood up with a wobble, his lips tight from the pain. Steadying himself, he looked at me and smiled as if the pain in his whole body was nothing.

“Soonyoung?” his eyes found mine, bright and shining. He must had noticed the dark circles under my eyes for his face contorted in worry a second later. With a slight limp, he took one step and reached for my arms. “You look tired. Here, have some rest.”

And here he was, worrying about me lacking sleep when his own body was in pain all over. I willed myself to resist his pull, taking his hands in mine instead.

"Don't be so hard on yourself, Haohao," I told him softly. "Now, I need you to listen to me."

Minghao flashed me a small smile, his eyes curious as he cocked his head to the side.

Suddenly my throat felt very dry and there was something heavy in my chest. I swallowed.

"This is the last night," I managed to say. "I'm leaving."

The instant horror in his eyes almost, almost made me reconsider. Both of us froze. After a few seconds, Minghao released his bated breath with a sharp exhale. The fear in his eyes remained, but he let out a small chuckle in his attempt to calm himself down. Doing my best to maintain my composure, I kept my eyes locked with his. He swallowed hard, not knowing the way the look in his eyes was like knives twisting into my soul.

“You didn’t mean that,” he said, his voice strained. His eyes were wide with panic, which escalated when he noticed my silence. He let out a small choked sound—that twisted my insides even more—before he let out a pained whisper: “Soonyoung?”

Hearing the way he said my name, I was lost. So utterly lost. I snapped my eyes shut, knowing that my tears would fall if I didn’t. The following words almost died down on my tongue, but the sight of his fading bruises collected my resolve back and I took a deep breath.

"I'm going away. Far away. I will trouble no one, anymore. I will trouble you no more. All these memories, all your pain, me, us…” I choked at the last word. The thought of our love merely disappearing as if it never existed in the first place sent a terrible dread all over me. I thought I could get used to that unpleasant feeling since it washed over me every time I held a piece of those golden papers in my trembling hands, yet standing in front of Minghao, the same thought—of our ending—didn’t fail to make my heart bleed even more painfully than ever.

I inhaled sharply, collecting myself before continuing, “They will be something you'll dream, time and again at night. And you'll forget all of them in the morning."

Minghao hurriedly opened his mouth to speak, but I stepped in closer. My hands moved to cup his cheeks, silencing him. Moonlight streamed through the window and highlighted the lines of his face in silver; and all I could think was that I was dying and I was dying for him. I had juggled all the risks and the pain that came with them, yet I knew it wouldn’t hurt any less to exist without him.

I ran my thumb across his lip. I felt the dent made by the cut, and my stomach twisted a bit more. Minghao was taken aback by my gesture. He went still, eyes wide. I could see him still panicking with the thoughts that I would leave due to some bad reasons—reasons that I certainly would never do—but he did not move.

I closed the remaining distance between us. Willing back my tears that threatened to burst, I looked right at his wide eyes, trying to be as collected as possible.

"I want you to tend to your roses, Minghao."

Confusion crept up his features. "What does that mean, Soonyoung?" he whispered back. “Our roses are okay. What are–"

"Listen,” I cut him off softly. “There are going to be roses. The same roses, but they are going to be new. You'll find them. Tend to them, Minghao. You need to water them, you need to raise them. Those roses love you, Minghao. They love you so much…"

And what a shame, to hear my voice break when I used to command one of the fiercest gangs in the city, when I could shout at the top of my lungs whenever I was in gunfights, and make gang leaders kneel with my voice.

But it broke all the same. And Minghao's eyes softened. He continued to listen—and for that I was thankful.

"Haohao, my love,” I began, my voice straining. “It’s dark there under the earth. It’s even fiercer atop the ground, where the winds will beat and rain will fall and animals will roam. Tend the roses, Minghao. It's all I ask. Their blooms will burst open for you. They will live for you."

"Soon–”

"Listen! Listen," I stepped in closer. Minghao visibly tensed. My hands released his fingers and coiled around his waist instead, pulling him closer. I heaved a sigh. My eyes fluttered shut as our foreheads met. Opening my eyes to meet Minghao’s confused ones, I mustered all my strength, which never failed me except until this moment. I swallowed the lump coiling in my throat.

"The roses, in their darkness, will follow you as if you are their sun."

And he surprised me, sinking his fingers into the back of my leather jacket. He pulled me and I shut my eyes tightly. Did he not understand how hard this was?

