𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐬 | yungi

2

A lot of things have changed since then. Of course, Yunho is still Yunho, who likes pirates and his mother's homemade pastries, who still has to set three alarms to get up in the morning. But he is also Yunho, who does not laugh as freely as he used to, who hates school more than any of this classmates, and may as well be non-existent in the eyes of Song Mingi.

Once, in childhood, Yunho had offered him friendship and a hand to hold. In return, Mingi had gifted him a curse. A curse soaked in cherry juice and redcurrants; stomach-grown vineyards, locally sourced and ever growing.

Now? He couldn't even tell you the last time he spoke to the other.

There is a name for it. Born from fiction, brought to life by love. A love so powerful, it carried death. Yunho has never been sure what that word meant, what it should mean from him, or how it works, really. He is not one for emotions, and certainly not for such emotions directed towards a member of the same sex. Yet, his body hums a different melody, guides him on a different stanza, plucks his heartstrings with calloused fingers.

Yunho's learnt the hard way that distance makes the heart grow fonder. He's asked for everything; fallen to his knees with clasped fingers and sweaty palms to bring them closer, further and everything in between. Love is not something God is interested in discussing, however. They say everything happens for a reason. Yunho isn't too damn sure.

This year, he tries one more time. His mother is delighted when he agrees on going to Sunday service with her, the first Sunday in a long, long time, and he twitches the left side of his lips in what he thinks is a smile when she holds his arm happily through the thick, oak doors of the church. His mother introduces him to a never-ending stream of women who coo and awe at how much he's grown, how good-looking he is, how he should have a girlfriend by now. He does not care. They stand shoulder-to-shoulder to sing the opening service hymns. He gets all the words wrong. He does not care. They sit when the pastor declares it so, and he tells everyone to flip to Philippians 4:4-7. "Whatever you have learned or received or heard form me, or seen in me- put it into practice. And the peace of God will be with you." He says amen a beat later than everyone else. He does not care. He crosses his arms and waits patiently for the end, when the eyes of the church are closed and he is asked to call upon his Creator.

"Tell Him your worries, your qualms, all and nothing and everything in between," the pastor calls. It elicits murmurs and cries from the devout. Yunho remains silent. His pleas are not anything he wants to share publicly.

Please, he thinks. Have I not suffered enough? Has this not gone on too far? The flowers have eaten away at his bones and thirteen years of his life. Slowly eroding away, like the sea's rockface. Stomach acid rising, lungs working overtime. His body was never equipped for this type of love, yet it carries on. For how long, is a whole other question entirely. He receives no response, only the sighs of gratefulness and relief of believers in neighbouring pews who respond to the answers to their prayers. This makes Yunho angry.

Take Song Mingi out of my life. His eyes squeeze tighter as he grows desperate. I beg you, let me get over this stupid disease and be done with this childish, fickle love. I don't want to get worse. I'm scared.

Amen.

His mother asks if he enjoyed himself as they climb into the car. He hums politely in response. When he arrives home, exhaustion tranquilises him and he sleeps harder than he ever has before.