Archive of Our Own

The pressure in Baku’s chest dragged him out of sleep like a hand pulling him from deep water. He sucked in a sharp breath, consciousness bleeding slowly back into his head, and felt the air scrape through his lungs as though the dawn itself resisted letting him wake. A thin crack in the curtains leaked a pale strip of morning light across the room while he fought his own body for air. Something ached inside him, heavy, rooted — like a foreign seed had settled in his lungs overnight.

His vision wavered. Dust hung suspended in the stale air, drifting in and out of focus as the room spun, as if time itself had stalled to watch him struggle. He clutched at his hair with both hands, silently bargaining that this was only the leftover shadow of a dream.

Another inhale tore down his throat like acid poured over an open wound. It snagged halfway into his chest, hot and searing, his ribs quivering in protest.

He coughed—once, twice, again—his hand flying up instinctively to cover his mouth. Bent double, he forced out another convulsion, dragged from some deep and hidden place within him.

Something tore free.

It landed in his palm with a soft whisper of weight; in the weak glow of the rising sun, a white petal sat speckled with blood. Baku blinked hard, eyes stinging, disbelief hollowing him out.

His mouth tasted of iron and something faintly sweet. He wiped the back of his hand across his lips; a smear of crimson bloomed across his skin. Blinking again, the dizziness began to ebb, and breath returned in shallow, searching pulls.

His body braced for another coughing fit, but none came. Only the frantic thrum of his pulse filled his ears. Panic pooled beneath his sternum, his heart hammering as though trying to escape.

When he rose from the bed, the room tilted violently. He steadied himself with a hand pressed to the mattress and caught sight of himself in the mirror: pale face, hollowed eyes, lips cracked and stained crimson.

Something inside his chest shifted; subtle, foreign, invasive—like roots curling deeper. But he could breathe now. The fear receded, leaving a thin tremor behind. He placed the petal gently on his desk. The delicate white sliver looked impossibly out of place in the stagnant gloom of his room.

He forced himself to reason, he must’ve swallowed a flower petal last night while out with Gotak. That had to be it. That was the only explanation that didn’t unravel him.

His phone read 5:00 a.m.

He rubbed his face and let out a low sigh into the stale air. His father had been furious that he’d stayed out late, but it had been his birthday; his eighteenth. He’d wanted to spend it anywhere but trapped in a suffocating apartment with a man who resented the air he breathed.

Padding softly into the kitchen, he avoided the places where the floor groaned. He grabbed a bottle of water and drank half in one go. The cool wash soothed the raw burn in his throat, rinsing away the sweetness of petals and the metallic tang of blood. A draft sighed through the kitchen, raising a shiver along his sweat damp skin.

Back in his room, he crawled beneath the covers and fought for sleep, but the image of the petal lingered behind his eyelids, haunting. Eventually, exhaustion pulled him down into a dreamless dark.

------✿✿✿✿------

The restaurant pulsed with noise, orders shouted, grease popping in the fryer, laughter slurred by alcohol, but it all sounded distant to Baku, filtered through the thin, invisible film that had settled over him since dawn. His mistakes piled up; wrong orders, dropped utensils, a mind that drifted like smoke. His father said nothing, but disappointment was etched on his face. Baku was taking the last order from a table of drunken almost-adults when the bell above the door chimed.

He followed the sound and froze; he blinked in rapid succession to make sure his mind wasn’t playing tricks on him. 

Baekjin stood framed in the doorway of the shabby fried chicken shop, the flickering fluorescent light tracing sharp lines across his face. He scanned the room first, assessing, calculating, always expecting the world to bare its teeth until his gaze locked on Baku.

For a breath, something softened. Or Baku imagined it. Either way, it vanished just as quickly.

Baku muttered an excuse to the laughing table and stalked toward the front, heartbeat thunderous against his chest.

“Baekjin,” Baku said, voice taut. If Baekjin had come here, had sought out Baku willingly, then something was wrong. They didn’t visit each other. They were not friends.

Not anymore.

“Humin,” Baekjin replied, his tone flat and unreadable. “It’s your birthday.” He said it like a fact carved in stone, nothing more.