"Don't go, Soonyoung!" he said, looking at me with wide eyes, raw desperation lacing his voice as well as his gaze. I caught sight of tears rimming his eyes and before I could react, he buried his face into my shoulder, his hands crushing my body against his.

“Please, please, Soonyoungie, please…” his voice was muffled, but I knew he was crying.

"Haohao," I whispered, not caring how broken I sounded.

He pulled back, his eyes searching mine. The sight of hope in those distraught orbs jabbed me in the guts.

Before I knew it, I pulled him into me, crashing our lips together. His hands snaked around my neck, his fingers finding their way to my pale blue locks and clutching them until it hurt. The kiss was rough, desperate, with every movement screaming tragedy. I closed my eyes, and suddenly I was more aware; of the way his fingers pulled at my hair, of the way his tongue tangled with mine in a battle where there was no winner, of the way his body ground against mine with such desperate passion it set both of us on fire. In that moment, with all that was left of my strength, I swallowed down all the crushing dread at the thought of our impending doom, focusing instead to make doubly sure I memorized all of this—all of him.

We pulled back at the same time. He was breathing hard. His hair was disheveled, with a few deep shades of red dusting his cheeks—and I was certain I was in no better shape. I studied his dark, glistening eyes, and my reflection stared back at me; my face of stone, now crumbling like it’s nothing, a facade that had survived the wretched world of underdogs, faced off the most fearsome of people—and I witnessed it all disintegrate now under the feather-light weight of love.

Is this not always the way of tragedy? That it lets all things beautiful be held securely in the grasp, only to take it all away all at once, leaving what is left to crumble under the softest of things.

"Remember none of this, Minghao," I whispered, and he fought. He fought hard—with his tears and thousands of pleases—to keep me there.

I was tempted; tempted to stay, so we could continue on for as long as we like, but I knew that Minghao would never be happy—not with me in his heart.

I pulled him into a kiss for the last time. Unlike the first, this one was gentle and I didn’t have the words to describe how sad and painful it was, how every movement was like a reminder that our story was doomed from the start.

I pulled back and was met with a pair of wet, distraught eyes.

“I love you,” I managed to say despite the strain in my throat, and Minghao crumbled.

His tears fell like a river, sending a barrage of sharp blades into my chest with every drop. It was his wild eyes and desperate face, along with his choked, breath-hitching sobs, that made me compromise.

I held him in my arms, rocking him back and forth until his sobs died down. After sleep took him, I quietly peppered his face with thousands of kisses I knew he would never remember. He looked so tired, so lost, so broken. I crushed him against me for what felt like eternity, making sure that Xu Minghao—the shape of him, the feeling of him, his love, his name, his entirety, him—was engraved in my very being. I let my tears fall that night as I held Xu Minghao in my arms for the last time.

After I was sure I could contain myself, I took my leave and headed straight to Jihoon’s house, where he and Seokmin were already waiting for me.

True to my words, I let them type down all of these things, along with things that Minghao would need to know about the tending of roses—he probably wouldn’t need these knowledge, anyway. He has always been good with them.

Minghao won't remember any of this, anyway. Because when I'm finished, everything will change. The timeline will backtrack, and the universe will correct itself seamlessly through their rifts.

It didn’t take me long to realize that in Minghao’s perfect life, there is one element that is out of place. The one thing that didn’t let him have his well-deserved perfect life—the one thing that always resulted in Minghao’s pain—was me.

It was me, all along.

All I needed to do was to fix that. All I needed to do is to take myself out of my beloved’s life. But the problems are that matters are neither created nor destroyed, and without our story, Minghao would never have those roses that he had grown to love so much.

I cannot simply cease to exist.

I must become something else.

Take care of the roses, Minghao.

They live for their sun.

They live for you now.

#

Beyond this, there are brief common instructions on basic care for roses. Things such as water, enough sunlight, nitrogen, even companion plants.

Junhui slowly closed the book shut and walks outside, where he sees the sunlight breaking through the trees and the man he loves bent over a row of budding roses.

Wait a minute. Junhui blinks and tries to remember the last time he saw them. He thought they were only just beginning to leaf out, but now he can clearly see that the roses are topped with glorious buds that are ready to burst into blossom.

He walks towards Minghao, each step heavier than the last. He stops and stands beside Minghao until the latter notices. Minghao stops to brush his hands free of loose dirt and turn to face his boyfriend.

