Chapter Text
“Taehyung-ah, are you up for this?”
Jimin worries.
He tries to disguise it in his gentle smiles and his bear hugs, but he always squeezes Taehyung a little too tight. Then there are the invitations to dinner and shopping and new shows at Taehyung’s favorite art galleries, all of which he rarely accepts.
He has to maintain distance, as much as it hurts. If anything happened to Jimin, he’d never forgive himself. Not that they’ve ever been more than they are now—good friends who see each other less and less because Taehyung can’t discern where the boundary lies. Is a person marked when the first tingle of warmth sparks in Taehyung’s heart? Sooner?
There are no answers, save for one: Taehyung is dangerous. So, he stays away.
“I’ll be fine,” he always says. He doesn’t believe that, not really, but maybe if he keeps repeating it, it’ll stick. He glances around at the shoebox of an apartment he moved into after he lost Seongjin. He can barely afford it, but it’s safer this way. He belongs alone after what he’s done.
Jimin sighs. He doesn’t believe Taehyung either. “It’s good that you’re going out, but if you need me for any reason, call me. I’ll come running.”
Of course he will. Jimin is a sweet soul. Taehyung doesn’t deserve his unfailing ability to drop everything the minute he has a crisis.
Taehyung forces a laugh that only sounds half as pathetic as it feels. “I know. I can handle this.” Another lie, but if he stares at these four walls for a moment longer, he’ll lose it.
“Oh! There’s a new coffee shop that just opened, if you want to check it out. I’ll send you the address. Their cookies are god-tier.”
Jimin’s love of sugary treats is no secret. “I’ll bring some back for you.” It’s the least he can do.
“I didn’t mean—”
“Jimin-ah, relax. I want to.”
“If you’re sure.”
Taehyung looks out the window at the neon signs that are getting brighter, the loud colors slipping into his dull space. It’ll be dark soon. “You should get going. Don’t keep your mystery man waiting.”
Blind dates are terrifying, but Jimin loves the thrill of the unknown. Taehyung is getting a stomach ache just thinking about it.
“He won’t mind.”
“Well, I’m not going to ruin what could be your last first date, so go!”
Jimin’s giggle is warm, inviting. Whenever Taehyung hears it, he wants to get closer, soak up some of his friend’s joy, if only temporarily. “When you put it that way, I better head out. You’re positive you don’t want me to—”
“Jimin,” Taehyung interrupts whatever his latest offer was going to be. “I need to hear every detail about your evening with this guy, but I can’t do that if you never meet him.”
“Alright, point taken. Be safe, and I’ll call you in the morning, okay? Maybe we can get breakfast?”
“I have a meeting with a client for a potential commission.” He doesn’t, but he speaks it into the universe in hopes that it’ll happen. He could use the money. Being a part-time assistant and rest-of-the-time receptionist at a start-up graphic design studio pays just enough for him to scrape by. Seongjin’s brother helped him get the job, so he’s kept it out of respect for the man they both miss. “We can talk after that.”
“Oh.” Jimin hides his disappointment well, but the subtle change in his voice still wears on Taehyung’s heart. “Okay, that works. Bye, TaeTae.”
“Bye, Jiminie.”
He hangs up and tosses his phone on the couch. It’s a miracle Jimin hasn’t told him and his stupid, never-ending excuses to fuck off. He’s too kind for that. Taehyung sighs. Maybe he can tell him the truth someday, but would Jimin even believe him? And if he did, would he hate him?
Taehyung doesn’t want to find out.
He grabs his bag and leaves the apartment before he can convince himself to stay.
*
Taehyung misses his stop. And the one after that. He’s too busy doodling in his sketchbook to listen to the station announcements, which is how he ends up wandering the tight alleys in a part of Seoul he’s rarely visited.
Ikseon-dong is a maze of people slipping in and out of restaurants and shops, illuminated with strings of lights and bright window displays. The aroma of street food, the voices surrounding him, the bursts of laughter, the press of bodies—too close. Too much . . . life.
He backs into a narrow side alley, an overgrown crack between a bustling café and a retro boutique, bracing himself for more people, more movement, more noise, but it’s oddly still. His eyes slip shut, and he focuses on the thump of his heart, willing it back to a normal rhythm. A cold breeze stirs the fallen leaves. One brushes his cheek.