Baku rolled his eyes and let out a scoff, defenses rising, but Baekjin only lifted a small paper bag and held it out. No explanation. No expression.

“What is this?” Baku asked with the attempt to keep curiosity out of his voice. The words tasted heavy in his mouth, tinged faintly with that floral sweetness he couldn’t shake. Baekjin didn’t answer. He just gave the bag a small shake, urging Baku to take it. Their fingers brushed for a fleeting second and Baekjin released the bag as though Baku’s skin burned. The handle settled into Baku’s grasp. His pulse stuttered. Something in his chest gave a tight, uncomfortable twitch like vines choking a tree trunk.

They stared at each other. Neither backed down. Baekjin’s eyes were sharp, dissecting. Without breaking eye contact, Baekjin stepped backward, pushed open the door, and slipped out into the chilled night air. The words Baku wanted to say rose like bile, pressing hard at his throat, but he swallowed them, letting the silence close behind Baekjin instead.

Numb and confused, and honestly a bit hurt, he set the unopened bag on a table and finished the night in a fog. Time felt thin, stretched. His chest ached in strange pulses. The faint sweetness clung to each breath. He didn’t think about the bag again until he was stacking chairs during his closing duties. Not wanting his father to see anything suspicious, he shoved it into his backpack with his apron. With Baekjin, intent was never guaranteed.

Outside, the air was cool and smelled faintly of rain. Baku walked home alone, his father staying behind to drown himself in soju and sports. Baku scoffed under his breath as he realized his father had forgotten his birthday. Again.

But the emotion didn’t come the way it used to. Just a small, bruised ache, grief wrapped tight with guilt. He rubbed his sternum automatically, trying to ease the strange pressure building there.

Fall had begun to take hold. The air bit softly at his skin; the leaves whispered overhead like paper-thin lungs crackling. He’d forgotten his jacket. The breeze raised gooseflesh along his arms, leaving him feeling syphoned of warmth, as if the world had taken something from him and refused to give it back. At the apartment door, he punched in the code. These four walls had never been a home, only a container for failures. His existence had been marked from birth with loss, and his father had never forgiven the child who survived where his mother had not.

Loneliness filled the cramped space like mold. His father had always been a drinker, but grief had hollowed him out into an absence; the shape of a man who neither hit nor hugged, who simply lived around Baku like he was a stain on the wallpaper. Baku had once cared. He used to cover his father with blankets, slide pillows under his head, clean up the bottles. But compassion had soured over time, leaving only contempt.

Now they barely spoke. They worked. They existed. They endured.

Baku slipped into his room and flicked on the weak desk lamp. Shadows clung to the walls. The bulb in the main light had long since died; he hadn’t bothered to replace it. He pulled Baekjin’s bag from his backpack with a strange, prickling caution. He steeled himself before peering inside, curiosity outweighing caution.

Inside was a single cupcake. 

A candle. A matchbox.

No note.

Nothing else.

But it was strawberry.

Wet heat blurred Baku’s vision. A memory pulsed behind his eyes; sweet, sharp, painful. And something in his chest shifted again, a soft crawling movement shifted between his ribs. A reminder that something was growing.

------✿✿✿✿------

“Baku, it’s your birthday,” Baekjin noted as they walked side by side. Backpacks gently slapped their backs as they made their way to their park.

Baku groaned, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I don’t celebrate, Jin. You know that.”

But Baekjin had stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and just looked at him, eyes curious, sharp but soft around the edges. He studied Baku the way he studied math: patiently, determined to understand even the things that refused to make sense.

“Why not?” he asked.

Baku had scowled. He’d saved Baekjin from bullies weeks before, loud and reckless, while Baekjin had been quiet brilliance in a too-big uniform. Somehow that imbalance had turned into a friendship. An unlikely gravity pulling them together.

