Flower Boys
Pairing: sexing
Rating: R
Genre: healer!yixing au
Length: 2.2k
Warnings: [Spoiler (click to open)]violence, death
Summary: As their healer, their god, Yixing's heart belongs to the people-along with an assortment of other organs. for exoments
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the king's horses and all the king's men
Couldn't put Humpty together again
Somewhere 30 stories high, a single mother cracks an egg over a frying pan. It cries, screams out to her for mercy, but her only response is to wipe her brow with the back of her hand.
Somewhere 30 stories below, a young boy, perhaps 12 years old, pedals through traffic, sweat dripping into his eyes. He squints but keeps going. His stomach squints back at him. The boy can already taste the egg on his tongue, and he pedals faster, makes sharper turns, weaves between cars and trucks and fellow bikes, speeds, speeds, until he's flying.
Splat, goes the boy.
A car screeches to a halt, but it's too late. The boy is a fried egg. You are what you eat, after all.
Somewhere 30 seconds away, a figure obscured by sunglasses and a baseball cap smells eggs sizzling on pavement and breaks out into a run. Even with sunglasses on, he clearly sees the boy who went splat, the businessman stepping out of the car, and the single mother wiping sweat off of her brow.
He squats down next to the boy and says, "Little boy, will you accept me?"
The boy doesn't answer, probably because he's a fried egg, his pulse fading with every second.
To the protests of the businessman, the figure takes the boy into his lap and places his right palm onto the boy's forehead. A brief bright glow, a flicker of life, and the transformation is complete. The boy is now just a boy, no longer an egg. He opens his eyes and slowly sits up.
The businessman unmasks the figure with just one finger, pointing at him and yelling, "You're Yixing! You're the Great Healer!"
His voice echoes off of the skyscrapers, and soon everyone on the street knows about Yixing's presence.
"The Great Healer!"
"He's here?"
"I made an offering to his temple the other day. It's a miracle!"
"Fix my broken arm!"
"My throat hurts!"
"Heal me!"
"Bring my husband back to life!"
"I have damaged hair!"
The voices swarm Yixing and start grabbing at him. They gouge out his eyes to place them in their own sockets, they scratch off his skin to smooth out their acne, they unwind his nerves to calm their own, they dig out his organs and gnash on them. The voices strip him of everything he has, pick him dry. Then they take his bones and crush them into a fine powder to mix into their tea.
Yixing, the Great Healer, is their god, their savior, their product, and they want their money's worth.
With only the great white egg in the sky shining down on him, Yixing walks through the streets in a city a few hours away. He has a new hat, this time a snapback, and a backpack slung over his shoulder.
Somewhere 30 steps away, a shop owner hacks out a deep, throaty cough. It shakes her entire frame, takes her from head to toe, and wrings her.
Yixing can smell them, the hard-boiled eggs sitting in her lungs. He follows the coughs all the way to her shop. She's closing up, refolding some of the clothes customers had scrutinized then rejected.
"Grandmother, will you accept me?" Yixing calls out.
The shop owner looks up from her folding and sees a figure obscured by a snapback. She coughs.
"It's nighttime. We're closed," she says.
"Grandmother," Yixing says, "I can hear you coughing. At least let me fold the clothes for you."
She doesn't have the heart, or the lungs, to shoo him away, so the shop owner shows him how she wants the shirts folded as she works on straightening out a few skirts. Her own daughter has grown out of these types of clothes, has grown so tall that when she looks down from her penthouse apartment in New York City, she can no longer see her tiny mother.
Patient and diligent, Yixing works on folding the last of the shirts as the shop owner rests on a nearby chair. When he finishes his task, he turns to her and takes her hand.
"Please accept this gift," Yixing says.
Before she can protest, he digs into his backpack and pulls out a pair of lungs, slightly used.
"These are my lungs, but I think you need them more than me."
She squeezes one of the lobes, examines it, and looks back up to him.
"You're the Great Healer, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"Are you truly what they say you are? A god?" she asks.
Yixing doesn't answer; instead, he walks to the front of the shop, hands gripping the straps of his backpack.
"I need to leave now, grandmother. Please take care of yourself," Yixing says.