"Hao," Junhui begins nervously. Minghao cocks his head at his boyfriend questioningly, his lips flashing a small smile.

Junhui swallows. The book burns in his hand. He tries to speak, and discovers his throat is closing tight around the words, and he cannot seem to give the book over.

It feels like a betrayal.

The roses nod gently in the breeze, as if trying to listen to him.

"‘Kwon Soonyoung’," Junhui begins, "Does the name sound familiar to you?"

Right at Minghao's side, a single rose bud winks open, a sliver of pure white peeking through the green.

Minghao is silent for a while, his face unreadable.

“Kwon Soonyoung,” Minghao repeats the name, tasting it in his mouth. For a split second, his eyes flicker to the roses, as if suddenly drawn there, with a gaze so gentle and loving—a brief movement that Junhui doesn’t miss.

Minghao’s eyes go back up after a second, meeting Junhui’s. “It doesn’t ring a bell,” Minghao says, slightly shaking his head, a small smile adorning his face.

But then something flashes across his features—something that looks tragically like the slightest of recognition. It disappears just as quick as it came. Junhui’s insides twist.

Minghao’s eyes soften, an indescribable expression taking over his features.

"But it’s a very beautiful name,” he adds softly, with a smile so fond and so sad—a smile that makes Junhui’s heart aches all over.

“Oh, should I know the name, Junhui?” Minghao suddenly asks, eyes widening in pure curiosity.

"No, no,” Junhui chokes out, swallowing painfully before continuing, “Take care of the roses, Hao."

Minghao nods with a bright, face-splitting smile.

Junhui forces a smile in return. When Minghao’s attention is back to the roses, the younger turns, not wanting his beloved to see the moment his composed self crumbles. He flees back into the house, leaving the contented Minghao crouching beside the patch.

Junhui runs to their bedroom. He stumbles and falls beside their king-size bed, where he breathes hard and sobs helplessly, with the book crushed to his chest.

After a moment, Junhui succeeds in composing himself. He stands up, rubbing at his eyes to relieve the strain. He takes the book and slots it in between his journals and books, where it will stay.

Where it will always stay.

Junhui walks back out to the yard, and is greeted by the sight of Minghao talking to Jihoon and Seokmin who are standing at the other side of the fence. Junhui walks towards them, swallowing the growing lump in his throat.

Junhui arrives beside Minghao, and the two men across the fence look up and meet his eyes. Seokmin nods, and Junhui returns the gesture, while Jihoon just continues to eye him.

“Nice to see you, Junhui,” Jihoon greets. Seokmin shifts beside him, ducking his head, but Junhui can see the way his eyes blinking almost too rapidly.

Junhui flashes a tight smile towards Jihoon, and the shorter man, to Junhui’s surprise, smiles back at him with an indescribable smile that hurts Junhui’s chest.

Seokmin then tugs at Jihoon’s arm, with a smile so clearly forced it looks painful.

“We’re just stopping by,” Seokmin chirps. “We should get going. Jihoonie here can’t wait to try the new ice-cream shop a few blocks from here.”

“Yeah, must be wonderful,” Jihoon adds, the slightest crack in his voice doesn’t escape Junhui.

“Already?” Minghao’s bright face falters just the slightest before his mouth curls into his signature smile. “Okay, then! Have fun!”

“We’ll get going, then. Bye!” Seokmin waves, with Jihoon starting to walk away. Suddenly, they stop and turn to face Minghao.

“Take care of your roses, Minghao,” Jihoon smiles softly as Seokmin nods beside him. Minghao nods enthusiastically before crouching back down.

Before Jihoon and Seokmin take their leave, their eyes locked with Junhui’s, their smiles sad and wistful.

And Junhui knows.

Junhui turns back towards Minghao, and he watches with amazement as the roses begin to unfurl their petals.

Bloom after bloom opens, and their color is so pure it looks like the color of freshly-fallen snow. The petals stretch out ever so gently, like the wings of an angel, and they seem to glow like a pearl under the soft rays of the sun. Minghao passes down the rows with a sway in his movements, the long fingers of his hand trailing over their petals with a gentle, sensuous touch. Minghao lets out a series of laughs, the sound clear as a bell and holy like love.

“Look, Junhui,” Minghao says, “the white roses love me, as I love them.”

And the white roses, true to their words, turn and track him as if he is the sun.