“Don’t wanna talk about it,” Baku muttered, stomping off. He had never told anyone about his mother. About the silence his father carved around him like a punishment. About how he sometimes wished for a bruise rather than the cold absence of touch. Bruises healed. Indifference lasted. But Baekjin had just sighed the way he always did with Baku, used to the temper, the rough edges, and walked after him. He bumped their shoulders together, small and warm, and gave a little smile. Usually they would have gone to the park, Baku tearing up fistfuls of grass and rambling about manga while Baekjin pretended not to listen, bent over his workbooks. But that day Baekjin tugged Baku’s sleeve and pulled him toward a convenience store instead.

“Wait here,” he said and left Baku at the entrance. Baku toed at the cracked cement, arms crossed, and tried to not feel the disappointment of another birthday coming and going without recognition. Baekjin appeared in front of Baku without another word and they walk in silence to their spot in the damp grass in the park. Baku threw down his backpack and sat with a huff. Baekjin was more delicate with his backpack and set down the plastic bag, purposefully out of Baku’s curious hands. 

“Close your eyes,” Baekjin murmured. Baku did. There was rustling, the soft pop of plastic, the faint scrape of something being opened. And then—“Okay. Open.”

Baku had blinked into the glow of a small flame. A single cupcake. A single candle. And Baekjin, he looked so gentle, hopeful, holding it out with both hands.

“Make a wish.”

Baku didn’t hesitate, didn’t even blink.

I wish Baekjin and I could be friends forever.

He never said it aloud, afraid the world would hear and take it away.

They took turns biting into the cupcake. It was strawberry, Baku preferred chocolate, but somewhere between shared bites and laughter, strawberry became his new favorite flavor. 

They stayed long past a reasonable hour, lingering in the park as the lamppost flickered on above them. Baku knew his father would be angry. Baekjin would get a stern lecture from the orphanage master. But neither wanted the night to end.

“Happy birthday, Baku,” Baekjin whispered, wrapping him in a hug. Warm. Solid. Real. Baku had leaned into him without hesitation. In that moment, Baekjin was a small, brilliant light in a world that otherwise lived in shadow. And Baku swore into the night that he would protect that light with everything he had.

------✿✿✿✿------

But the memory now tasted bittersweet. It pressed against Baku’s throat like something too bitter to swallow.

Back in the dimness of his room, he struck the match. The candle flared. Shadows quivered along the walls.

Three years. Three years apart. Baku to Eunjang with the delinquents and Baekjin to Yeo-ll with a scholarship. That had been the first fissure; the Union had been the final blow. 

And Baekjin still brought him a cupcake.

Hope, fragile and foolish, stirred like a dangerous thing inside Baku. He stared at the flame until his eyes stung, wondering if wishes ever meant anything. Wondering if the world would punish him for daring to hope again.

Just once, he let himself be selfish.

Bring Baekjin back to me.

He blew out the candle. And his chest seized.

Not with emotion but with something living. A cold sweat prickled down his spine. His ribs clamped. Air was stolen from him all at once. Panic ignited. His throat convulsed.

He coughed.

Then again, harsh, wrenching, pulled from deep within where the roots lived, sweetness bloomed across his tongue and a sickening metallic tang flooded behind it. His body lurched forward as he gagged, the room spinning, blood rushing in his ears.

A petal slipped from his mouth.

White. Stark. Blood speckled. Same as before. 

It fluttered down, dancing through the air as if mocking him, before settling gently onto the floor. Baku clutched at his throat, gasping, inhaling past the snag of something growing inside him. Something taking up space that belonged to breath.

He felt it. Threading itself through him. Vines mapping his lungs. Soft tendrils curling with every inhale. Blossoms filling his ribcage. 

Each breath tasted faintly of rot. Each exhale sweet.

His stomach heaved. Bile rose, hot and acidic, and he vomited into the trash can until nothing remained but the taste of sickness clinging to his tongue. His body trembled uncontrollably. His vision swam.

He didn’t rinse his mouth. Didn’t change. Didn’t care.

He collapsed into bed, still smelling of fried chicken and vomit, and let the numbness drag him under.

On the desk, the cupcake sat untouched. A small curl of smoke twirled off the extinguished wick of the single candle. And a small petal, sitting on the floor, haunted his dream. 

------✿✿✿✿------

Morning came without mercy.

