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As are the blossoms taking root in Seonghwa's lungs, Yunho's selfishness is buried behind his ribcage, concealed beneath a mask of nonchalance. Though, neither the marigolds nor Yunho excel at remaining covert: petals flutter past Seonghwa's lips and spill on the white bed sheet as Yunho's teeth leave another mark over honeyed skin. The cascade of touches steadily marches them towards the end of the night, where the scent of sweat and sex lingering in the air is bound to disperse, golden flowers discarded, and the colors Yunho has left on Seonghwa be carefully hidden until they inevitably fade—a fate befitting the unwelcome physical manifestations of insignificant feelings.
If only Yunho could will time into stopping.
Somewhere down the line, he begins to learn to be happy enough with knowing firsthand what Hongjoong doesn't (hasn't?): the mole inside Seonghwa's left thigh, the mellow frustration in teary eyes, and the demands uttered through gritted teeth for Yunho to Hurry it up and Stop staring that he knew Yunho would only falsely acquiesce to. It is still a matter of easier said than done, especially with the heat of the moment inhibiting his reasons, but he's diligently working on it. Yunho holds the thought as he slides a lone finger down Seonghwa's sternum, mimicking the sharp blade of a scalpel, slicing through skin and flesh to expose the garden feeding on the older man's vitality—another thing Hongjoong isn't privy to, and most likely never will: parasitic marigolds in full bloom, making a morbidly beautiful sight to behold with blood in its roots, blood in its stem. The width of his hand then spans across Seonghwa's chest, where body heat licks at his palm like dancing flames, as he counts to Seonghwa's heartbeat. Every pulse is free of disturbance, vividly felt; Yunho supposes the flowers have yet to infest upon Seonghwa's heart. Curiosity rises like tides from the pit of his stomach, except Yunho wouldn't trust himself to witness the sight with his own eyes. He withdraws the touch before he can entertain the notion of ripping those flowers apart with his bare hands, of clawing every trace of Kim Hongjoong from Seonghwa until he's a clean slate for Yunho to thoroughly, irrevocably imprint on.
Seonghwa has his head turned to the side, cheek resting on the pillow. His lashes flutter lightly along every open-mouthed breath he takes to laboriously compensate for his obstructed organs. Yunho's gaze is naturally drawn to Seonghwa's half-lidded, teary eyes. He calls his name once, twice, and finds the only response to which is how the haziness in those eyes subtly condenses—morphs—into something sharper, sadder. That suffices as an acknowledgement all the same. The guilt-stricken look is glacial as it slides down Yunho's throat, yet does little to quell the fervor pulsing in his blood. While Yunho isn't nearly cruel enough to question the sentiment out loud, it doesn't mean he takes no pleasure in witnessing the tortured display on he who desperately wants to forget. Their arrangement is built upon a well-crafted illusion—Seonghwa knows that as well as Yunho does, if not moreso—and still, because Seonghwa is as softhearted as he is cruel, the ache in his chest seems to neither be any help in upholding that foundation nor absolving him from the depravity of having his body filled by one person and his mind filled by another.
For Yunho's presence to be capable of eliciting such torture—
"Something—no, someone on your mind?"
Seonghwa's jaw instantly tightens. His breathing briefly halts with a suspended noise, indicative of a suppressed cough. It serves well as a wordless, shameful affirmation. There is contempt bleeding from the glare that Seonghwa subsequently shoots him, from the frown his bitten lips twist into—he must be aware of the thrill rushing down Yunho's spine over the discourteous question. The unspoken vitriol is but an empty warning that delightfully tugs on the frayed ends of Yunho's loosened inhibition. A repulsive urge rears its head from behind unfastened restraints: to lead their dance beyond the thin chalk-drawn line—pushing the limits established by only a little more than common sense. If they depart far enough from their center of gravity, which of them will topple first under the sheer weight of their feelings?
(Yunho isn't particularly partial to his personal hypothesis. He opts to stow it away altogether.)
"Even if you think Hongjoong hyung can fuck you better—hypothetically speaking, of course." Each syllable drips lethal poison. The residual clings to the tip of his tongue, reenters his bloodstream, and corrodes his heart. "I'm still the one in your bed right now. It's pretty rude to not even spare me a glance, isn't it, hyung?"
