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Jongho didn’t have the best life growing up. He never knew a loving family, only an abusive father who didn’t give a damn about what happened to his son. After one night, when Jungkook’s face was slashed with a piece of glass, he ran away, far away and he never planned on going back.
He started a life for himself, picking up the broken pieces he’d once been and turning into something great. He never showed his face, though. No. He was far too ashamed of the long scar that ran down his face, littered with others throughout the years of his childhood.
He started one of the biggest companies in the world, rising to the top faster than anyone could have ever dreamed of doing. He became one of the most well-known businessmen all over the world, yet no one knew his face. He only appeared with a mask or a long hood to hide his face. The world thought he was being mysterious, but in truth he couldn’t bear the thought of talking about it, because someone was bound to ask if they saw him.
Despite having more money than he knew what to do with, he didn’t buy a mansion or a private jet or anything. He bought a one-story house near a small town and he had a modest car. He had his own garden where he planted beautiful flowers unlike anything anyone’s ever seen before. They were breathtaking and simply unreal, and he stopped breathing whenever he caught sight of their beauty while not working, and he felt so many emotions when looking at them. They were something he could never be: perfect and beautiful, something that people could fall in love with and want to keep forever.
If anyone from the small town nearby ever set foot in the garden to touch the flowers, Jongho showed himself, wearing a mask and cloak to not be recognized, scaring off the poor men who attempted to steal one. He never felt bad about it, for they were his flowers.
He isolated himself from everyone and everything unless it was to work or buy necessities. He didn’t like interacting with people, preferring the quiet company of a fire or the birds in a garden. He read all the time. He was a hopeless romantic, and he loved tragic stories because he connected with them far better than any twenty-four year old ever should.
Because he didn’t have a reality to fall in love with, he fell in love with his books, which whispered of broken hearts and crying souls. He fell in love with an ideal world he created in his mind where he was okay, and he didn’t have to hide under his mask. He fell in love with the idea of being okay. He fell in love with the feeling of his lie, circling so deeply into his gut and cutting his heart open until he was crying because it felt so real. He found himself wondering on more than one occasion if it was possible for someone to love him the way he loved his lies.
He was so far deep into this lie, into this ideal world, that reality crumbled like a sandcastle being washed away by water, until all that was left was an empty soul sitting in his house and staring at the one of the few things he hated more than his father: himself.
God, how he hated himself and the way he looked and how much of a coward he was for not being able to show the world who he was. He hated the way he stayed away from everyone and caused this ache that would never go away, this ache of loneliness that was almost as painful as a physical blow. He hated his mind for wondering what it would be like to be held by someone, the way people are held in books. He hated his mind for wondering what it would be like to run his hands through someone’s hair and comfort them and love them.
More than anything, he hated his flowers. The thing he loved most in this world was the very thing he hated most because they were everything he wished to be. More often than not, he found himself in a blind rage that led to the destruction of his garden, and he would collapse when he snapped out of it, crying at the loss of beauty. He would put it back together and grow new ones, only for the process to repeat when they were in bloom or just starting to wilt.
Why, oh why couldn’t he be like a flower? He wished to be ripped apart and scattered, mourned and forgotten. He wished to never exist, although that was impossible now as he was one of the biggest names in the world. He wished to be hated and loved and comforted and held and pushed away. He wished to feel something, anything, that would prove he was human and had a heart. He only knew anger and sadness and pain and hatred.
One day would come where he would feel something, where he would find beauty not in a flower but a person. But he was so stuck in his lies, that the one thing that brought reality back disappeared slowly in front of his eyes.
---
Jongho sipped his coffee slowly, wincing when he burned his tongue. He hadn’t gone to work in weeks, leaving the company in the hands of his secretary. He couldn’t bring himself to get up from his spot on the couch at the moment, staring at the mirror in his living room and picking every flaw that was visible.
He felt tears prick at his eyes. He blinked rapidly to get rid of them, but one traitorous tear fell, sliding over his scarred cheek and down his chin to stain his shirt. He gripped his coffee cup so tightly that it cracked, and the hot liquid spilled onto his lap. He cursed quietly and jumped up, taking off his pants and shirt so the coffee wouldn’t burn his skin. He rubbed his eyes tiredly and went to the bathroom to shower and change quickly.
All he ever needed was a push until he was back on his feet and moving like normal. He hated it when he knew he could physically move, but his mind was too exhausted to make himself move an inch. He would end up staring at something until his head fell back against the couch, and he’d stay like that until he got hungry or had to use the bathroom. Then all his energy rushed back to him and he was able to move for a couple minutes before collapsing on the couch again.
He cleaned up the mess in his living room and sighed. As tired as he was of being alone, he was too scared to go out and meet someone. He never left without covering his face. What good would it be to meet someone when they didn’t even know what he looked like?
He heard a soft thump from his garden and quickly looked outside. Someone was on their hands and knees beside one of the flower beds, panting as if they’d run a mile. Jongho quickly grabbed his cloak and mask before exiting the house.
Before he could make himself known, though, the person straightened a little and sat back on their heels, eyes closed and head tilted up toward the sky. They shifted until they sat cross-legged, one hand in grass and the other in dirt. They opened their eyes and stared at the flowers, much in the same way Jongho stared at them.
