flowers have grown in my chest

1: rosoideae (rose)

     Roses don't survive well in salt. Lee Minho knows this because he's been dragged to the beach twice a week to breathe in the salt air off the sea, ever since he got sick. His mother has been counting the weeks since he was hospitalised - it started off as counting each day, when they thought he'd recover quickly. After the days reached 100, she started counting weeks instead. Minho still counts the days: 173. He's convinced his mother still checks off the days on the calendar, with neat little pen strokes after every visit; she comes to see him everyday and brings salty seaweed soup. He doesn't even like seaweed soup that much, but he still eats every last drop because roses don't do well in salt, sweetheart, and she'll cry if she thinks he isn't getting better. He hates seeing his mother cry, so he eats the salty foods (even though he can feel his arteries hardening and what's the point in killing the roses in his chest if he's just going to have a heart-attack from so much salt?) and lets the nurses bring him to the beach (even though it's November now and the beach isn't warm anymore).

     It's worth it when he finishes his weekly chest examination and the doctor gives him a hopeful smile with promises of going home from Christmas. He gets more smiles and more promises as time goes on, which makes him smile more too. He thinks about the future a lot: about whether or not he'll rejoin his dance group, or if he'll try to get into university or just start work. His mother reminds him that he has a lot of possibilities - after all, he's been permanently excused from military service for being a walking flower bouquet, so he can make any commitment he wants. He could even go abroad if he wanted to.

     The doctor and his mother have a long conversation that he isn't involved in, even though he's just turned twenty and is old enough to make his own decisions. But then he's told that he's healthy enough to walk around on his own and he couldn't care less about having a say in anything. He nearly cries with happiness when he takes his first step into the garden because it's been 173 days in the clinic, yet he's never been in the garden without being confined to a wheelchair. He has to dry his eyes quickly when he realises he isn't alone: there's a boy sitting on a bench in front of a patch of lilies, holding a cup to his face and taking a deep breath every now and then.

     Minho feels brave for some reason as he sits down on the other side of the bench, moving slowly enough that he doesn't jostle the thorn lodged in his sixth rib that will be removed in the surgery that's scheduled for two days time. He doesn't speak for a few seconds, instead looking at the boy from the corner of his eye. The boy is unfamiliar - Minho has never seen him in his 173 days - and small, with a narrow frame that looks like it belongs on a corpse. His cheeks hold a little life, their roundness making Minho guess that he's around sixteen or seventeen? There are deep, dark shadows under the kid's eyes, the same shadows Minho sees under his mother's eyes when she's had another sleepless night spent worrying about him.

     Minho has to speak, if only to stop his guilt-ridden thoughts of the worry he's caused his mother the last 173 days. "Who are you here for?" he finds himself saying, and the boy just takes another deep inhalation from his cup, giving no indication that he heard the question. Minho is going to speak again, although he is unsure of what word-vomit is going to leave his lips, when the kid speaks.

     "My mother." The boy's voice is rough, and Minho wonders if maybe he has the cold. He shouldn't be sitting outside if he does, but Minho knows sometimes visitors need to get out of the clinic sometimes. There have been many occasions when his mother has simply fled from his room when he's hunched over a bowl, blood dripping from his lips and petals fluttering from his throat with every rough cough that tears from his chest-

     He has to speak again, unable to continue that thought process. "Your mom is sick? I'm sorry-"

     "No. She isn't sick. She's making me be here." The boy cuts him off and takes another deep breath, pulling Minho's attention to the mug. It appears to just contain hot water, judging by the clear liquid and the steam wafting over the rim, but there's a scent behind it that Minho is familiar with, but can't quite recognise.

     "I'm confused," Minho says as he tries to make eye contact with the kid, but it's hard when the boy won't look his way. "Who are you here to see?" The kid still won't speak, and Minho exhales as sharply as he can with his reduced lung capacity. He's been polite and he's clearly older than the boy, so it would only be good manners to give his questions a reasonable answer - or any type of answer. "Hey. Visitors aren't supposed to be unsupervised, you need to-"

     He stops speaking when the kid moves one hand off his mug, and for a brief second Minho thinks the small boy is about to try and strike him. But instead, he holds his hand up and gives it a weak shake until his hoodie sleeve falls down enough to show his skinny wrist. There's a thin strip of plastic wrapped around it with details written in neat Hangul - all Minho can make out is the word 'Han'.

     Minho realises that the kid isn't here to visit a relative - he is the sick one, with flowers blooming in his chest - Jesus, how old is he - he looks far too young to be in a place like a clinic for Hanahaki patients...

     The boy takes another inhalation, and the familiar scent of salt washes over Minho along with another realisation: the kid is breathing in the steam of the salt water, the same way Minho had to, 96 days ago, when he was too weak to make it to the beach. "Roses don't do well in salt," he whispers to himself, and jumps when the boy's head snaps towards him. Minho stands as quickly as he can and bows his head in apology, before he hurries back towards the door to escape inside the clinic once more.