The sorrow that overtakes the ephemeral fiery rage on Seonghwa's countenance is worth every second of the self-inflicted pinprick sting. Before he can get another word out, Yunho thrusts deep, leaving the only sound to spill from Seonghwa's mouth a strangled gasp carrying the subtle rustle of petals. In an attempt to intercept the growing grief from fully taking the shape of Hongjoong, Yunho bends forth and nips at Seonghwa's exposed throat, where the vibrations from shallow, erratic breathing can be felt through the skin of his lips. Blood rings in his ears as his teeth find the lower edge of Seonghwa's left collarbone. The faint trail of marks soon finds its conclusion not too far below, separated from the golden origin by fat, muscles, bones, and all that lies in between, none of which is broken by the sharp edges of Yunho's canine.
Seonghwa's breath hitches, still. There comes a passing suffocation, like the flowers are also his own.
"Is this really worth it?" The words escape before Yunho can help it.
Under the consistent tempo, Seonghwa doesn't seem to be able to pay any mind to the uncouth question, which, for Yunho, is both a pity and a relief: pivoting on either sides of how Seonghwa's heart lies far away from his reach is the longing to carve himself in as a persistent scar and the unwillingness to end the sweet dream with his own two hands. Blinding himself to the future somewhat allows him to bear the agonizing pulls of equal strength towards opposing ends; therefore, Yunho quiets his thoughts and indulges in the present. After all, Seonghwa is here, here, here—he needn't for his mind to drift elsewhere, not when his hyung deserves nothing less than undivided attention. Yunho himself, too, yearns to grant him just that, and then some. At this moment, Seonghwa is his; tried and true by the shared pleasure of flesh, the broken whimpers, and the aching want threatening to leap from Yunho's chest with blood vessels and nerves still intact. If an ending is imminent, then the least he can do is not let the warmth under his touch slip away through the cracks of his fingers before he can commit it, once again, to the deepest crevices of his mind.
There is bitter, sinful beauty in how tangibly Seonghwa crumbles the closer he is brought to gratification: eyes unfocused, head limp to the side, and grip loosened around the beddings as his body fully gives in for Yunho to use at his disposal. Icy pride thaws and evaporates before Yunho's eyes, clearing away to release a flurry of broken marigolds; even if only in a blink, the instinctive pursuit of sensual indulgence seems to greatly pale in the face of such a heartwrenchingly vulnerable sight. The coughing grows increasingly irregular, intense. The dim orange glow illuminating the bedroom highlights the oddity in color on what should've been golden.
What Yunho finds upon catching Seonghwa's chin and turning his face has electricity instantly shoot up his fingers, rendering them powerless. His breath is caught in his throat as his mind stutters into momentary stagnation. A rivulet of blood drips from the corner of Seonghwa's mouth and vaults the edge of his chin, sliding down his neck, like exquisite wine spilling from an overfilled chalice. Judging by the grimace slowly settling upon Seonghwa's expression, that looks like it hurts—
"—Seonghwa hyung?"
The call promptly returns a streak of clarity to Seonghwa's hazy eyes. He blinks once, twice, seemingly to register his state before lifting his gaze to search Yunho's as he brings a hand up to wipe the blood off with but a quiet sigh—the motion too dismissive and efficient to be anything other than routine. The shape of Seonghwa's mouth slowly moves around words, all of which falls deaf on Yunho's ears, blocked by the inexplicable, persistent buzz of white noise.
(Red. Red lingering on Seonghwa's lower lip, smearing across Seonghwa's knuckle, dyeing the petals, tainting the beddings. Such is the price Seonghwa pays for his affections—)
What follows another violent coughing fit is neither a demand nor a plea. Seonghwa's Adam's apple bobs through his rough breathing. The bedcover lightly rustles as lithe legs slide around Yunho's hips in a silent invitation—an insistence, rather, judging by the sharp look in Seonghwa's eyes. Yunho feels his mouth falling open before he can think of what to say. Let's stop here tonight—the words perched on the tip of his tongue subsequently drown in the sudden torrential kiss Seonghwa drags him down for. The metallic tang lingering in the seams of Seonghwa's mouth seeps into his taste buds, rendering him lightheaded before the hint of floral bitterness gives rise to white fury. Breaking the kiss, Yunho pulls his attention away from the vague satisfaction over Seonghwa's countenance. Seonghwa's nails dig into his arm, distracting him from the bloody spots marring the fresh petals succeeding another soft cough he failed to stifle. The line distinguishing the searing heat of want from wrath rapidly blurs. Yunho makes a half-hearted effort to redraw it with a slow inhale.