After he spends the next few days handing out all of the organs in his backpack, he walks through the city, empty-handed. Yet, he's so, so full.
Yixing is brimming with life. It overflows, gushes out of him. It spills onto the concrete, drenches the sidewalks, and paves the streets.
Life is everywhere. Peonies and plum blossoms emerge from steel and concrete. Magnolias sprout through the cracks in the sidewalks, and orchids and irises flood the streets.
Squealing with joy, little boys and girls put on flower crowns. A woman's face lights up when she rubs flower petals on her wrists.
Hunched over, Yixing clutches his stomach and heaves. He retches azaleas and chrysanthemums and the occasional narcissus. His insides twist and turn as he stumbles down into the subway station. There, people bump against him, shove him out of their way. His whole body twists and turns.
Yixing gags up a lotus, soft against his lips.
Now, life has conquered the subway station, camellias lining the tracks and orchids hanging from the ceiling. It starts raining rose petals.
Delighted, a university student takes off the lid of his cup and lets the petals fall into his boba tea. He takes a sip. The student notices how Yixing's whole body wracks in pain, and he rubs Yixing's back in comfort as he chokes up another carnation. Just this kind gesture, this gentle touch, calms him.
"You're Yixing, aren't you?" the student says.
Yixing's throat is raw but he answers in the affirmative.
"Sehun," the student says, pointing to himself. "I go to the university a few blocks away."
When Yixing is too busy ejecting more flowers from his body, Sehun frowns. He brings his cup to Yixing's lips and urges him to drink.
"I'm not a doctor or anything, but I think you should go to the hospital," Sehun says.
"No, I'm fine," Yixing chokes out.
Sehun presses his lips together. "Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"How about if I take you to my apartment to rest?" Sehun offers. "My roommate's an asshole, but you're a god, so it might be okay."
Sehun opens the front door.
"Yo, asshole! I'm back!" he calls out.
The room spins around Yixing, a carousel of flowers. He almost slips, falls right through the floor and eight stories down, but Sehun grabs his waist and steadies him.
Sehun kneels before him, unties his shoelaces, and helps slip his shoes off.
"Oh my god, Sehun. Did you bring a homeless guy back to the apartment again?" Sehun's roommate says as he walks towards them.
"That's Jongin, but you can call him asshole," Sehun says to Yixing before he turns to his roommate. "He's not homeless. He's the Great Healer."
"The Great-what?" Jongin says. "This guy? Are you sure?"
Jongin eyes the trail of flower petals behind Yixing in suspicion.
"You're suffering from pain in your lower back," Yixing says quietly. "I can heal you after I rest a little."
Eyebrows raising, Jongin takes Yixing's hand. "Wait, so you really are the Great Healer? Can you bring my dog back?"
Yixing frowns. "You know that's not possible."
Jongin's shoulders sink.
Yixing wants to comfort him, but Sehun whisks Yixing away, plants him on a couch, and tells him to make himself comfortable. With lilacs still decomposing on his tongue, Yixing ends up sleeping in an upright sitting position.
A few hours later, he wakes up to the aroma of scrambled eggs and wanders into the kitchen, which is only a few steps away from the couch. Sehun is just adding the finishing touch, a zigzag of ketchup, to the omurice.
"This is the only thing I know how to cook!" Sehun declares proudly.
He hands the plate over to Yixing. If overcooked eggs can cancel out undercooked rice, then this is the best meal Yixing has ever tasted. Sehun gestures that they should both sit on the couch.
As Yixing savors the last of his meal, Sehun taps him on the cheek. Yixing instinctively turns, and he finds that his lips briefly meet Sehun's.
A moment, an instant, a flicker of life. But instead of flowers, Yixing tastes Sehun. When they pull away, Sehun takes his hand and gently squeezes it. His eyes are shining.
"We should go out for boba tea sometime," Sehun says.
"Maybe in the future," Yixing finds himself agreeing.
It's a hollow promise, an empty eggshell. Yixing can't stay anchored to one place. There are people who need him, who need his organs.
But boba tea sounds good, and boba tea with Sehun sounds extra good.
Sehun grins. "Okay, you're paying then! I like chocolate, for future reference."
They stay there on the couch for a while, thigh to thigh, talking about yesterdays and tomorrows and the long stretches in between.