Taehyung breathes in the night air. Opens his eyes. Be brave. The alley is still deserted. He looks around, expecting a dead end, but what he discovers isn’t dead at all.
The two-story building tucked into the back of the alley is a vibrant green. He wanders closer, drawn by the soft fairy lights lining the door and windows. Instead of the odd-colored bricks he was imagining, the exterior is draped from roof to railings in vines, long curls of them winding everywhere, reclaiming the concrete and metal underneath.
A sign that creaks with every gust of wind reads Night Blooms, with tiny crescent moons in place of the Os.
A glow is coming from inside but there’s no indication of whether this . . . bookshop? bar? florist? is open for customers. Taehyung climbs the steps, hesitating as the vines rustle, almost like they’re rearranging themselves.
Which is impossible. It’s just the wind, except the air has gone still.
He shakes his head and pushes on the door. It swings open with ease, flooding him with the scent of fresh, sugary baked goods and brewing tea. Jimin would be sprinting ahead of him, eager to have the first pick of the treats.
Another set of stairs leads him to the main floor. If the outside was impressive, this is surreal.
“Wow.”
The interior is alive. Vines trailing along the walls and ceiling, potted plants on tables and counters, trees growing from holes in the floor.
“It’s great, isn’t it?”
A man in an apron covered in smiling suns greets Taehyung with a polite bow. His white-blond hair and warm brown eyes are stunning, and his soft grin is an instant balm to Taehyung’s nerves.
“It’s beautiful,” Taehyung manages, returning his bow while struggling to take it all in. “Are you the owner?”
“One of them. My other half is around here somewhere. Probably watering or pruning. Joonie loves his plants.”
“They’re incredible.” Taehyung has never seen anything like it, certainly not indoors.
“I’ll share the compliment with him,” the man says with a wink. “I’m Hobi, by the way.” He steps behind the glass case filled with cakes, cookies, brownies, buns, pastries, breads, and other items Taehyung can’t identify. “Would you like to order? If you’d rather explore and decide later, that’s fine.”
Taehyung’s appetite is nonexistent, but everything looks amazing. “What cookies do you recommend?”
“All of them!” Hobi chuckles. “Hmm, let’s see. The black sesame are my favorite. We also have chocolate chip, yuzu lemon, matcha white chocolate, coffee tiramisu, and red bean mochi.”
“Could I please have one of each and a cup of green tea?” He’ll take the cookies home to Jimin and hope they’re as good as the other shop’s.
“Of course!”
Hobi rings up his purchases, and Taehyung pays. When Hobi hands over the bag of cookies, his fingers—nails painted a pretty blue and adorned with mini star stickers—skim Taehyung’s.
Hobi freezes. Sucks in a sharp breath. “What happened to you?”
Taehyung recoils from Hobi’s touch. How—no, he couldn’t know. There’s no way.
“Don’t mind Hobi.” The deep voice belongs to a man with lavender hair and a dirt-smeared apron. He approaches the counter, a giant sunflower tucked in the crook of his arm, and gives Taehyung a gentle smile. “He’s more sensitive than most of us.”
Us? Before Taehyung can try to guess what that means, Hobi shakes himself out of his daze.
“Ah, Joonie’s right. I’m sorry for reading you.” He straightens his apron, a hint of pink in his cheeks. “It wasn’t intentional.”
Taehyung glances between the two of them, waiting for his brain to kick in and translate what might as well be another language. “Reading me?”
“It’s kind of my specialty,” Hobi says, as if that explains everything. “I should’ve shielded myself better. I really am sorry.”
“I—it’s fine.” He’s starting to wonder if he walked into another dimension. Or if he passed out in the alley and hasn’t woken up yet.
“Why don’t you pick a table, and I’ll bring your tea when it’s ready?” the other man suggests.
“Um, sure. Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” The man bobs his head. “I’m RM, or Joonie, as my husband calls me.” He hands the sunflower to Hobi, whose blush deepens.
“Oh!” Taehyung sets aside the general weirdness of the whole situation, which is giving him a headache, and points at the greenery surrounding them. “The plants are yours?”
“Sure are.” His smile widens. “You should see the second floor.”
Hobi chuckles. “Show off.”