It was a male. He had a pale complexion, with wide brown eyes and dark circles under them. He was wearing ragged and dirty clothing, stained with something that looked like old blood. It hung off of his frame in an almost disturbing way, his collarbones far too visible. His exposed arms were scar-ridden and bony. His face had prominent cheekbones and a sharp jawline. The way the skin seemed to stretch around the bone was painful to look at.
But Jongho couldn’t look away. His breath caught in his throat, and he found himself unconsciously moving back into the house. This man, far too skinny and horribly dressed, was stunning. It was like he was looking at his flowers, and he couldn’t seem to comprehend the sheer beauty that was sitting in front of him, touching the things that he must resemble so well. Because he was like them, like the flowers that represented beauty and purity.
Jongho’s fingers trembled as he quietly shut the door to let the man be. He couldn’t stop watching as the man touched the flowers delicately, as if they would break if he wasn’t careful enough. He seemed enchanted, mouth open slightly in awe and eyes shining with wonder.
It took everything Jongho had to not yell at the man to get out, but at the same time he wanted to approach the man and talk to him, just for a minute. Even with his mask, he knew he couldn’t. The last time he’d interacted with someone had ended so badly that he swore to himself that he’d never attempt it again.
He wanted to invite the man into his house and give him some food and water. He wanted to care for the man and give him a roof and a bed. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t let the man see his face, see him because he didn’t know how to talk to people, didn’t know if he could ever find the courage within him to approach the beautiful man.
He felt like a creep, staring at the man through the window and thinking all these things. He took a step back, but his eyes refused to look away. He stared for the remaining time, staying silent and observing. He didn’t know how much time passed before the man looked up and at the house. Fear suddenly struck his face and he stumbled to his feet. He ran away, tripping a few times and struggling to his feet.
Jongho wanted to call after the man, tell him that there was no reason to be afraid, but he couldn’t. He watched the man disappear in the trees that surrounded the house, and then he was gone.
Jongho stared at the trees, mouth slightly agape in both confusion and shock. He didn’t know what caused the man to run, but he wanted him to stay. He wanted to keep looking. He wanted to memorize his face and learn his name and favorite color. He wanted everything he knew he couldn’t have, but the yearning didn’t lessen. In fact, he wanted all of it more as he tried to convince himself otherwise, finally leaving the window to sit on his couch again, the same way he had in the morning.
He ran a hand through his hair and shook his head, trying to rid his thoughts of the man. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. With his eyes closed, he could see the man almost as if he was standing there in front of him. He wasn’t smiling, he only stared at Jongho with a blank expression, but he looked just as beautiful as he had sitting on the dirt. This version of the man had a healthy weight, and he fit in his clothes nicely. His hair fell over his eyes, which no longer looked as wide or had bags underneath them. He was even more breathtaking. Jongho didn’t want to open his eyes.
He ended up falling asleep like that, on the couch and envisioning the man. Neither spoke. They only stared at each other until the man’s lips curved upwards ever so slightly, and Jongho melted. He jolted awake seconds later, reaching out to touch the man. His hands grasped air, and they fell onto his lap. He blinked a couple of times, trying to remember where he was. It clicked a few seconds later and he covered his face in embarrassment and shame. He couldn't believe he’d done that. He dreamed of a man he didn’t even know.
He exhaled slowly and let his hands fall to his sides. He gazed at the wall for a couple seconds, and he could’ve sworn he’d seen the man standing there, but as soon as he blinked the man was gone.
---
This is torture, Jongho thought as he gazed at the man in his garden again. He’d come back a week later, then three days later, until it became a daily thing. The man sat there, grazing the flowers with his hands. Everytime he came, he had the same look of awe and wonder on his face. Jongho couldn’t say he fared any better as he sighed in content, resting his head on his hands as he watched the beautiful man.
Jongho didn’t know what his feelings were for the man, but it didn’t feel like a simple crush. It was more of an infatuation with the man. An obsession. He couldn’t get him out of his head no matter how hard he tried. And ever since that first day, when he’d imagined him healthy, that’s all he saw. He didn’t see a sickly man, but a handsome and perfect one. He didn’t notice how the man was slowly getting impossibly thinner, his shirt falling off one shoulder multiple times. That should have been a hint, but Jongho's imagination changed it to him simply scratching himself.
An obsession. An infatuation. That’s what it was. He thought himself a creep, sick and crazy, for constantly thinking about a man he didn’t know. If only father could see me now, he thought as his eyes trailed the man’s body. How disappointed he would be.
Jongho paid extra attention when the man suddenly looked around. He seemed nervous, lips in a taut line and face pale. He looked back at a flower and reached over to it. He pulled the flower out slowly and held it in his hands as if he’d found a long lost treasure.
Jongho’s heart almost stopped at the man’s actions. As infatuated as he was with the man, he was not willing to let him take his flowers.
That simple action caused Jongho to grab his mask and cloak and storm outside, furious. The man looked up, startled, and he stared with wide eyes as he approached. When Jongho was right in front of him, he took the flower away from the man’s hands carefully and placed it back in its spot in the dirt, knowing that it won’t grow but wanting his garden to be complete.
