x
Saeran feels an itch in his throat and resists the urge to cough.
.
x
.
It is a long time before they deem him able to attend sessions alone, when the bags beneath his eyes fade and he mellows into something more than just an empty shell of himself. His brother still comes occasionally, insists on sitting with him with a smile that reaches all the way to his eyes. Saeran loathes that, on days where he can afford to feel loathing, dislikes the way his skin crawls and his movements jitter at the unhinged amount of endearment thrown upon him.
But he is still learning, and sometimes it was just better to let it be.
He prefers the others; at least they give him space, and they are never so clingy. Zen joins him one time, smiles at him so blindingly his eyes sting after. The instructor goes slower those days, crinkles and folds paper meticulously in routine motions he can follow. One petal, then two petals. Zen tries, but his actor hands were never any good at nurturing anything that wasn't the fast-paced flexibility of the stage.
Today's project was particularly difficult, and when Saeran presses down too sharp and swipes the creases too hard, his skin catches and tears, drawing blood. Zen throws an immediate fuss, gesticulates with the kind of dramatics he feels tired just looking at. His instructor stands, tries to quell the former's panic as he continues to look at his nicked finger.
It should hurt, he thinks, watches with numb interest as the red speck grows bigger and drips onto the unfinished folds. It should hurt.
He does not dream that night, but when he wakes there is a phantom rawness in his throat.
.
x
.
"It's missing something." He says, watching the cream in his cup swirl prettily. The latte art inside smudges, and tentative hands hold him steady as he puts it down. A featherlight touch, all professional and kind, gone when he glances up.
Jaehee hesitates before pulling her hands away, considers the broken leaf in the coffee cup and nods. She smells of coffee and sweet things, and Saeran finds himself sleepy when he thinks about it too long; this quaint coffeeshop that radiates peace but stirs restlessness inside him.
"There is something missing." He says again, but this time his heart tells him he doesn't mean the coffee or pastries or her or him, even as his train of thought turns fuzzy.
"What makes you think that?" Jaehee reaches back to take out a piping bag, hums a question he has no answer to as she looks up and hands it over. She smiles encouragingly, adjusts the tip of the nozzle and lets him shift his hands over the bag until he was comfortable. Always, expecting nothing.
Saeran shrugs, squeezes the bag gently and pipes a modest frosting flower, feels something hollow ring out inside him when he completes the petals and stares unseeingly at the pink frosting. He looks up, tries to formulate a thought he doesn't quite understand and sees a sad look in her eyes.
He thinks it might be grief, but it is gone when he blinks.
.
x
.
There were dried flowers by the bunches in the storage unit, colours saturated and still, wrapped in ribbons and pretty tissue paper. Jumin had explained to him beforehand what and who it had been from, rattled off names and companies and an event function objective he fumbles to take in. It was not his way of being unkind, but Saeran wishes he hadn't talked too fast too much like he was still in the office. Even now his ear buzzes, worsens as he sniffs timidly at the dry blooms and coughs.
He sees roses the most when he looks around, dull pinks and reds and whites tipped blue. The latter sparks a vague memory from long ago, one that provides only flashes of defined images and sensations -roses, they used to mean something-, and leaves him more confused than satisfied when the hazy visage slips from his fingers. They crackle when he touches them, texture like wrinkled paper, and he looks away when he hears footsteps approaching.
Jumin glances between him and the flowers, gazes with a sort of intent curiosity he doesn't like but says nothing. The awkward silence continues, even as the man twists his cufflinks and offers to let him explore the entirety of the complex. Saeran fidgets, nods dumbly but knows he wants to refute something even as he follows.
You are always welcome here; he hears the words but does not process them, clenches fist and refuses to look back.
An aches pangs through him too little too late. The time had long passed.
.
x
.
Yoosung drags him to the aquarium one day, chatters about school projects and sweeps him in a wave of words his head spins and turns into a daze. It was a change of pace he was not accustomed to; hobbies of paper and sweet things dwindling into listless days in the house, disturbed only by nosy prodding brother. That is, until today. Saeran wonders about motives and white lies, questions the real reason he's been asked to tag along. But then the sight of fish swimming in glowing blue tanks from floor to ceiling catches his breath, and he lets the thought go in favour of awe.
He wanders, takes uncertain steps around the premises and exhibits, circles them once, twice, thrice. Each round unravels something different, continues to feed the spark of warmness in his chest. He is scarcely aware of Yoosung following him; the pleased, almost relieved look on his face.
Saeran skims over plaques of writing, enters a viewing room and stops at the sight of dozens of sea anemones, watches them sway in rhythmic motion on the replica of a coral reef. He isn't even aware of their name until Yoosung brings it up, and then he was choking, wheezes as spit goes down the wrong way. There was something about the word that makes him choke, his throat closed as though he might cry. The tall glass ripples distorted reflections on his face, plays with the softness of yellow eyes until they look a sicky green. Saeran turns away, unable to look.