Baku woke to a tightness threaded through his chest like a knot pulled taut. The lingering sweetness clung to the back of his throat, floral and rotten, a perfume that didn’t belong to the living. When he sat up, something inside him shifted as though it was waking up with him. 

He ignored it. He had decided, firmly and with the kind of stubbornness born from necessity, that none of this was happening. The petals, the choking, the garden growing in his throat; he shoved it all into the same mental grave where he buried everything he couldn't afford to feel.

He threw away the uneaten cupcake. He didn’t look at the petal. He didn’t say Baekjin’s name, even in his own mind. He simply got ready for school.

Outside, the air was cold enough to bite but he remembered his jacket this time. He met Gotak at the school gates, shoulders brushing in the familiar, grounding way that reminded Baku he was still anchored to something human. Eunjang bustled with noise, students spilling through the entrance like a tide of restless bodies.

Baku had been suspended for a week; returning felt strange, like reentering a building that had been waiting for him with bared teeth. But he smiled, waved, greeted the familiar delinquents. That was his role after all, the law of Eunjang, the shield for kids who had nowhere else to go.

Gotak chattered about the new transfer student.

“Yeon Sieun,” he said. “Rumor is he put a kid in a coma. Eunjang was the only school desperate enough to take him.” Baku chewed the inside of his cheek. Rumors were cheap currency in Eunjang, and most of them were counterfeit.

“We’ll see,” he muttered. His voice sounded strange to his own ears, nearly hoarse, thin, stretched. He swallowed and felt the unfamiliar snag again, as if breath had to navigate around something not meant to be inside him.

Gotak kept talking, but the words blurred at the edges. Sometimes the scent of something faintly sweet rose up from inside Baku, curling toward the roof of his mouth. He pressed a fist to his sternum. The pressure there throbbed softly, rhythmically, like a heartbeat of its own.

He ignored that too.

Class was chaos as always. Eunjang students shouted across the room, feet propped on desks, laughter sharp and loud. Baku noticed Sieun immediately. Sieun sat in the front row like a ghost in a storm; head bowed, AirPods in, uniform crisp and untouched.

He didn’t look like he belonged here.

Baku studied him from the back, leaning in his seat, eyes narrowed. He wanted to see the monster the rumors painted.

Gotak nudged him.

Baku didn’t respond. Class only settled when he barked at them to sit down when the teacher entered. The teacher droned on, irrelevant background noise. Words blurred on the board. Letters bounced and tangled in ways they shouldn’t. Shapes refused to stay still. Baku blinked hard, jaw clenched.

His chest tightened again. A pulse beneath bone. A soft, crawling tickle against his lungs. He took a slow breath, an inhale that felt like vines tugging. He forced his focus back to the class.

When lunch came, Gotak and Baku walked together toward the cafeteria. As they passed Sieun while leaving the classroom, Baku caught a glimpse of pink, a small pillow being placed under the boy’s cheek as he laid his head down on the desk.

Odd didn’t even begin to cover it.

The cafeteria smelled of fried food and noise. Baku barely touched his plate, pushing vegetables around while Gotak inhaled rice like a starving animal.

“You got us kicked out of the basketball tournament,” Gotak said through a mouthful.

“There’s always next time,” Baku muttered.

Gotak gave him a look. “If you don’t get in another fight.”

“My honor needed defending,” Baku declared, halfhearted. His stomach felt wrong, hollow. Gotak didn’t press. That was the good thing about him—he didn’t force openings where Baku closed doors. But he did give a sympathetic look that Baku dismissed. Gotak could read the silence even when Baku gave nothing away. 

Across the room, Hyoman was bothering a kid, Baku racked his mind to think of the kid's name. Juntae! A small, nervous thing who always seemed moments from folding in on himself.

“How long’s he been messing with him?” Baku asked.

“Juntae’s their goffer,” Gotak replied. “Hyoman’s little gang treats him like a punching bag.”

Baku sighed. A deep, slow breath, and he felt the air snag again, the vines tightening, the soft rustle of something growing. He pressed a thumb to the spot beneath his collarbone, trying to ease the tension crawling through him. He watched as Hyoman grabbed Juntae, Juntae looked around with pleads in his eyes. 