“You love it, baby.”
Aaand that’s Taehyung’s cue. “Okay.” He jerks his thumb at the ceiling. “I’ll, uh, be up there.”
He doesn’t wait for a response from the pair. Tightening his grip on the sack of cookies, he retreats to the stairs.
*
A real garden. Inside a café.
It’s different from the forest vibe of the first floor and even more spectacular. Flowers are everywhere—twisting around chair and table legs, clinging to the walls, overflowing from pots and hanging baskets, sprouting from nooks in the walls.
The colors are as vivid as they are unusual: purples streaked with red, yellows with blue flecks, pale pinks and creams with brown dots, like freckles. Azaleas, roses, hibiscus, lilies, chrysanthemums, gentians, asters, clematis, orchids, violets, sunflowers. And they’re all in full bloom.
The name of the shop makes perfect sense now, but Taehyung still isn’t sure if he’s dreaming or awake.
There are several open tables, so he picks one by a window strewn with delicate vines and tiny white blossoms. He stares at the rooftops and alleys below, still packed with people. But not here. This place is quiet, the few patrons he’s seen either reading old, worn books or sipping their tea in silence.
It should be crammed with customers craving sweets and marveling at the scenery, bloggers and influencers snapping photos and writing reviews. Maybe they only opened recently and word hasn’t gotten out yet? He’ll ask Hobi about it.
Speaking of . . .
Taehyung flexes his hands, scanning them for anything that could have tipped off the man. There are still the same long fingers, trimmed nails, and calluses. No scars or tattoos to make them remarkable.
What happened to you?
He wishes he knew. But the end result is the same, so it doesn’t matter.
He pulls his sketchbook from his bag and flips to a blank page. If he’s drawing, he’s not thinking about his freezing apartment, or his overdue bills, or that final phone call from Seongjin’s mother—
“Here we are!”
RM’s announcement startles him back to the present. He pushes his stuff out of the way, clearing a spot just in time for RM to stumble and lurch forward. Taehyung grits his teeth, preparing for a lapful of piping-hot liquid, but RM catches himself at the last second, tea sloshing over the rim of the cup and onto the floor.
Both of them blow out a breath. Crisis averted.
“Whoa. Sorry about that.” RM gingerly places the cup on the table and kneels to mop up the spill. Taehyung offers him a fistful of napkins, but he waves them away, dabbing at it with his apron. “I got it. No worries.”
Once the mess is gone, RM gets to his feet, a small grin tugging at his lips. “Don’t tell Hobi. That happens more often than I’d like to admit.”
Taehyung tries to mimic his smile. “Your secret is safe with me.”
“Oh, good.” The rose bush beside the table grabs RM’s attention. He stoops to examine it, cooing at the buds. “You’re doing so well, little one.” To Taehyung, he says, “These should open soon.”
“You’ve grown all of them?”
“Yeah. They’re like my kids.” He pinches off a dried leaf and sticks it in his pocket. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. Enjoy your tea. If you need anything else, give a shout. One of us will come running. For your sake, hopefully it’ll be Hobi.”
Taehyung’s smile is still wobbly, but at least he’s not forcing it anymore. “Thank you.”
He listens to the thump of RM’s footfalls as he returns to the main floor and his murmured conversation with his husband, ignoring the sharp pang in his chest. Hope is a cruel trick. Wishes are useless. They won’t cure what’s wrong with him, won’t resurrect those he’s lost.
Locating his pen at the bottom of his bag, Taehyung studies the plant in the window, the shape of its leaves, the veins that run through them. He’s on his third vine—a little too curly but not terrible—when something brushes his chin, feather light.
Probably a piece of lint or a stray hair. He outlines one of the mini flowers, sketching the fragile petals. It’s simple work. He couldn’t sell it, but as his pen scratches over the paper, some of the tension seeps from his neck and shoulders.
Until the nudge to his jaw.
He jerks at the touch, spinning in his chair to check behind him. Nothing. And to the side, only empty tables. Straight ahead, more of the same. The closest patron is across the room with their back turned to him. Goosebumps rise on Taehyung’s arms. There isn’t anyone looking at him, but he could swear he’s being watched.
“The hell?”
The place could be haunted and that’s why they’re so low on customers. Do ghosts like flowers?