“I-I’m sorry,” the man stuttered. He had a deep voice, something Jongho wasn’t expecting from his soft features. Or very sharp, depending on how you looked at it. “I didn’t think anyone was here.” He fidgeted nervously with his torn clothing that Jongho didn’t see. Jongho saw clean blue jeans and an orange flowery dress shirt.
Jongho didn’t speak. He gave the man a hard stare. The man stood as quickly as he could, but he lost his balance easily. He fell, and Jongho didn’t hesitate to help him up. As angry as he was at his garden being ruined, this man had plagued his every thought for the past couple weeks. He was completely and utterly lost in a reality where he could call the man his own that he didn’t even think for a second that the man wasn’t his.
“It’s okay,” Jongho said, despite the fact that it was anything but okay. “Don’t do it again. You can continue to come to look at the flowers. Just refrain from picking them.” He didn’t hear those words. He was caught up in his lie, and reality was no longer. He thought he was saying something different, but the exact words he did not know. Everything was strangely blurry.
The man hesitantly nodded. He was curious as to who the man was underneath the mask, but he didn’t dare ask. He looked at the flowers again and stopped himself from reaching out to touch one. He was sure that this man had only seen him a couple times if he knew that he came here often. Maybe he was nice. Anyone would be mad if a stranger took their belongings, and these flowers obviously meant a lot to the owner.
The man offered Jongho a small smile. “Why don’t you sit down? It’s your garden.”
The Jongho in reality’s heart stopped for a second, and his breath caught in disbelief. Had this beautiful man, if he could even be called that when he so resembled an angel, asked him to sit beside him? A large smile broke out underneath his mask and he slowly sat down beside the man.
The Jongho in a lie heard something different, but what it was he couldn’t recall. It was blurry, and the man was unfocusing and focusing, confusing Jongho. Was he awake? Was this a dream? If it was, he never wanted to wake up.
“My name is Kang Yeosang,” the man, Yeosang, said. “I love your garden.”
“I know,” Jongho said, smiling. “You’ve come here a few times.” He couldn’t tell the man, Yeosang, that he watched him every day. He had to make it seem like he’d glanced a few times and found the man there. “It’s nice to meet you, Yeosang.”
Oh, how easily that name drifted off his lips. It was fluid and easy, and it sounded like music to his ears even if it was his own voice. He wanted to continue to say his name. It was addicting, like smoking nicotine or snorting cocaine. Yeosang was becoming his drug, and he couldn’t do anything to stop it.
If there was something to stop this addiction, Jongho didn’t want to know.
Yeosang brushed his hair out of his face but it fell over his eyes again. He huffed quietly in annoyance. “Mm. What’s your name?”
Jongho tensed. He slowly relaxed when he remembered that Yeosang was most likely very poor and didn’t have a television. There was no way he knew about him. “Choi Jongho.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Jongho.” Yeosang gave him the smallest of smiles, resembling the one that Jongho had imagined the first time he’d seen him. It was even cuter in person. “Why do you live outside the city? With these blossoms, you can make lots of money.”
Jongho shrugged. He didn’t tell Yeosang that he had more money than he knew what to do with. “I prefer to stay away from people. As you can tell, I’m not what you would call normal.” He gestured to his masked face. He had never spoken so openly, but he found it easier with this man. “I do better on my own.” Even if he longs for someone at night, or in the morning when he accidentally makes too much food and wishes to share it with someone. “Mind telling me what you are doing here?”
Yeosang shrugged as well. He played with the dirt, making small signs that Jongho had never seen. “I need a break,” he said. “This is a peaceful place. No one ever passes by when I’m here. And while I’m not a huge fan of the smell of flowers, these are beautiful.”
“Not as beautiful as you,” Jongho said without thinking. He grinned at Yeosang’s soft blush. He started fidgeting with his clothes again.
“I’m not beautiful,” Yeosang murmured. He was quite disgusted with his appearance, actually. He hated how sickly thin he was. He hated his thin hair and sun burnt skin. He hated the dark bags under his eyes and the way his bones jutted out.
The Jongho in a lie’s thoughts took over reality for a moment, and he saw a stunning man with thick black hair and tan skin and a cute blush on his cheeks. “Yes, you are,” Jongho breathed, reaching out slightly before stopping himself. He retracted his hand and set it in his lap. “So beautiful. I can’t seem to take my eyes off you.”
Yeosang turned his head to the side to hide his darkening blush. Mixed with embarrassment was sadness.
Jongho seemed to sense it and took his bony hand. “Yeosang, look at me.” The man did. “You are beautiful. Trust me. I have perfectly working eyes.”
Yeosang stifled a giggle and looked down, a shy smile on his face. “You really think so?” he asked quietly.
Jongho in reality examined the man and nodded. He just needed some food and a clean set of clothes, but he was just as pretty as the flower he’d picked minutes before. “I do,” Jongho said, brushing Yeosang’s hair aside and smiling. He was looking through the lie, at the healthy Yeosang who seemed to shimmer and shine in the sunlight.
Yeosang smiled back. He looked up at the sky to find the sun almost in the middle. He stood slowly to let himself adjust to the movement and straightened. He took a couple deep breaths and held his arms out to steady himself. He felt weak, and everything hurt, but he had to get back to work.
“I enjoyed this, Choi Jongho,” Yeosang said after the masked man stood as well. Yeosang was almost jealous at how easily he rose. “Can I come back tomorrow?”