Before Baku could intervene, Sieun appeared. Quiet, efficient, purposeful.

He grabbed Hyoman by the collar and yanked him clean off the bench.

Hyoman hit the floor with a thud, staring up in drunken confusion.

“Where the hell did he come from?” Baku muttered. Gotak was equally stunned, cheeks full of rice.

Hyoman scrambled to his feet, puffed up and furious. He got in Sieun’s face, spit flying. Sieun just stared, unblinking, as though Hyoman was beneath the notice of his attention.

Hyoman swung first. Sieun dodged with no wasted motion. Hyoman’s face went blotchy red, full of anger, humiliation, both.

The second punch connected. Sieun’s head snapped to the side. Hyoman smirked in triumph. Then Sieun moved.

Fast. Precise. Predatory.

He had Hyoman on the ground in a blink, a pen pressed to his throat, body perfectly balanced, expression carved from stone. He whispered something into Hyoman’s ear. Whatever it was, it drained the boy’s face of color.

Baku stepped in, clapping sharply. “All right. Break it up.”

Juntae trembled behind him. Sieun didn’t move until Baku touched his arm. Sieun shrugged off his hand, stood, and walked away with that same unnatural calm. When Gotak whispered, “Maybe he really did put someone in a coma,” Sieun turned his head, gaze sharp and cold enough to cut.

Rage sat in that look; quiet, coiled, deadly.

Baku felt something inside him twist in response. Not fear. Something else. Something that made his breath catch painfully against the vines in his lungs.

“Don’t trust rumors,” Baku said, voice steady only because he forced it to be. Then, to the others: “Get up. Go. Hyoman, stop being pathetic.”

The cafeteria dispersed like a disturbed flock. Baku returned to his seat, chest still tight. His breath trembled faintly, carrying that strange sweetness again. 

Sieun was already at his desk, AirPods back in, notebook open, untouched by the chaos when Baku entered the classroom. 

A strange kid, Baku thought. 

------✿✿✿✿------

Baku had worked too hard for peace at Eunjang to watch it rot.He’d broken up fights, dragged bullies out by the collar, laughed off insults if it meant keeping the atmosphere calm. Eunjang wasn’t a place built for the weak, but Baku had tried to make it livable anyway.

Hyoman was a stain on all of that work.

And today, the stain was spreading. Phones sat on desks across the classroom, each with a small note attached. As students filtered in, the room filled with shocked gasps.

“My phone—!”

“Wait, that’s mine!”

Baku sat down slowly, eyes scanning the room. Across the aisle, Gotak lowered himself into his seat too, equally wary. Their gazes met.Something was wrong.

A sharp itch sparked in Baku’s throat. He swallowed it down hard.

Ignore it.

“JUNTAE!” Hyoman’s shriek tore through the room, high enough to make Baku flinch. Hyoman stormed in with his lackeys at his back, face twisted with fury as he made a beeline for Juntae.

“What the fuck did you do?” Hyoman spat. Juntae stood up slowly. His cheeks were puffed out. Baku frowned.

Was that… a pastry?

Before he could think about it further, Hyoman lunged. He grabbed Juntae by the collar and hurled him forward. Juntae slammed into the blackboard with a bone-rattling thud. Then Hyoman started kicking.

Hard.

Relentless.

The classroom froze. Baku pushed himself to his feet with a sigh. He’d just gotten off suspension. But duty called. Halfway up, a violent stab of pain twisted through his chest. His breath hitched. Something scratched up the inside of his throat like thorns dragging against flesh.

Not now.

He forced it down. Forced himself forward. Before he could move, Sieun appeared like a ghost between heartbeats. He grabbed Hyoman by the back of the collar and yanked him off Juntae.

“Don’t cross the line,” Sieun said quietly. Hyoman stumbled back. Then rage twisted his face crimson but Sieun ignored him and turned towards Juntae to help him up. He kicked Sieun square in the back. Sieun crashed to his knees in front of Juntae. Something in Baku snapped.

“Enough, Hyoman!” His voice cracked through the silent classroom like thunder. Hyoman turned slowly.

