NCT Oneshots {ot23} | open

Violet: MarkRen

▹prompt: use violet and evoke a feeling of longing
▹word count: 1366
▹genre: angst, heartbreak
▹warnings: implied character death

ˑ༄ؘ ۪۪۫۫ ▹❀◃ ۪۪۫۫ ༄ؘ ˑ

I've bought some more lavender to plant in his front garden. When I came here two days ago, they'd begun to shrivel up, the vibrant violet flowers fading away into ghostly pale corpses of what they were before. Dead. Each time I have to buy more to fill the spaces, it reminds me of the days that have passed since Mark's disappearance. You see, the flowers keep giving up. I plant them, then they grow full of hope until their dreams dwindle and they die. But I haven't given up. And I never will. Instead, I keep replenishing Mark's front garden for him. I want his house to keep breathing, so that he can have a nice home to return to. As his boyfriend it's my duty, because he will come back, one day. I know he will.

I kneel down on the path outside his pristine front door and carefully place the garden trowel and pot of lavender at my side. There's a place between the rows of violets, candytufts, bellflowers and pansies that so desperately wants to fulfil its duty of keeping a plant alive. Yesterday, I meticulously sifted the soil and even pulled out the weeds.

I lean down to dig a small hole. Every time the trowel plunges into the soil, it feels desperate. It's as though filling the gap in Mark's garden is the only way to fill the hole in my heart. The past two years, three months and fifteen days have been tough, inexplicably so, but I'm not giving up on him now. Especially not now that the police, his other friends, and even his family, all have. Excitement and satisfaction surge through my veins once the final grain of soil lands back around the lavender plant and seals it in place.

The sick flicker of depression calls it a grave, as the plant's only fate is to die here and be replaced by new plants, but I repeat a mantra to drown the pessimism. The soil is a miracle incubator that feeds the plant with life and strength.

Dusting my hands off on my faded jeans, I stand up to admire my work. The patch of garden in front of Mark's house is modest, but beautiful. Candytufts and bellflowers border the edge, spilling out over the path in some places. I notice they seem eager to escape this mundane life they must be living. A tears pricks my eyes as a reminder that's not too far from my reality right now; everyday I get up, go to work, come here, then return home. Which is what Mark will do very soon, I repeat under my breath as yet another desperate mantra. He will come back. I know it. Call me crazy, I dare you, but I can feel it.

My eyes are drawn to the trellis next. The crosses of wood seem cracked and dry, but they're still far from death. They simply sacrifice some of their energy to keep the elegant clematis alive. The green leaves twirl and flutter around the fence. Their most prominent feature - stunning purple petals - stand proudly within the wall of foliage. I haven't failed to take note of the way their beauty attracts the attention of any passer-by. Including the old lady that lives a few houses down the road and always watches me. She likes to pretend to tend to her own garden, but it can't be a coincidence that whenever I look in her direction her head suddenly ducks back down and her hands fumble with her secateurs to continue pruning her roses.

What I have most faith in are the violets. They have yet to give up, and when I visit them, all the rows stand upright and sway slightly in the breeze, as though serenading me as a choir. Gazing at their lazy dance, memories of Mark's sweet singing voice tease my ears. I know I can trust them to stay with me. They're loyal, with a lifespan of almost fifty years, and they bloom each summer. What's more, they were Mark's favourite flower. Is. I grit my teeth from the disappointment that I let that slip. Mark isn't dead. Of course he isn't. He'll come back, because as long as the violets are alive he can't die. As long as they live, my hope for him lives, so Mark lives. Purple is his favourite colour, too. Although I'm sure that's obvious from the sheer array of violet plants adorning his front garden.

A smile invades my face and tugs at my cheeks. The wind strokes my hair and fills my lungs with fresh hope. One single cloud ambles across the blue sky. It must to be lost, too. All alone in the daunting landscape. At least something understands me, now that everyone simply shakes their head in pity, no words leaving their lips because their expressions say it all. None directed to me, at least. They talk about me instead; I'm just the crazy outsider. I hope the cloud finds the way home.

Just as it sit cross-legged on the garden path, a stray cat, skinny and dishevelled, saunters past. The golden sunlight reflects off its marble eyes, which stare directly into mine. It scratches behind its right ear, shakes itself off, and turns back down the pavement. I feel hurt that it didn't even cast a glance at the beautiful showcase of purple flowers, but its only a cat, I remind myself. Mark always wanted a pet cat. When recollections of the late-night conversations flick through my mind, I nearly chase after it.

But I'm tired, so I don't move. My eyes burn into its figure as it shrinks into the distance. Until my eyes are pulled elsewhere. A few houses down, a figure stands in the middle of the pavement.

Mark.

He's home.

The trowel clatters when I knock it by jumping to my feet, but the piercing clink doesn't register in my ears because all I can hear is Mark's gentle Renjun-ah. He extends his arms as I sprint to reach him, then he pulls me into a secure hug. It feels surreal. My heartbeat pulses through my head, my stomach clenches and flutters, and each gasping breath scratches at the lump of tears in my throat. Every emotion under the sun crashes over me. I tremble in his hold. I bury my face in the crook of his neck, eyes shut, and feel myself be transported back to when we were teenagers hiding in the corner of the school library to sneak kisses.

After a long spell of dizziness, I pull back to admire him. He's here. Mark is here. His black hoodie and jeans contrast his pale complexion, paper-white like a ghost. He's probably malnourished because only God knows where on Earth he's been for all these painful months. The soft purple of his hair shimmers in the sunlight. That's new. I reach up to caress the tufts and decide that the colour compliments the frame of his glasses. Behind those lenses, his eyes sink into his skull, but I think they're still ethereal. Wide, corners ever so slightly crinkled as he smiles, and the pupils shine bright with innocence.

They remind me of the cat's eyes. I glance over my shoulder to seek out the animal, before I decide its whereabouts doesn't matter because Mark is here. His entire figure blurs as my vision tunnels, and in places I can almost see right through him, stumbling forward into his arms again with a frenzied cry of relief. The first tear is cold and sharp, but it comes with the crumbling of all the walls I'd built up, and the thrill of letting go consumes me. I laugh. I cry harder. I can't breathe. All I can breathe is Mark's scent. Over his shoulder, the spying lady has her eyebrows scrunched up in confusion, but she must not understand the feeling of being reunited with the love of your life.

You came back.

Of course I did, Renjun-ah.

I take his hand and lead him up the garden path. Home.

As the front door clicks shut, the violets shrivel up.

ˑ༄ؘ ۪۪۫۫ ▹❀◃ ۪۪۫۫ ༄ؘ ˑ