Whatever. He sips his tea and pokes at his drawing. The spot on his jaw tingles, growing warm as if someone’s thumb were pressed there. If he pretends it doesn’t exist, it’ll go away. At least that’s what he tells himself.
He moves his pen methodically over the page, coaxing his own vines to flourish until they cover it, tiny blooms peeking around the leaves. Condensation fogs up the window next to him, blurring his view. Must be getting colder outside.
He’ll have to leave soon, go back to his apartment and the couch he bought second-hand because he couldn’t stand to sleep in—or keep—his bed. He’d rather stay here and soak up the heat with the plants until Hobi or RM kicks him out.
“Pretty.”
Taehyung jumps, jostling his sketchbook and knocking it against his tea cup. He’s already tabulating the cost of the broken china when a hand shoots out to steady the mug.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
The person’s voice says otherwise. There’s not even a hint of apology in it. That fact is confirmed by the stranger’s smirk when he slides into the chair across from Taehyung.
Any retort Taehyung might’ve made dies a swift death. He digs in his heels and grips the table, ready to push his chair back and escape, run to his apartment even if it takes hours and makes his feet bleed, but a stronger urge roots him to the spot.
“You’re wound tight, aren’t you.” The man shakes out his dark hair, long enough to brush the collar of his coat, with the same sheen and blueish luster of a crow’s wing. His side part reveals a freshly trimmed undercut. “I said I was sorry.”
“Where did you come from?” It’s the best Taehyung can do when his heart is attempting to dismantle his ribcage.
His uninvited guest shrugs off his coat and tosses it on the table next to them. “Thin air,” he says, adjusting the sleeves of his cream turtleneck until they cover his knuckles. When Taehyung doesn’t respond, he clicks his tongue. The light catches on the silver hoop in his lip. “That was a joke.”
“Are your hands cold?” Taehyung winces at his own question. His brain is spinning, his instincts still zipping between flight and the inexplicable desire to know more.
The man blinks and glances at the steamed-up window. There’s a stud in his nose and several more in his right ear. Six, maybe. Not that Taehyung is counting.
“Yes, they are.”
Taehyung almost reaches for him, nearly offers the warmth of his own sweaty palms. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to focus. He’s not allergic to flowers, so they’re probably not the reason he’s feeling unhinged. Unless their scent is poisonous. Or is it the tea? Did Hobi drug him? RM?
“Hey, easy.” The man snaps his fingers. “Don’t keel over on me. Breathe.”
It’s good advice. If only Taehyung could follow it.
A fleeting touch on his hand suddenly releases the iron band compressing his lungs. Taehyung takes one slow breath followed by another. When he dares to open his eyes and rejoin the world, the man is observing him closely, his pupils dilated and glittering like a night sky full of stars.
“Sorry you had to witness whatever that was,” Taehyung says, running his shaky fingers through his hair. Just a minor meltdown. “It’s been a strange evening.” Huge understatement. He expects to wake up at any moment and find himself on his couch, searching for his phone to tell Jimin about the bizarre dream he had. “Um, don’t take this the wrong way, but are you a ghost?”
The man goes so still that Taehyung is positive he’s seriously offended him. Then a loud peal of laughter shatters the silence and the guy tilts back in his chair, fingers knotted over his belly as if he might rattle himself apart.
“Yah! I know that sound!” Hobi hollers from below.
RM chimes in with a distressed-seeming “Oh no.”
“I hate to ruin the illusion because that would be fucking amazing,” the man says while wiping tears from his cheeks, “but no. Not a ghost.”
“Then . . . how?”
He wiggles his dark brows. “Magic.”
“Wait, what—”
Hobi appears at the top of the stairs, arms thrown wide in greeting. “Jung—” He stops short as Taehyung’s tablemate drags a thumb across his own throat. Subtle as a deadly blade. “JK-ah!”
Taehyung should be parsing this new information, but he’s transfixed by the black swirl—tattoo?—peeking over the high neck of the man’s—JK’s?—sweater.
RM arrives next, his arms folded across his broad chest. “You could’ve warned us. I just finished patching the back wall yesterday.”
“Ah, hyung, admit it. You miss the excitement when I’m not around.”
“I could do with a little less excitement,” RM hisses.
“Behave, you two.”