"Carry on," says Seonghwa, too soft to be a demand. His voice is weak and deathly scratchy. Yunho's guts twist into knots. Desire accosts him, tearing the last shred of conscience apart and disturbing his reasons. He watches as Seonghwa turns away again, not quickly enough to conceal the bead of red escaping him upon the ragged, open-mouthed breath.
This time, it's Yunho who reaches out to once again seal their mouths together. Any self-restraint he had left melts away at some point between the clash of their teeth, the undiluted taste of blood, and Seonghwa's muffled noise indicating surprise. Appetite renewed and redoubled, Yunho dives back into temptation like a moth to flames, almost mindlessly so. He would've blamed it on instincts were he not intimately aware of his inability to tell Seonghwa "no". The curve of Seonghwa's thin, approving smile and the weary gratefulness in his eyes confine Yunho in an inescapable labyrinth, where he has little choice in quelling the ache in his chest but to submerge himself in physical appetency.
Then again, what else is he supposed to do to begin with?
Struggling to breathe through the spiraling suffocation, Yunho extricates himself to flip Seonghwa over on his stomach. Avoiding eye contact would be easier on both of them, anyway. Seonghwa cooperates without a fight, even going as far as dutifully raising his hips. Yunho blinds and deafens himself to all else but the wet, tight grip on him as he slides back in. It feels good. It feels good. Seonghwa's muffled cry attests to the sentiment on his end. Yunho wets his lips and closes his eyes. The call of his body is now louder, clearer. It feels good. Seonghwa expertly rolls backward to meet Yunho in the middle. He doesn't seem to mind Yunho taking it slow this time. The coughing has either thankfully declined or Seonghwa has taken it upon himself to bury them behind the crook of his elbow. Yunho proceeds to feign an inclination for ignorance, regardless. The gears thus turn as intended again. A precise thrust immediately has Seonghwa squirming and tightening around him. It feels good. All is good.
It doesn't take much longer for Seonghwa to come with a full-body shiver and a broken whine, conveniently pushing Yunho over the edge. It's unsurprisingly anti-climactic. The buzz under Yunho's skin phases out relatively quickly, giving way to a gaping hollowness which he now considers a dear friend. A lungful of cold air sufficiently restores his ability to reason. As regretful as it is, Yunho wrenches away from the warm post-coital fuzziness to withdraw himself and carefully roll a boneless Seonghwa onto his back. Bloody streaks are smudged across his chin, portraying him closer to a victim than an intimate partner. Yunho ruefully sighs. He flicks away a stray petal sticking to Seonghwa's lower arm with the tip of his finger before turning towards the bedside drawer.
The severity of his conditon not withstanding, Seonghwa still slowly pulls himself up, receives the inhaler, and brings it to his mouth without complaints. Yunho watches in silence as the herbicide rushes down Seonghwa's throat and permeates the walls of his thoracic cavity, leaving rotten flowers in its wake. He fails to wrap his mind around how Seonghwa can perceive dying to slow poison or being choked to death by marigolds as better than simply confessing. Unlike Yunho, it isn't as if a rejection would completely set Seonghwa's relationship with Hongjoong on fire—
At the very least, Seonghwa isn't coughing his lungs up anymore.
"Hey, don't look like that. I'm still alive, aren't I?"
Unable to empathize with the gentle mirth in Seonghwa's voice, Yunho averts his eyes, gaze following the petals scattering on the bedsheet. He eventually reaches out to grab Seonghwa's hand, savoring the warmth under his touch, before closing in to lick the dried blood off the corner of his mouth. The lack of resistance to the initiative indicates a rare instance of Seonghwa's indulgence; Yunho supposes it’s apologetic. His suspicion is confirmed when Seonghwa squeezes his fingers and speaks again, voice soft:
"Sorry for scaring you earlier."
His breath still smells faintly of marigolds. Yunho draws him closer and buries his face in the crook of his neck.
"'s alright," murmurs Yunho, half-lying. "Are you okay?"
"All good. So, same time next week?"
Despite being spared the push, Yunho knows how to read between the lines and not to overstay his welcome. He assents to the offer, however. They go through the motions of making things decently presentable before Yunho takes Seonghwa's offer for a quick shower. No more words of significance are exchanged until Seonghwa sees him off at the doorway, and they bid each other goodbye.