“Aish… what’re you going to do about it, Baku? Huh?” The room erupted in drawn-out “ooooohhhhs.” Baku glanced at Gotak. Gotak stood, cracking his neck side to side.

“We doing this?” he asked. Normally, Baku would’ve cracked a joke. Defused it. Turned the tension into laughter. But he hadn’t slept all week. The pain in his chest woke him every night. And right now the thorns in his throat felt like they were digging deeper.

He gave a small nod. Gotak grinned. Baku moved first. 

He launched himself at Hyoman, fist cutting through the air. His knuckles sank into Hyoman’s cheek. Hyoman’s head whipped sideways as his body crashed into a desk, the metal legs screeching against the floor. Behind him, Gotak swung wide, smashing into one of Hyoman’s lackeys and sending him sprawling.

Chaos erupted.

Desks slammed.

Bodies collided.

Someone shouted.

Baku grabbed Hyoman by the shirt and slammed him down across the teacher’s desk. Hyoman snarled and swung wildly. The punch grazed Baku’s jaw. Pain exploded through Baku’s chest again. His vision flickered. Something moved in his throat.

Petals.

For a horrifying second he felt them sliding upward. His stomach lurched. He forced it down with a brutal swallow that felt like choking on thorns.

Not here. Not now. Not ever. 

Hyoman shoved him back and rushed him again. Baku pivoted and drove his elbow into Hyoman’s ribs. Hyoman wheezed. Baku followed with a hook to the gut that folded him in half. Across the room Gotak was laughing like a maniac as he swatted another lackey into a desk.

“Is that all you got?!”

Hyoman staggered up again. Baku barely noticed the blood running down his own lip. His lungs burned. His chest felt tight. Every breath scraped.

Hyoman charged. Baku met him halfway and drove his fist into Hyoman’s jaw again, sending him crashing into a row of desks.

Silence fell.

Gotak stood behind Baku like a wall, daring anyone else to try. Baku turned away first. He crouched beside Sieun and Juntae, helping them up.

“You good?” he asked lightly. His voice sounded normal. He hoped. He brushed imaginary dust off Sieun’s jacket. Sieun slapped his hand away.

“I’m fine.” Baku lifted his hands in surrender and stepped back. His chest spasmed. A cough threatened to rip free. He clenched his jaw. Then turned back to the class.

“I said no fighting.” His voice was calm again. Controlled. His eyes landed on Hyoman.

“If I have to repeat myself, there’s going to be more problems.” He gestured around the room. 

“No fighting at Eunjang. Not on school grounds and not while you’re in uniform.” He pointed at a student mixing uniform with civilian clothes.

“I don’t care what you do outside school. But when you’re wearing that uniform—” His throat burned. He swallowed.

“—no fighting.” Baku watched as Sieun led Juntae out of the classroom. Just before leaving, Sieun glanced back. The look in his eyes stopped Baku cold.

Haunted. Empty. Like something had already been taken from him. For a moment Baku felt like he was staring into a mirror.

Loss recognized loss.

And somewhere deep in Baku’s chest, the unseen flowers shifted.

------✿✿✿✿------

Word spread fast. Which was how Baku, Gotak, Sieun, and Juntae ended up in the school office.

“Park Humin,” the teacher sighed, rubbing her temple, “you just got off suspension.”

“Hyoman started it,” Gotak protested.

“I don’t care who started it. There is no fighting on school grounds.” She slid paperwork across the desk.

“I’m assigning all of you community service. Consider this a warning.” Her eyes fixed on Baku.

“Humin. Stay out of trouble. I mean it.” Baku stood between Gotak and Sieun. Before either of them could react, he grabbed the backs of their heads and forced them into a deep bow.“We are sorry! Thank you for your leniency!” Gotak grumbled but stayed bent. Sieun looked murderous.

The teacher waved them off. “Go.” They shuffled out into the hallway.

“Sieunie!” Baku called brightly. He walked over and ruffled Sieun’s hair. Sieun’s glare could have killed houseplants.

“What is wrong with you?” he asked flatly.