“Of course,” Jongho said, smiling politely. Internally, he was cheering like a middle school girl. “I’ll be waiting.”
Yeosang bowed and left quickly.
Jongho watched the man run into the trees and disappear from sight, the same way he did every time he left the garden. He shook his head fondly and went into his house. He was looking forward to seeing him again.
Tomorrow couldn’t come sooner.
---
Jongho sat on his couch tiredly, waiting for Yeosang to come into the garden. He planned on waiting about half an hour before approaching to make it seem like he didn’t know the exact time he arrived every day.
When Yeosang did come, he seemed far more exhausted than he had any other day. His cheeks seemed too sunken to be on a human, and his clothes were being held up by him. He wasn’t so much walking as he was stumbling and tripping over his own feet. He looked awful. He looked on the verge of death.
Jongho hurried out to greet the man, worried about him. He didn’t forget his mask and cloak. He barely made it in time for Yeosang to collapse. He caught the man, surprised at how light he was, but it wasn’t a complete shock. The man was skinny and most likely very underweight.
Jongho helped him sit down and frowned worriedly when Yeosang lay down on the dirt, staring up at the sky.
“Hey,” Jongho said quietly, trying not to startle the man.
Yeosang glanced at him and smiled a little. “Hello,” he said just as quietly. “Jongho, I don’t feel too good.”
“I can get you some food,” Jongho offered. “Some water? New clothes?”
Yeosang’s smile faded as he continued to stare at the sky, watching the clouds float by. “Some food and water would be nice,” he murmured.
Jongho got to his feet. “I’ll be right back.” He hurried into his house and made a sandwich and got a bottle of water. He went back outside to find Yeosang’s eyes closed. His breathing was even, his lips parted slightly to make quiet puffs of air every time he exhaled. Jongho smiled warmly and shook him awake.
He opened his eyes slowly and groaned. “What?”
“I brought you food.”
Yeosang sat up as fast as he could. He lost his balance but managed to stay up. He made grabby hands and Jongho laughed, handing the sandwich to him. The masked man was sure that he had never seen anyone eat a sandwich so fast in his life, nor drink an entire bottle of water as fast as this man did.
“Mm, thank you,” Yeosang sighed when he finished, laying back down on the dirt.
Jongho sat down next to him and smiled. “Don’t hesitate to ask for food. I’ve got plenty.”
Yeosang’s eyes sparkled with wonder. “Woah,” he said in awe. “What’s it like to have lots of food?”
Jongho pursed his lips. He was sympathetic towards the man. He knew what it was like to be starved, but he didn’t know what this man’s job was. It was likely difficult manual labor, if his stiff limbs were anything to go by. He was probably overworked.
“It’s nice,” Jongho finally answered. “It’s a lot better than going to bed with an empty stomach.”
Yeosang hummed. That seemed to be his thing when he acknowledged someone. Jongho liked it. His deep voice seeped into his eardrums, blessing him with the sound of honey tea mixed with lemon.
“I hope this isn’t prying,” Yeosang said, forcing himself to sit up to face the masked man, “but have you ever gone to bed with an empty stomach?”
Jongho nodded. “When I was younger. Once I ran away and made a living, I haven’t been hungry since.” Unless he doesn’t have energy to push himself off the couch and get food.
He remembered the few times his secretary, Park Seonghwa, came by his house to make sure he was okay. Seonghwa was a good man, perfect for taking over Jongho’s company. He was already running it like he owned it, and Jongho didn’t mind at all. He appreciated the man. He was one of the few people he could stand to talk to. He’d even seen Jongho without his mask once, and he didn’t leave. He’d stayed and smiled like he didn’t see anything, cooking a meal for Jongho and putting it in front of him, making him promise to eat it and take better care of himself.
That incident had given him hope, but he couldn’t recall it enough to remember if Seonghwa’s eyes ever lingered on the scars. He couldn’t help but think that it was a façade, and after he left he was thoroughly disgusted. Seonghwa had come back a couple times to check on him, but it was less time than usual. Jongho knew that the company was busy, but he couldn’t help but think it was his face that scared the man away.
Yeosang hummed and scooted closer to Jongho, resting his head on the masked man’s shoulder. Jongho froze, unsure of what to do now that a person was touching him, even if it was the man he was obsessed with.
Yeosang chuckled quietly. “You don’t have to be so tense,” he murmured.
Jongho slowly relaxed and simply sat there. The other man didn’t speak, so Jongho didn’t either. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence like Jongho would have expected. It was quite comfortable, the air light and easy, and it didn’t need filling. He was content, he realized with a start. He was enjoying another person’s company.
The thought almost made him push Yeosang away and run back to his house. He fought every instinct and stayed where he was until Yeosang looked up at the sky and saw the sun nearing its highest point.
“Goodbye, Jongho,” Yeosang said, standing unsteadily and giving Jongho a weird but cute toothy smile. “Tomorrow?”
Jongho nodded and stood as well. “Tomorrow. Goodbye, Yeosang.”
When Jongho went back into his house after watching the other man run into the trees, he felt strangely tired. His limbs were sore and his hands had blisters on them. He frowned in confusion, noticing that he was suddenly barefoot and without his mask and cloak. He shrugged it off, not thinking too much of it since he was happy about his interaction with Yeosang.
