𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐬 | yungi

1

There is a new boy in Yunho's kindergarten.

He is small and shy, with a runny nose and eyes filmed over with tears. His knees are not yet scabbed over and hardened with the earth's dirt, ankles not yet tripped by toy cars and building blocks. In his fists are wrinkled tissues, snot-filled and bulging through the gaps in his fingers.

His kindergarten teacher calls him over. Tells him the boy's name. Asks Yunho to play with him, show him the slide that leaves his hair standing up on end with static. He is more than happy to oblige.

Song Mingi. He sniffles quietly and his eyes never leave his feet.

Yunho shows him the slide and the sandpit and the grassy fields where the girls pick flowers. The concrete painted like a racing track that the boys scuff their shoes on. The dress-up corner, where Mingi bashfully smiles when Yunho puts the plastic king's crown upon his head. To get such a reaction from him fills Yunho with pride. He misses no details, no stone left unturned.

Little monarch, Yunho thinks; knobbly knees like a new-born fawn, eyelash-kissed cheeks whenever he blinks. A blank slate; pure. Sometimes the best rulers are the ones with no experience- they learn new skills and tricks quicker than the rest. He will reign over the land someday.

He will reign when the blossoms knit through February's sparse branches and when the field-flower roots tangle and kiss. When the squirrels clamour around the fruit trees and the birdsong heeds his every step. When two boys with soft eiderdown hair intertwine fingers through classrooms, playgrounds, backyards. When their howling laughter serves as a war cry and the spilling of their secrets floods the earth. Haloed by sun, sweetened by the honey the bees start to bring in.

Yunho is five when he has the best summer of his life. He's allowed to run barefoot through the grass, so long as the sun's out, and he applies sun cream like tiger's stripes to his freckling skin. He wears a wicker sunhat that doubles as a pirate's and uses the hung-out laundry blowing through the breeze as ship sails. On most days, he uses his toilet-roll-tube telescope to watch the silver Honda Civic pull into his driveway and deliver him his favourite cargo: his best friend Mingi. They run in circles until they're scarlet-faced and the sun becomes unbearable and there's a fruit platter laid plentiful at his kitchen table, bearing two forks flagged in ripe watermelon. They race to see who can finish their serving of homemade lemonade first and who can catapult cherry pits the furthest distance. The days stretch long and slow, stoppered as the sun yawns over the horizon and finally slumps into its nest of clouds that hail the moonshine. Yunho's days end clinging sleepily to a boy already snoring, who gets carried to the car with daisies clutched in his fists. He himself gets tucked neatly into his own bed, nestled amongst a sea of bears and toys.

On the brink of slumber, he thinks of lions roaring through grass-blades and light beams. Laughter and gummy smiles, white milky teeth gleaming in the light. Hair cowlick-ed by raucous breezes that beg to join their antics. Knowing gazes and stories told through morse-code blinks. Crescent eyelids shielding stargazer eyes. Pinkies touching through the grassblades, backs wet with the dew the evening air carried.
"Yunho?"
"Hm?"
"D'you think we'll stay friends forever?". The grass parts ways to allow his best friend to peer at him. Little king, ruler of the earth, messenger of the Gods. Bending to his every will and word.
"'Suppose so," he hums. "We're going to the same school next year, and we'll probably be in the same class. So, yeah, we'll be friends."
"Forever?" Yunho turns to lock eyes with him. Mingi's pupils are speckled with starlight. If he were smart enough, brave enough, he could trace the constellations dotted within them.
"Yeah." A pause. "Forever is a long time, though."
"How long?"
"Very long. Longer than it takes to get to the moon." Mingi's brows knit together with worry.
"We'll still be friends though!" He reassures. "Friends forever." Yunho nudges the other's foot with his own. Mingi relaxes, which makes Yunho smile. It's so easy for him to smile, so long as Mingi is around. Their pinkies are still locked, glued together and fixed with purpose and promise.

Yunho pries his eyes open. He should've fallen asleep a long time ago. Slow with sleep, he lets his feet carry him to the bathroom. He considers, for a brief moment, crawling under his mother's duvet to have his head stroked to sleep as he knows works best. Instead, like the grown five-year-old he is, he trudges to the bathroom. Uses the restroom, takes the cup by the sink gingerly as to not make noise, and runs the water for a drink.

A small cough. He brings his hand to cover his mouth, as his mother taught him.

Small and pale, the size of a tooth and as soft as a feather, a petal sits in the heart of his palm, nestled in a puddle of crimson. The sight wakes him up, no doubt.

At first, he thinks he's lost his first milky tooth. With his unoccupied hand, he skims over his teeth with a singular index finger. Scrapes across the enamel and pokes every dent. All blood, no gaps. So, he prods the florae with his nail. It seems to be the petal of a regular blossom, nothing too fancy, the type that strangles the tree branches he passes by on the way to school and chokes up in piles on the cement. The type that is quick to muddy under car tyres on busy roads and rips easily by the force of his childish strength. An invasive species in nature, and now his body, too.

He coughs again, harder this time. The uprooting in his lungs jump nervously in his chest. A couple more petals land in a thick, wet clump in his hand. Hm. He repeats this, as quietly as he can, because the last thing on earth he wants is wake his mom up. Does it until the blood stops spattering and the ghostly tickle of petals in the base of his throat dissipates.

Yunho washes his hands. Drinks the teeniest sip of water. Tiptoes back to bed and pulls the cover tight to his neck. It's the middle of July, humid and heavy, and the windows are swung wide on their panes. He's shivering. This is a bad dream, he tells himself out of comfort and fear. It'll pass. Eventually, he falls asleep with a furrowed brow and frown, waiting for the nightmare to pass.

❀

/hanahaki disease: an illness in which the sufferer regurgitates flower petals as a result of unrequited love.

the term hanahaki comes from the japanese words hana (花), which means "flower", and hakimasu (吐きます), which means "to throw up". the disease can be can be cured via two ways: through surgery (the catch: the sufferer can never love that person again. this option is rarely chosen, since most prefer to keep their pride)
or death.

over time, if their infatuation continues, the sufferer's lungs will fill with blossoms and roots will crowd their respiratory system, causing death. death can also occur if the person believes the one they love will never love them back (losing hope).