“Look! You can do it to me too!” Baku said cheerfully, grabbing Sieun’s hand and rubbing it over his own head. Sieun yanked his hand away immediately. Juntae popped up beside him and carefully fixed Sieun’s hair.

“See you Saturday, friends!” Baku saluted. He turned and walked off with Gotak. The moment they rounded the corner, Baku’s body seized. He doubled over. A violent cough tore out of him.

Gotak froze. “Baku?”

Baku clapped a hand over his mouth. Something soft and wet hit his palm. He looked down. A crushed white petal, streaked with blood. He closed his fist instantly. Straightened. Forced a grin.

Gotak stared at him suspiciously. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Baku said easily, wiping his mouth on his sleeve before Gotak could see anything. “Just swallowed wrong.” The thorny ache in his chest pulsed again. But he ignored it. He had to. Gotak would worry. 

And Baku had no intention of letting anyone know that something inside him was slowly taking him apart. 

“You need to be careful around Sieun,” Gotak commented. 

“Awe,” Baku said, throwing an arm around Gotak’s shoulders as they walked away, “Sieun’s got those sad puppy eyes though. He’s cute. Let’s befriend him, Go-Go.” Gotak shrugged off Baku. 

------✿✿✿✿------

Baku walked beside Gotak toward the museum, shoulders brushing in an uneven rhythm. Each accidental touch sent a tiny tremor through his ribcage—not a flustered flutter but a physical twitch from the roots coiled around his lungs. They reacted to movement, pressure, even laughter sometimes. Today they were quiet, just a faint wet pulse echoing beneath his ribs. He hummed loudly to drown it out. The sun was warm, he’d slept more than five hours, and he was with Gotak. That was enough reason to force himself into a good mood.

Sieun and Juntae were waiting in the museum lobby. Juntae waved like he was trying to signal a helicopter; Sieun barely acknowledged them, stiff and blank‑faced, looking like a stray animal someone had tried to pet with a boot. It made Baku want to throw a blanket over him and offer him hot chocolate. From a safe distance.

They changed into their costumes. Gotak looked absurd, Juntae drowned in his outfit, and Sieun, stern, miserable, dead‑eyed, looked like he was posing for a funeral portrait. Baku had to bite his lip to keep from laughing.

“Aish, Sieun, would it kill you to smile?”

 Sieun didn’t pause. “Feudal Koreans didn’t do peace signs, Humin.”

Gotak and Juntae were laughing at some stupid  joke. Hearing Gotak laugh with someone else warmed a soft part of Baku’s chest, a part untouched by the cold hollow that Baekjin had left behind. That space felt like scar tissue; sensitive, aching, permanent.

Thinking of Baekjin made the roots tighten. A sharp, needling squeeze beneath his ribs.

Not now. Not here.

He forced himself to breathe slowly. Then his stomach growled, loud and dramatic and blessedly normal. The perfect distraction. 

During lunch, Baku emptied the entire spicy Balduk packet into his ramen. Gotak made a face like this was a personal attack.

“Your stomach is going to hurt,” Gotak warned.

 “No pain, no gain, Go‑Go,” Baku chirped brightly.

“Oh my god,” Gotak groaned as Juntae repeated the nickname with evil enthusiasm. Sieun looked like he wanted to be legally emancipated from the group.

They settled to eat. Baku inhaled his ramen like a man possessed, tears forming from the spice, nose running, throat burning. He clung to the heat—real heat, not the fever‑raw sting that had been living in his throat all week.

Halfway through a sip of strawberry milk, Baku declared, “I think I could totally sneak into a Jackson Wang party.”

Gotak snorted, milk nearly coming out of his nose. “You have an IQ of 90. You’d get lost before you even found the door.”

Baku gasped, scandalized. “Sieunnie, you’re smart—tell him. How would you sneak into a Jackson Wang party?”

Sieun didn’t look up from picking at his rice. “…I don’t know who that is.”

All three of them froze.

 Baku stared at him like Sieun had confessed to murder.

 “You don’t know who the Jackson Wang is?”

“Why would I?” Sieun asked flatly.

Baku started gesturing wildly with his chopsticks, ranting—until Gotak, familiar with Baku’s flailing, raised an arm to block him.