Hobi steps between them, stamping out the sparks before a fire ignites, although it seems one-sided. JK is slouched in his chair like an amused king watching his subjects squabble.
Patting his husband’s shoulder soothingly, Hobi turns, frowning when he notices Taehyung, a spectator to the whole exchange.
He points at JK. “That goes extra for you.”
“I’ll be a perfect angel,” JK says with his cat-that-got-the-cream smile.
Taehyung shivers. RM snorts.
“I mean it, JK-ah.”
Hobi’s gaze ticks to Taehyung again, and he really wishes someone would fill him in on what the fuck is happening.
JK rolls his eyes but nods, shooing them away with a flick of his hand. “Better go before your cake burns.”
“Shit!”
Hobi races toward the kitchen, and RM follows after shooting one more warning glare at JK. Once they’re gone, Taehyung fidgets in his seat, tugging at a ravelin on his shirt. Tapping his shoes together. Unfolding and refolding the bag of cookies. Anything to keep from looking at the striking—and slightly unnerving—man now leaning on the table and staring directly at him.
“Well, this has been fun, but the time . . . it’s a long subway ride . . . I should—”
“Wait.”
“Why?”
“Ouch. Am I the worst company in the world?”
Taehyung shrugs. “You scared at least three years off my life earlier.”
JK’s chuckle curls around Taehyung with the warmth of an embrace. “I did apologize. And I helped you,” he reminds him, “so that should count for something.”
“Helped?”
JK gestures at his own chest.
“Oh, right.” His raging heartbeat and lungs that couldn’t draw air. Taehyung wants to ask how he did it, but he’s afraid of the answer. “Thank you. I don’t get out much and tonight is . . . a lot.” He chews on his lip to keep from admitting anything else. Confessions to a complete stranger. Sounds like the title of a drama. A thought suddenly pushes to the front of his mind. “What did you mean by ‘pretty’?”
“What do you think I was referring to?” JK asks, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear and revealing the thin silver crescent moon piercing his lobe.
“Can you just—” Taehyung breathes through his irritation. “No games, please.”
JK is smiling again, of course, but he raises his hands in surrender. “Your art.”
“This?” Taehyung reaches for his pad, but JK sticks his pinky through the spirals. “It’s just a sketch.”
“It’s good. RM would probably buy it from you. Or commission you to do other pieces.” He flicks a leaf on the rose bush. “He loves these fucking things.”
“Erm—”
“Do you do people?”
Gods, his eyes are so dark, almost black. Intent. Searching. Taehyung hugs himself as if that will lock his ugly truths beneath the surface where they belong, hidden from JK’s gaze.
“I haven’t. Not in a while.” Not since he took a match to Beomseok’s portrait.
“What about me?”
“What about you?” JK isn’t the only one with evasion tactics.
“Would you draw me?”
“I don’t know you.”
“You could.” He gently traces one of the tiny flower petals on the sketch, and Taehyung swears the echo of JK’s touch reaches his cheek.
No. He can’t come to know this man. For so many reasons.
“What’s your name?” JK asks, still pinning him with that intense stare.
“Tell me yours first.”
“You heard Hobi, I’m sure.”
“JK isn’t your name. Not your full one, anyway,” Taehyung insists. He didn’t miss it when Hobi started to call him something else before JK cut him off.
“Perceptive,” JK hums. His tongue swipes over his bottom lip, fiddling with the hoop there. “Names are tricky things, aren’t they?”
“If you say so.” Their verbal tennis match is fraying what’s left of his nerves. He stands abruptly and slips the sketchbook off JK’s finger, stuffing it in his bag along with his pen and cookies. “I have to go. Sorry.”
Sorry that he’s a mess. Sorry that he sucks at basic human interaction. Sorry that JK’s flirting, or whatever it is he’s attempting to do, is wasted on Taehyung.
He can’t get too close, so there’s no point in torturing himself or leading on some other unsuspecting soul.
“Alone?”
Taehyung stills at JK’s question. All the mirth has left his expression, and his mouth is set in a grim line.
“Uh, yes?”
“It’s dangerous.”
Why he’s worried about some random guy he just met is beyond Taehyung. “It’s fine. I do it all the time.”
“You said you don’t go out that often.”
