The apartment was filled to the brim with flowers. The same flower, same color, same scent, everyday. Minho loved it at first; receiving flowers from his boyfriend was a delight.
But everyday.
The scent only grew stronger and Minho was forcing himself to not say anything about it. He didn't want it to stop, but fuck, he felt sick.
He was sticking his head out of the window when Chan walked in, another bouquet of white roses in his hand. Damn, they were running out of vases as well.
"Hey babe, it smells great in here, doesn't it?" Chan compliments the room, breathing in deeply.
The breath that Chan took made Minho almost gag. It was deathly disgusting, but he wouldn't dare say anything about it.
"Yeah," he smiles weakly, taking the flowers and shoving them in with another group.
"Are you feeling okay? You look really pale," the elder scrunched up his face, pressing the back of his hand to Min's forehead.
"I'm just really hot."
It was hot. So hot that it made it worse. The heat, the unbearably strong scent, and the fact that the apartment was small.
"Did you open the windows? It is a bit stuffy in here."
"The windows have been open all day," he mutters, his head beginning to spin.
Like I said before. Deathly.
He holds his head, trying to gain stability, but his knees were barely able to hold him up. They were so, so weak. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't take a deep breath. He needed air. He didn't have a job. He was in the apartment almost 24/7.
"Whoa, what's the matter?" Chan grasps his upper arm, the contact burning his skin.
"I-I just need some water." His stomach began to twist and turn as if he was on a never ending roller coaster. He tries to walk to the kitchen, but stumbles over his own feet.
"Gosh Min, sit. I'll get it for you." Chan ran to the kitchen, quickly getting his lover a glass of ice cold water.
Sweat began to form on Minho's forehead, dripping down his temples. His breathing was picking up, though, he hated every inhale. The air was dry and rose-scented, as if the apartment had been a closed off garden for years.
When he took a sip of water, he felt the heat in his throat die down a bit, but the nausea soon returned.
"Trash," he panted out, shifting continuously, "trashcan. Trashcan."
Chan sprinted to get a trashcan, highly concerned for his boyfriend. What was wrong? How did he get sick?
Minho gagged into the plastic container, nothing but stomach acid and spit coming out. Though nothing really did end up landing in the bin, the pain was all there. The sharp heaves, the sore throat, the uncomfortableness of everything.
"I can't do it," he cries, tears beginning to pour down his cheeks. "The flowers. I can't stand them. There's an overwhelming scent. I can't breathe. And it's too damn hot. I can't. I love them so much, but please, no more. Get rid of them. Please, Channie. Please."
"Of course love," Chan whispers understandingly, "why didn't you tell me sooner?"
"I-I didn't want it to stop. I loved it, but the scent is just so much. Look around, there's no clear counter space. We have so many. Why don't they die faster?"
To this, the elder lets out an amused chuckle, "I don't know, but I'll clean them out right now, okay? Let's move you to the window first."
He helps Minho stand since his legs were still wobbly, and helps him walk to the window seat. It was better getting fresh air, but they had a long way to go.
"Chan, keep the ones you brought today. Just take out the old ones. I still really love them.
"Of course," he smiles, kissing his forehead.
•How was this?
Highly inspired by the movie If A Man Answers 1962 (super good and cute 10/10)
Also I'm feeling kind of content today. I went on a college campus tour, and I really liked it. But I'm still terrified for college•