Maybe he should have thought about it more. Maybe he should have noticed that there was a shovel outside of his house, full of dirt from being used. He should have noticed that a knife lay next to it, bits of rock stuck to the sides. He should have noticed that he was sweaty and had a tear-streaked face and shaking body. He should have noticed that every interaction with Yeosang starting that day felt strangely fake.
But he didn’t. Because as soon as he was in reality, he was pulled back into his imagination that told him it was real, and his lie continued on.
---
It became a daily thing. Jongho started making sandwiches beforehand, grabbing a bottle of water and going out into his garden to wait for Yeosang. He would hand the food and water to the other man, and they’d chat as Yeosang ate slowly, savoring every bite. They didn’t chat about anything in particular. In fact, Jongho could never remember what they talked about. All of his memories were blurry when it came to Yeosang after the first day, but he didn’t think much of it.
They’ve been doing this for two months. Yeosang was slowly looking a little better with the food and water Jongho provided, and he had a lot more energy than he’d had the first time he’d stumbled across the garden. He had an adorable and unique toothy smile, and his eyes were bright as soon as they lay on Jongho.
Jongho laughed at what Yeosang said and leaned a little closer, taking in everything about the other man’s features. He was mesmerized, and his infatuation was worsening every time they saw each other. He wanted Yeosang to stay with him and never leave. He wanted to give Yeosang anything he wanted, and he wanted Yeosang to be his.
Yeosang was saying something, but Jongho couldn’t understand him. It clicked after a second that he wasn’t speaking Korean. Jongho smiled, loving the way Yeosang sounded when speaking another language. It only pushed him down his hole of obsession even more, and he took Yeosang’s hand. Yeosang stopped talking and stared at their hands for a couple of seconds before blushing.
“You look beautiful when you blush,” Jongho said, causing the other man to blush a darker shade of red.
“Sh-shut up,” Yeosang stuttered, hiding behind his hair that had grown almost long enough to be put into a ponytail.
Jongho only smiled and stroked the back of his hand with his thumb. Yeosang only grew more embarrassed, but he didn’t show any signs of wanting Jongho to stop.
“Where are you from, Yeosang?” Jongho asked.
Yeosang glanced up at him with a confused expression. “What?”
“Where are you from?”
“A nearby town,” the man said dismissively. Jongho frowned and was about to ask him to specify, but Yeosang smiled at him, and all words lost meaning at that moment. His breath caught, and he found himself mesmerized by Yeosang’s beauty.
“Wow,” he murmured, reaching out to touch Yeosang’s face. He needed more physical proof that a man so ethereal, so beautiful, was real. Yeosang’s cheek was smooth and warm, and Jongho released a breath. “You’re real.”
Yeosang’s smile faded slightly. He looked down and pulled his hand away from the mask man, fidgeting with his shirt. “Jongho” He hesitated.
“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to,” Jongho said quickly. He sensed that, whatever Yeosang was about to say, he wouldn’t like it. If he didn’t like it, this peace he was feeling could shatter and break everything. He couldn’t break, not by Yeosang’s doing.
“But this is important,” Yeosang said quietly. “I need to talk to you.”
“N-no,” Jongho said, standing and shaking his head. “I don’t want to hear it. Just go.”
He didn’t understand why he was getting so defensive. Maybe all Yeosang had to say was that he couldn’t come the next couple days, or that he wanted more food upon arriving. They were both serious topics in Yeosang’s mind. Jongho should let him speak.
“I won’t.” Yeosang sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, Jongho. Sit with me again?”
Jongho glanced at him warily before sitting. Yeosang grabbed his hand and held it, smiling as he did so. Jongho smiled back, and all of his worries dissipated once again.
Yeosang broke the silence. “Why do you wear a mask?”
Jongho stiffened at the question. He hoped that Yeosang would laugh and say that he was kidding, or hurriedly say that Jongho didn’t have to answer if it made him uncomfortable. But he didn’t. He held Jongho’s gaze evenly and practically willed the masked man to speak.
“To hide,” Jongho said truthfully, surprising himself as he looked away. “I want to hide from everyone and everything. I am too hideous for this world.” He took a deep breath and told himself to stop speaking. You’re sharing too much, he told himself. Shut up.
“I doubt that,” Yeosang said. At Jongho’s startled head turn, Yeosang offered a shy smile. “I don’t think there is a single soul in this world who could be labeled as hideous. That’s too mean a word.”
“That’s because you haven’t seen me.”
“And I’m sure that, if or when I do, that won’t change my opinion about you.”
Jongho touched his mask. He wanted to trust Yeosang, but he couldn’t find it in himself to take off his mask. He held his breath, trying to force himself to do it.
Yeosang’s eyes widened. He touched Jongho’s hand and pulled it away from the mask, holding it gently. “Don’t do it if you are uncomfortable. Take it off when you are ready. And if you are never ready, that’s okay. I won’t pressure you.”
Jongho smiled gratefully. I think I’m falling in love.
---
At seven in the morning sharp, there was banging on the door. Jongho, only dressed in shorts and a tank top, groaned when he figured out who it was and got up. He dressed in a suit and his mask before opening the door to find Seonghwa standing there with files upon folders in his hands.