Are they really arguing about this? “Perceptive,” Taehyung mutters. JK’s eyes flare. Yeah, okay. That was dickish. “It was nice to meet you.”
He slings his bag over his shoulder and turns away, rubbing at the ache behind his sternum.
“Wait,” JK says again, his voice oddly sharp.
This time, Taehyung doesn’t listen.
*
The route back to his apartment is emptier than it’s ever been. The few people that are on the train don’t sit near him; no one passes him on the street. He keeps looking over his shoulder, half expecting to see JK trailing after him, but there’s nothing.
Only the sense that he’s not alone, somehow. He can’t shake it, no matter how hard he tries. It follows him until he closes the door and the lock snicks into place.
Then it’s just him and his greatest enemy: sleep.
It never comes easy. The visions consume his mind, spitting his memories back at him, twisting them into something false and grotesque. His hands circling Beomseok’s throat. Seongjin’s blood pooling on the floor. Kunwoo begging for his life, tears streaming down his handsome face.
Taehyung wakes screaming, drenched in sweat, sheets stained from his nails cutting into his palms as he fought to free himself. To save them.
Tonight, it’s a different face he sees. Not someone lost, but found.
You can’t be here.
The man’s dark hair floats in the breeze, his smile soft and secretive. His white robe pools around them as they sit facing each other, knees touching, in a moonlit field of roses.
Go. Please, JK. Leave.
Ignoring Taehyung’s warning, he plucks a rose and brings it to his lips. The red velvet petals turn black from his kiss, and JK takes Taehyung’s hand, linking their fingers. The flower’s stem elongates, growing into a thorny vine that twists around their wrists, binding them together.
Taehyung waits for the pain, for the thorns to puncture their arms and warm blood to drip onto the ground below like an offering. Instead, he watches as the thorns fall away, harmless, and the vine tightens until it seeps into their skin, spreading out in inky veins, tattooing itself there.
JK closes his fist around the rose, and when he opens it, a pile of petals rests in his palm. He blows them at Taehyung, tickling his nose and cheeks.
It won’t hurt me, JK says, his dream-voice serene. It can’t.
He leans in, close enough for his breath to feather over Taehyung’s lips.
You don’t have to run.
Taehyung rouses from sleep at the gentle press of JK’s mouth against his, but there are no screams, no remnants of terror.
Only the moonlight slipping past the curtains and the whisper of a kiss.
*
“What did you do then?”
The wind picks up, stirring Taehyung’s hair, numbing his ears. It’s too cold to be sitting in the park, but that’s why he chose it—it gives him a reason not to linger.
“We bonded over a stray cat. He keeps treats in his pocket. It’s adorable,” Jimin gushes. “And he paid for my bungeoppang.”
“Wow, Jiminie.” Taehyung breaks off a piece of cookie and pops it in his mouth. Hobi was right. The black sesame are pretty great. “Sounds like a keeper.”
“The best part?” Jimin grins as he reaches into the bag and snags a yuzu lemon one. “He wasn’t the guy I was supposed to meet up with.”
“Wait, he wasn’t your date?”
“Nope.”
“The other one ghosted you?”
“Mmhmm. I should thank him, honestly.”
Jimin wiggles like he’s trying to get comfortable on the wooden bench, scooching closer to Taehyung. His ability to rebound and turn a bad situation into a positive one is impressive.
“We’re going bowling next weekend. It would be fun if you came.”
Third-wheeling on a second date? Oof. “You two are just getting to know each other. I don’t want to make things awkward.” Because he would, inevitably.
Taehyung wads his cookie wrapper into a ball and lobs it at the trash can. It bounces off the edge, just as he intended. He gets up and goes to collect it.
“So, how was your night?” Jimin asks gently when Taehyung returns but doesn’t sit.
“Weird.”
“Good weird or bad weird?”
He shrugs. “I don’t even know. Medium weird?”
Jimin’s brows pinch together. Uh oh. Protection mode activated. “Did something happen?”
More like someone. How does he explain that a man appeared out of nowhere and took an interest in his art? In him? Or that he calmed Taehyung with a touch. Or that he reminds him of a clear sky on a winter’s night. Or that he snuck into his dreams, kissed him, and for the first time in months, Taehyung didn’t wake up sobbing.