It was just a name. He doesn't register the bitter irony on his lips until he was well away from the aquarium, tucked snugly in the warm confines of plush leather. He ignores Yoosung's previous worry and closes his eyes, struggling to understand.
.
x
.
A countdown, and then an explosion of stars in the night sky. Loud, loud, too loud, but not as deafening as the people's cheers as they shake the earth and sing phrases to bring in the new year.
Saeran cringes and burrows further into his muffler.
Beside him Saeyoung laughs, looks at him with a mischievous glint beneath obnoxious glasses. A playful elbow to his shoulder he scowls at, but his next words are swallowed by another round of fireworks and a chorus of voices. The night sky lights up in reds and blues and greens and yellows, form words and pictures he doesn't quite get the appeal of.
The smell of singed air hits his nose and makes his throat clench. He doesn't like this smell of fire either.
His expression must have shown, because Saeyoung starts to nudge him out of the crowd, leads him back to their car before the display ends and the crowd disperses.
"Too much?" He yells as they board, ruffles his hair like a child and smiles so hopefully that just this once, Saeran lets him. He has mapped out this routine countless times, knows they will go to eat celebratory noodles after, and after they reach home his brother will probably pull an all-nighter doing work while he sits up and waits for the sunrise. Every distinct to-be action clear-cut and precise.
A passing thought wonders why he cannot remember any other new year vividly. Saeran breathes, and clings to his resolution.
.
x
.
His brother takes him to a house in the suburbs for a photo taking session. It was a new house, recently brought, history a blank slate. He knows who it belongs to the moment he steps in.
Saeyoung gives him a look he cannot help but scoff at before he disappears; grim and meaningful, leaves him alone to explore the halls as he sees fit before the rest of the members arrive. Saeran shakes his head, finds his interest ebbing away as he wanders to find a place to sit, turns and pauses when he sees the wall of mementos.
He remembers, used to feel an ugly distaste rise within him when he glimpses pictures of them in photos with the RFA. A congratulatory glance at Zen, baby-faced and happy with Jumin, a doting smile for Yoosung. But he was still learning then, still learning now.
He doesn't feel that deep rooted hate when he looks at them anymore, but he can feel little else. They don't visit him; parents who were too young to be parents, parents who were too ailed to be parents. The last he knows is a passing remark from Jaehee; the treatments and soul-searching and repercussions they needed.
But he owes them both nothing now; and so he does not care.
(He refuses to linger, even on photographs of brighter flowers and the decorative plastic twigs half twined with fake orange blossoms, and thus misses the photo of the RFA members all together.
Does not notice the extra head.)
.
x
.
The next time Saeran opens his eyes, he knows he is dreaming. Petals leave his throat in the handfuls as he chokes and heaves, chest moving in rapid up and down. It hurt almost as much as the nightmares that used to plague him, blue sea threatening to drown him under as he wheezes, throws up half-crumpled flowers that fall and merge with the garden by his feet.
He swallows, clenches at the lump in his throat, and stumbles forward, feels the flowers that brush his skin and knows they are real. Saeran looks up after another bout of coughing, and sees the woman; a lone stranger standing in his path as she watches him clamber for breath.
Another stumble forward, and he glimpses her shifting away, cannot see under the shadows that cover her eyes but knows instinctively when she blinks, waits in expectant fashion. A gust of wind blows, barely soothes the soreness of his throat before he chokes on another flower. This time, the striking blue he catches in his hand was the exact shade of the sky, and he looks up, mind racing as he tries to place a memory.
He knows this flower, knows the shape of sharper petals and brighter middle, he knows-
"I should know you." His mouth moves without thinking, a reaction born from reactions. It was only a dream, but Saeran finds it strange; that his lungs would constricted and hurt so yet allow him to speak.
Forget-me-not. He has forgotten so many things he desperately wants to remember, the murky past a hurdle he wants to confront, all for the sake of missing something he wasn't sure was ever there.
"Maybe." The woman shrugs, and his heart leaps at the phantom voice that rings in this closed garden. He is distinctly aware of the uncanny feeling that runs through his body. "A long time ago."
Saeran opens his mouth only to double over again, brings arms over mouth and stomach as his body wheezes and grieves for something the mind cannot remember. Pain radiates in persistent buzzes through the numbness, hurts and annoys to the point he contemplates if he was going to die. His eyes glaze over as he turns short of breath, and in the dizziness he glimpses the forget-me-nots start to swirl. Clusters of blue swaying as the wind ruffles their petals, forming a ripple-out effect as they start to whisper and change. Forget me, forget, forget, forget, until he must close his eyes.
"They were never forget-me-nots, you know?" He hears her speak through the low hums of the wind, pushes bile back down his throat as he heaves, tries to pull himself together and grasp something he can control. "You were never meant to be haunted by these flowers that didn't belonged. You were… you were supposed to be happy."