“Good morning,” Seonghwa said in an even tone. He looked very tired and unamused as Jongho tried to cheer him up with a stupid joke. It didn’t work, and Seonghwa ended up giving him an annoyed glance.
“What’s got you in a mood?” Jongho said, rolling his eyes at his colleague.
“The fact that you’re wearing that stupid mask of yours,” Seonghwa said, dropping everything he was holding onto the coffee table where last night’s dinner still lay. “I thought you were going to stop wearing it around me.”
“Oh.” Jongho took it off cautiously, still nervous about showing his face to someone even though it was Seonghwa. He was close to this man, as they had been working together for seven years, ever since Jongho was fourteen and Seonghwa was fifteen. Both had dreams of opening a big company, and now Seonghwa was basically in charge.
“Thank you,” the older said, sitting down. “There’s a lot of work here for you to do. A lot of signatures I need before finalizing some plans I have to further the company. I’m also going to sign on with Choi Wilderness Society, run by Choi San who is demanding to meet you before signing on.”
“Why am I doing this?” Jongho said, raising an eyebrow. “What’s C.W.S. got?”
“Money,” Seonghwa said simply. “Also, we’re trying to expand our borders. Get out of the technology realm and more into nature. This is our perfect opportunity. Especially since Choi San reached out to me. The only thing we need is a meeting of you two so he can officially meet you and talk about his plans and why he wants to do this. In addition,” Seonghwa continued, ignoring Jongho’s open mouth to ask questions, “Kim Enterprises is diminishing. This is our perfect chance to absorb them and take over. Hongjoong is desperate enough to be satisfied with just meeting me to sign on. I just need your consent.”
“You couldn’t just email and fax me?”
“No. Choi San is demanding a pen signature.”
“I don’t like this Choi San. Too many demands. It’s as if we aren’t the bigger company.”
Seonghwa shrugged. “It’s either Choi San or Hwang Hyunjin, and you know how chaotic Hyunjin’s so-called ‘organization’ is.”
“True. I’ll take Choi San. We’ll meet next week at seven for dinner at whatever restaurant he would like. We’ll talk things over, and I will make the final decision if I want to sign on with him or not.”
“Yes, sir.” Seonghwa presented a folder and said the highlighted lines are where he needs to sign. Jongho did as told and signed to become business partners with Choi Wilderness Society. He also signed to take over Kim Enterprises, entrusting Seonghwa to talk to Hongjoong. Seonghwa nodded, mentioning that they’d already met and had hit it off, so there was a high likelihood that Hongjoong would agree, in addition to him being desperate to save his company.
“Next,” Seonghwa said, opening a new folder. “Some finances. I’ve taken care of everything. I faxed you the information, but you never signed it so I brought it with me today.”
Jongho signed.
And on it went. By ten o’clock, Jongho was finished signing. His hand hurt, but he still made a sandwich for Yeosang. Seonghwa asked if he could stay for a while, to which Jongho said no quickly.
“How come?” Seonghwa asked.
Jongho didn’t know how to respond. How could he lie? He was good at lying, but his hesitation gave away that whatever he would say after the silence was not true. He sighed and sat down, pushing the folders away to rest his feet on the table.
“Isn’t it too early for lunch?” Seonghwa asked. “Also, I’ll go if you wish me to. I’m just curious because you aren’t eating.”
“I’ll eat after you leave,” Jongho said impatiently. He noticed Yeosang walking into the garden, and he pushed Seonghwa out the front door, asking him to come by on the weekend which is when Yeosang didn’t come by usually. Seonghwa agreed and said he would talk to San and Hongjoong about the business deals they were making and left. Jongho sighed in relief when his home was empty of all other life. He grabbed the sandwich and a bottle of water before heading outside.
“Hey,” he said, not realizing that he’d forgotten his mask.
Yeosang looked up and smiled. “Hey.” He hungrily ate the sandwich, making sure to thank the man who’d made it, and he drank the water fairly quickly. Jongho disappeared to refill it, and during that time he looked up at the window and realized he didn’t have his mask on.
The first thing that went through him was anxiety and panic. Yeosang was gone, surely. When he turned around, there wouldn’t be an angel in his garden. There would only be empty space and beautiful flowers that would feel empty without their company. Jongho just knew it. He knew that Yeosang was gone, that he’d abandoned Jongho due to disgust for the scars that littered his face.
Holding his breath, Jongho turned around. He gasped in shock upon finding Yeosang still in the garden, touching flowers and talking to them, his mouth moving and shaping words that Jongho couldn’t recognize because he wasn’t a lip-reader. Holding the water, Jongho cautiously went back outside and handed the water to Yeosang.
Yeosang thanked him and drank. Jongho stared at him, wondering when he would say something about the scars. When he finished drinking, he started talking about nonsense that Jongho couldn’t remember.
Eventually, Jongho spoke, unable to hold his tongue any longer. “How can you pretend like it's not here?” Jongho demanded, speaking louder than he intended and scaring the other man.
Yeosang looked at him curiously. “What do you mean?” he asked, his words finally getting through to Jongho’s ears and brain.
“My scars,” Jongho said quietly. “They- They’re hideous. Why aren’t you cringing or running away?”