“No” is the easy response. The safe one. “I wasn’t paying attention and got off at the wrong stop. Sorry I didn’t make it to the coffee shop you recommended.”
“Definitely not complaining.” Jimin offers him the bag, but Taehyung waves it away.
“Keep them. They’re for you.”
“Now you’re speaking my love language.” Jimin’s face crumples and his cheeks heat. “Ah, shit. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s okay.”
It’s not, but that isn’t Jimin’s fault. If only Taehyung’s love were that benign. He glances at his phone, swiping over the blank, message-less screen.
“I should go. I have a meeting soon.” With his refrigerator of an apartment. He hasn’t been warm since he left RM and Hobi’s café.
“What’s that place called anyway?” Jimin turns the bag around, but there’s no name, only a cute crescent pattern. Taehyung wonders if the design was Hobi’s idea. “I might be their new favorite customer.”
A sudden vision of JK’s moon earring, so bright against his black hair, slips into Taehyung’s mind. He blocks it out.
“Night Blooms.” Taehyung holds out his phone to show Jimin the address. “The owners are cool.” And a little strange, along with the clientele. One in particular. “Very into plants.”
It also might be some sort of pocket universe. Taehyung’s still not sure he didn’t hallucinate the whole thing, even if the cookies are proof that it’s real.
“Plants?”
“They’re everywhere.”
“Huh.”
They lapse into silence. There’s only the rustle of leaves, the rattling of nearly empty branches, and the hum of traffic until Jimin breaks it.
“Thank you for these.” He hugs the bag to his chest. “We should do this more often. I miss you.”
It’s the same every time they part. Plans that never pan out, promises to get together that are eventually broken.
Taehyung puts on his best attempt at a smile. “I miss you too. Let me know how it goes with your new guy. He better treat you like a prince.” He cracks his knuckles and flexes, his bulky sweater puffing up the arms of his coat. “Or else.”
Jimin giggles. Mission accomplished. “I’ll tell him you said so.”
“Good. Be safe, Jiminie.”
“You too, TaeTae.”
*
“Why even fucking bother.”
Taehyung chucks his sketchpad on the floor.
Hours of sitting hunched over at his wobbly table with nothing to show for it except a busted pen cap and a pageful of useless doodles. He’s been in the same try-fail-repeat pattern for days, ever since that brief spurt of productivity at the café.
He’s considered going back. He thinks about it more than he’d care to admit and debates with himself until he’s wasted the time he could’ve spent on the train.
He even made a list.
Pros: flowers, food, warmth, quiet, not crowded, Hobi, RM (when not serving scalding tea)
Cons: flowers (hallucinogens?), paranormal activity, JK (???)
That last one is bigger than the rest.
The dreams haven’t stopped. If anything, they’re growing more vivid. Taehyung presses his fingers to his lips. The version of JK that lives in his subconscious hasn’t kissed him again, mercifully, but he is becoming insistent, those dark eyes peering at Taehyung as if they hold the universe’s secrets in their depths.
Let me in. I can help.
Taehyung doubts that. Whatever’s wrong with him is not fixable. He’s better off left broken.
But dream!JK is not a fan of being told no. He points at their arms, at the marks left by the vine. Taehyung doesn’t understand what that proves, and his mind won’t give JK the chance to explain. The visions always dissolve then, like fog burned away by the sun.
Taehyung rolls up his sleeve to examine the spot for probably the hundredth time. There’s nothing to see, but it tingles a bit, especially right after he wakes.
If they are bound somehow—if the dreams are a warning that this man could be next, doomed to the same fate as Beomseok, Kunwoo, and Seongjin—Taehyung can’t go back. Can’t be near him again.
It’s not worth the risk.
It’s only ten after eight, but he snaps off the light and curls into the couch, wrapping his thickest blanket over two layers of fleece and an old pair of flannel pajamas. If the nightmares—and dreams—keep their distance, maybe he can get enough sleep so he won’t be a zombie at work tomorrow. Again.
Just as he closes his eyes, his phone buzzes.
It’s a message from Jimin.
are you sure this is the right address?
Right address for . . . ? Oh, the cookies. Of course he’s out cruising for sweets at this hour.
Taehyung confirms it on his map app. yes. why?
there’s nothing here