He doesn't understand, and his frustration continues to grow as he grapples with the pain. "Please," he hears himself say, feels the weight of each word that leaves his pained lip. The wind shifts, both soothes and intensifies the dry ache of his throat. "I just want it to stop. I don't want it to hurt anymore.
Numb, he swallows after coughing out a whole blue rose, blinks open watery eyes and sees, for the first time, the clear reflection of her eyes looking back. "Why does it hurt so much?"
"It won't hurt for much longer." She says, flashes an empathetic gleam of eyes before gazing to his side. Saeran turns his head weakly, sees that the flowers have changed. No longer clusters in a mismatched area of a field, but now an endless expense of lighter blue and soft white centres stretched as far as he could see. "You will be alright."
He thinks he knows this flower, though through the pain and vague awareness of a dream he couldn't be sure. His throat itches again, makes him wince and brace himself for another draining attack. A few coughs as he gasps, almost resists swallowing phantom blood if only because he was certain it would spit right back out. Few petals and vines fall as he recovers, faster now; blue and indigo and magenta curls merging away from sight as they fall into the spaces between green stalks.
Sweetpea; again, he recognises this flower, seen them before in template origami sheets and coffeeshops and storage units which memories now seemed so far away. Once again, he tries to place the flowers of the field, searches for an answer he knows he can give if he struggles hard enough.
The wind blows again, brushes his red hair and skims his abused jaw and throat. Before him, the woman continues to stare unseeingly into the distance with an expression he cannot read, fingers an object he cannot quite see.
It strikes him just as another wave of coughing clenches his stomach and has him hurl.
"Nemophila." He breathes through exhausted huffs, and feels a shift in the mirroring sky. She finally turns towards him then, and smiles.
Sudden alarm hits him, runs down his spine like a chill he cannot shake.
"Are you leaving?" It was a gut feeling, but he calls her all the same, asks to ascertain even as the wind begins to stir and a growing awareness spurs on his dream-like state. There was so much more he wanted to know; this visage that he feels bared importance, of flowers and things he distantly understands used to mean something more. "Wait, I don't want you to go. I still don't know what it means."
She laughs; a gentle, wistful sound that echoes prettily in the expanse of sky. A smile curls across her face as she sets determined eyes on him, and for a moment, he thinks he finally remembers; of promises and distant places and unrequited things left unfinished, his brother screaming and the other members and his first friend and the pounding ache of his heart as flowers flutter over his head like gold leaves on autumn days-
"Goodnight, Saeran."
The sky bursts into an ocean, sends nemophilas raining upwards as the world tilts on its axis. He falls back into a galaxy of blooms, hardly aware of the constricting vines that had twined around his lungs and heart burn away into emptiness.
.
x
.
Saeran wakes up with a half fist curled over nothing. His eyes were dry, memory blurred, but his chest hurts, just a little. Gingerly he sits up, gazes unseeingly at the clock and wonders why he feels so restless after a night of dreamless sleep.
There was a longing within him, one he doesn't quite understand as he pulls off the covers and walks to the window. Curtains half-blown by wind flutters gently as he pushes them back, opens the grills to let the sunlight stream in in gentle waves. Late morning.
Slowly he palms his chest, breathes and feels lightness; normal, this was normal. His throat had not itched for a very long time. It used to feel heavy constantly, hurt to breathe. But Saeran wonders too, if that was just his mind trying to justify things that weren't there.
Today, Saeyoung was going to take him for an RFA gathering, have him spend time with people he can get along better with. And then after, they were going to take him places in the city, do things he hasn't done in a long while. The learning never stops; but if it was another step closer to feeling like he belonged...
Saeran savours the warmth on his face, takes in the missing pieces of his life and asks himself for the first time in a while if he was happy.
He looks to the blue sky and wonders.
.
x
A/N.
*slamdunks another fic hours before ray route is released*
Originally an idea I had for a saeranweek event on tumblr that never actually got upstarted. nevertheless, this wip was fortunately developed enough for me to finish haha. hope everyone enjoys.
I lied lol this isn't so much the language of flowers than flowers in different forms. Sea anemones are known as flowers of the sea, while fireworks are written/known as "flowers of fire" in both Chinese and Japanese. Hanahaki disease is a fictional idea in which the victim coughs up flower petals when they suffer from one-sided love. Personally think forget-me-nots are super overrated in romantic, flower symbolism-centred content but I totally understand why lol. Sweetpea stands for farewell or a goodbye, and Nemophila means forgiveness; I forgive you.
Nemophila ocean is a reference to a real place in Japan; the Hitachii Seaside Park. Every year from late April to mid-May, thousands of nemophila flowers bloom in the fields of the park close to the Pacific Ocean and turns the whole land blue as far as the eyes can see. Just looking at pictures is breathtaking aha. Hope I can see it for myself one day.