Yeosang surprised Jongho, acting in a way that he didn’t expect at all. Yeosang approached Jongho, so close that he could feel the other’s breath on his face. Then, Yeosang kissed his cheek, where a scar lay. He kissed another on his forehead, then his other cheek, then his chin, before laying the softest and sweetest kiss on his lips, where lay the final scar.
Jongho couldn’t breathe. Yeosang’s lips were chapped and rough, yet they felt right against his skin. He couldn’t believe he was allowing Yeosang to touch him, much less kiss him. He hadn’t had any human interaction in years, since he was a little boy and he was being harmed by his father. Yet there were no instincts to pull away from Yeosang. The only thing he wanted to do was pull Yeosang closer and kiss him fuller. He wanted to feel Yeosang the way lovers felt each other in books. He wanted to hold Yeosang’s hand and take him down for a walk across the garden and over to the lake near his house. He wanted to kiss Yeosang again as Yeosang pulled away and sat a couple inches away, smiling softly. He wanted to cup his cheek and run his finger across his chapped lips.
He wanted Yeosang to be his.
“You’re a survivor,” Yeosang said finally. “You’re just- It’s stunning. Not the scars. I won’t say they are beautiful. But they show that you are a survivor. I’m saying it’s stunning that you are still walking and breathing today. They are inspiring. You survived. And I know that because you are still here.” He caressed Jongho’s face, smiling. “I wish I was like you,” he whispered. “Brave enough to-” but his words fell short on Jongho’s ears. He was speaking too quietly for Jongho to hear.
Jongho was stunned. He smiled shyly and started talking about something to take the attention off himself. He was successful, but Yeosang looked slightly distraught as Jongho spoke. Jongho didn’t know what he was saying, but it seemed to distress Yeosang even further as he thought he was comforting the other. Yeosang finally smiled and said something that Jongho couldn’t recall, but the two of them hugged before Yeosang left as the sun hit its highest point in the sky.
“See you tomorrow,” Jongho said.
Yeosang didn’t respond. He simply left.
---
Jongho glanced at the time and smiled. For the first time, he purposely didn’t put on his mask as he left his house. He didn’t take his cloak either. After showing himself to Yeosang and the man had been so supportive, he knew that the feelings he had weren’t obsession or infatuation, but the thing called love that is written in books.
Jongho never thought that he would fall in love. He constantly shunned everyone and stayed away from people. Despite the fact that he was a big name, no one knew him the way Yeosang knew him. Although he found it odd that Yeosang never spoke about himself, he didn’t mind because Jongho knew that it didn’t matter. He loved Yeosang, since the very first time he’d appeared in his garden.
Jongho sat near the edge of the garden with the normal sandwich and water in hand, waiting patiently for Yeosang. Lately, the man had been running late every day, but Jongho didn’t mind. Yeosang was a busy man, trying to support his parents and siblings and get food on the table. Jongho wondered if he ever felt guilty for eating every day when his family probably couldn’t. If so, then he would do everything in his power to make Yeosang feel comfortable about it. The way he did with Jongho’s scars.
The memory of the soft kisses were still fresh in Jongho’s mind. He could feel Yeosang’s parched lips on his cheek and forehead and nose, kissing every scar and murmuring how they showed that Jungkook was a survivor.
“I won’t say that they are beautiful,” Yeosang had said, tracing a finger down one of the scars that went down Jongho’s neck. “But they are inspiring. You survived. You are still here.” He smiled his toothy smile and cupped Jongho’s face. “I wish I was like you,” he’d murmured quietly. He opened his mouth to say something else but closed it shortly afterwards.
Jongho touched his cheek, feeling Yeosang’s hands, and he smiled. He was in deep, and he found that he didn’t mind. It was scary. He wasn’t used to this feeling, but he was brave. He could face it in the face and say with confidence that he loved Kang Yeosang, a pretty man who came from a nearby town still unknown to Jongho, working in an unknown job, with a family to support, and he was optimistic despite everything he had been through and was going through.
Jongho glanced up at the sky and saw that the sun was a little higher than usual. Yeosang was running especially late, but Jongho could wait. It wasn’t like he had anything to do that day anyway. It was a scheduled day for Seonghwa to come by, but Seonghwa had already called and said he would reschedule for the next day since it was busy at the company.
When the sun was nearing the middle of the sky, it was clear that Yeosang wasn’t coming. At this time on any other day, the man would be running back into the trees to go home and continue working.
This feeling… What was it? Was this what they called betrayal? Was this thing that shattered Jongho’s heart called betrayal, or hurt, or both?
He felt tears prick at his eyes, but he blinked them away quickly. It was okay. There was no need to jump to conclusions. Maybe something happened. Maybe he was caught up in work and couldn’t make it today. He will come tomorrow, Jongho thought. I know it. He wouldn’t just leave me like this.
However, as the days went by, Yeosang never came back. Jongho went into his garden every day with a sandwich and water bottle, and he sat down next to the poppies, and he waited. He waited until the sun set. He waited until the temperatures dropped and he was shivering in his thin jacket and jeans. And he kept going back, kept waiting for Yeosang to come back.
After three weeks of waiting and hoping, Jongho cracked. He smashed the sandwich in his hand and threw the water bottle far. He screamed and ruined his garden, tearing out flowers and kicking the dirt and collapsing amongst the broken petals, once beautiful but now covered in dirt and red from blood. Jongho's hands bled from the thorns and sliding his hand fast against the stems trying to get them out. But he didn’t care. He couldn’t bring himself to care.