The chopstick launched through the air like a tiny, doomed missile.

It smacked perfectly into Sieun’s white hoodie.

 A dark streak of sauce bloomed like a wound.

Sieun stared down at it, expression blank. Too blank.

“Quick, Juntae, grab it! I heard he likes stabbing people!” Baku whispered frantically. 

Sieun calmly picked up the chopstick himself. He held it out to Baku, and so fast Baku almost missed it, the corner of his mouth twitched upward. A faint, fleeting smile.

“Aww, Sieunnie!” Baku cooed. The smile vanished instantly, like it had been a glitch.

“I’m going to clean this off,” Sieun muttered and walked off.

While he was gone, Gotak began showing Juntae how to throw a proper kick. Juntae kept stumbling, looking like a baby deer attempting martial arts. Chairs wobbled. Gotak corrected his stance with dramatic patience while Baku watched, snickering.

Then Baku’s stomach rolled. Not from spice but something deeper, colder.

He stood quickly, muttering something about the bathroom, but stopped dead the moment he stepped into the hall.

Bright orange jacket. Glasses. Geom Seongje.

His blood iced. If Seongje was here, the Union was moving again. And where the Union went, Baekjin’s ghost always followed.

His mind whispered Baekjin’s name and that was all it took.

Sieun stepped out of the bathroom right then, cheeks flushed, hoodie still damp from scrubbing. Baku rushed over.

“You okay?”

 Sieun blinked, annoyance barely visible. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Sieun didn’t wait for an answer. “We need to go back.”

He walked off.

Baku didn’t move.

Because the moment Sieun disappeared around the corner, the pain hit like a knife twisting between his ribs.

His lungs seized. His spine snapped forward as a violent cough ripped upward, dragging something jagged and wet along with it. Each cough felt like thorns scraping raw grooves up his throat. He clamped his hand over his mouth, trying to muffle the horrific, sticky sound.

Something soft slipped past his teeth.

When the coughing finally eased, Baku forced open his trembling fingers.

Two petals lay in his palm.

Not clean. Not gentle. Damp, streaked pink and red. Veins faintly pulsing like they still remembered growing inside him. Sickeningly warm.

He crushed the petals in his fist until the pulp stained his knuckles pink. His hand trembled. His lungs ached in a way that felt carved, violated, scraped out.

He leaned against the wall, dragging in a breath that rattled.

 And then, finally, horribly, it clicked.

It wasn’t random. It wasn’t stress. It wasn’t just the Union showing up or the adrenaline spike.

It was thinking of Baekjin.

That was the moment his lungs seized.

That was when the roots twisted.

That was when something soft and warm and alive forced its way up his throat.

Every time he remembered Baekjin, his voice, his anger, his shadow, something bloomed where it shouldn’t. Something tore its way out. The realization hit him like cold water down the spine.

Sharp.

Undeniable.

Final.

Baku should be terrified. He was terrified. 

He stared at his hand—petal pulp clinging to his skin like it wanted to grow back in. This was real. This was worsening. And all because he couldn’t let go of someone long gone.  He should tell someone. He should tell Gotak. 

But the image of Gotak’s face, worried, pitying, panicked,  stabbed deeper than the roots ever could. Gotak didn’t need this. Didn’t deserve to carry Baku’s stupid, pathetic leftover feelings for someone who wasn’t even here anymore.

Baku wiped his hand on his costume, smearing the petal residue into the fabric. He forced a breath in. It hurt. Everything hurt. But he forced the pain down, pushing it into the same dark corner he shoved every thought of Baekjin.

He plastered on a grin one muscle at a time, feeling it tremble at the edges. He should be worried. He should be doing something.  He should be running from this or running to someone for help.

But Gotak would notice. Gotak would ask. Gotak would care.

And Baku couldn’t let that happen. So he straightened his shoulders, swallowed the metallic taste still clinging to his tongue, and walked back toward his friends like nothing had happened.

As long as he didn’t think about Baekjin, maybe he could keep the flowers down. He needed to figure out what this was and why Baekjin’s mere name caused him to cough up flowers.