It wasn’t just betrayal and hurt. He was heartbroken. He regretted showing his face. He regretted ever approaching the man. He regretted each and every decision he made concerning the beautiful and angel-like man that stumbled upon his garden, the man who was more pure than the flowers and a smile brighter than the sun, a man who was clearly suffering but never let it affect his mood or the way he spoke. A man who was always respectful and polite yet funny and charming. A man who had stolen Jongho’s heart.
Jongho curled into himself and cried. He covered his face in shame, staining his face with blood. He couldn’t believe he was so stupid as to think that someone would stay after seeing him. He couldn’t believe that he’d trusted a complete stranger, and he couldn’t believe that he was crying over that said stranger.
He stayed there the rest of the night, unable to move from exhaustion. His eyelids were heavy, but he couldn’t sleep. He kept his eyes open, staring at the trees, waiting for his one love to come back, but he never did.
Days slipped by, and Jongho slowly lost his grasp on reality again. He only got up and went into his house when he had to use the restroom or was in desperate need for food and water, but eventually he didn’t care about food or water. He only stared, waiting and waiting for a miracle. He hoped Yeosang would come back.
I can’t feel anything, he vaguely realized. He couldn’t feel his hands or feet. His mind was numb, his limbs too tired to move. He couldn’t even move a finger. His chest rose and fell, and he knew that was the only way someone could tell that he was alive. He cancelled the meeting with San, scheduling for another day when he was feeling better and Yeosang came back.
After another two days of terrible cramps everywhere, he managed to move. His entire body protested, but he pushed through. He would not die from a figurative broken heart. He would not lay there like a pathetic man. He had to throw away his hope, and he had to open his eyes to see the truth: Yeosang was gone.
The realization struck him harder than a physical blow. He stumbled and leaned against his wall, steadying himself. Yeosang isn’t coming back… He left me.
Jongho’s bottom lip trembled. He wanted to cry, but there was nothing to cry. He had no water in him.
On his way inside, something caught his eye. It was a flower, still deeply rooted into the soil. He blinked a couple times at the unusual flower, confused as to what it was and how it was there. It had a pale stem and brown petals with small bits of darker brown and red. It reminded him of Yeosang.
He slowly walked towards it and fell to his knees in front of it. He reached out to touch it but suddenly retracted his arm. This must be his imagination. Just as he came to terms with the situation, this flower appeared. There was no way a flower could ever look like this.
But he reached out again. He silently willed it to be real. He needed something to ground him and pull him into the present. His breath caught as his fingers softly graced the delicate petals.
He lifted his head and saw something he’d never seen before. A gravestone. He flinched and fell backwards, startled by its appearance. He had never seen it before.
He looked all over the gray slab of stone until his eyes found the name: Kang Yeosang.
When had this happened? Was this some sick joke? Was it not enough for Jongho to be heartbroken, but he had to question his sanity as well? His imagination was too strong, he tried to reason. There was no explanation as to how he could have been imagining everything that had happened. And no one could have put this here without him realizing it.
Jongho was suddenly pushed into the real world at that moment, and he remembered everything clearly. The day after talking to the man for the first time, Yeosang collapsed and Jongho caught him. He had died then, his body overworked and starved and dehydrated and sick. He had been going to the garden every day to spend his last moments with something he loved, but Jongho had refused to believe that he was dead somewhere in his unconscious mind.
He could hear screaming. The person’s voice kept cracking and stopping for breath. The person sounded like they were in pain, as if their limbs were being torn off and heart being pulled out of the chest.
Then he realized that the person screaming was him. He was holding the pale flower in his hands, half of the stem still in the ground. His knuckles were split open and the gravestone had blood on it that must have been his.
His throat hurt, but the screams wouldn’t stop. His hand throbbed, but he couldn’t leave his spot in the garden.
He was being tortured by his mind all this time, and he’d never realized it. There had only ever been his imagination. It was never real. He had been so caught up in his lie, and now the lie was exposed and gone. It left reality laughing in his face for believing that he could be happy. He couldn’t cope with it.
He should have helped the man when he first appeared. It was clear that he had been sick, but Jongho didn’t want to see him like that when he could have looked the way his mind made him look, healthy and happy.
It was never real, he thought, and he heard himself scream it. He heard himself curse all deities and ask why it had to be the most beautiful man alive and say degrading things about anything remotely good about the world because everything good in his world was gone and he couldn’t stop.
He choked on a dry sob and grabbed his hair, tugging on it harshly to bring himself out of his mind. Maybe this was a sick joke, he thought again, desperate for a reason to hold onto the small thread of hope that had been present since the first day he’d been left alone in the garden. But as he looked at the grave again and touched the letters sloppily carved, he knew that this wasn’t a joke. He traced the letters, spelling out the name and committing it to memory. He recalled the man’s small smile the first time they’d spoken, his warm eyes that seemed to speak more than his lips, his cute accent that said he was from a different city than Jongho.
Jongho eventually stood and went into his house. He glanced back at the gravestone and let a quiet sigh leave his lips before accepting that this was reality.
It was never real.