Later, Yixing knocks on Jongin's bedroom door to heal his lower back. Once he's finished, he starts slipping on his shoes, and he notices Sehun has appeared behind him.
"Do you think being a god is worth it?" Sehun asks.
Somewhere 30 stories high, a single mother embraces her 12-year-old son.
"It has to be," Yixing says before he slips away, leaving behind a hydrangea for Sehun to pluck off of the carpet.
Hours blend into days blend into months blend into a cup of coffee. Wearing a pair of large sunglasses, Yixing's sitting in a café, a milky heart drawn onto his latte. With each small sip, the heart deforms into what looks more like a gall bladder.
Since he has a limited amount of money on hand, the barista accepts his offering of a new set of wrists instead. She has carpal tunnel from pulling levers and scooping beans and pouring espresso all day. Of course, when the other customers in line see the barista's new wrists, they demand a new set of knees, a new pair of ankles as well. Yixing obliges, and he even unzips his DNA to spread nucleotides onto their pastries.
After everyone is satiated and has had their fill of the Great Healer, Yixing allows himself to rest at a small table by the window. Circular water stains decorate the top, along with a few carved profanities. He idly traces his fingers over them.
Maybe if the world spun clockwise, maybe if time didn't insist on ticking forward, maybe, just maybe, if he weren't a god, he could enjoy his goddamn latte in this goddamn café without people cracking him open and taking what's inside.
He takes another sip, tries to soothe whatever resentment grows inside of him. Yixing isn't perfect. Gods aren't perfect, but the people don't have to know that.
After all, they want his organs, not his emotions.
When Yixing looks out the window, he recognizes Sehun, hands shoved in his pockets as he walks across the street. And that's when he sees it-the egg pulsing inside of his brain.
Somewhere, a mug slams down on a water stained-table.
Chair screeching back, Yixing bolts out of the café, running and calling out Sehun's name. Sehun pauses and turns around to see Yixing waving his arms wildly at him. He lifts his arm to wave back, but his arm falls down, dragging his body with it. Raw egg coats his skull.
"Sehun!" Yixing screams. "Sehun, no!"
Finally, when Yixing catches up to Sehun, he knows it's too late, knows that the subarachnoid hemorrhage sentenced him to instant death.
And yet, Yixing places his right palm on Sehun's forehead and tries to summon life from the well inside of him. It coats his palms, glows, and speaks of new beginnings. Yixing wills for life to pour into Sehun, but it's like pushing a wall.
So Yixing pushes harder, whole body shaking with effort. He can feel the wall give a little, then more, and yes, it's working, yes!
And so life bursts from Sehun in the form of a cherry blossom tree. It breaks through his skull and shoots up into the sky in mere seconds, blossoms unfurling and perfuming the air.
He steps back, once, twice, until he clearly sees that Sehun is more tree than man now.
Somewhere 30 days later, Yixing orders two chocolate boba teas. He takes a sip, but all he can taste is raw egg. It slithers down his throat.
A/N: I had creamy omelet rice for lunch today. Now that's what I call eggsthetic. B)
Rating: R
Genre: healer!yixing au
Length: 2.2k
Warnings: [Spoiler (click to open)]violence, death
Summary: As their healer, their god, Yixing's heart belongs to the people-along with an assortment of other organs. for exoments
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the king's horses and all the king's men
Couldn't put Humpty together again
Somewhere 30 stories high, a single mother cracks an egg over a frying pan. It cries, screams out to her for mercy, but her only response is to wipe her brow with the back of her hand.
Somewhere 30 stories below, a young boy, perhaps 12 years old, pedals through traffic, sweat dripping into his eyes. He squints but keeps going. His stomach squints back at him. The boy can already taste the egg on his tongue, and he pedals faster, makes sharper turns, weaves between cars and trucks and fellow bikes, speeds, speeds, until he's flying.
Splat, goes the boy.
A car screeches to a halt, but it's too late. The boy is a fried egg. You are what you eat, after all.
Somewhere 30 seconds away, a figure obscured by sunglasses and a baseball cap smells eggs sizzling on pavement and breaks out into a run. Even with sunglasses on, he clearly sees the boy who went splat, the businessman stepping out of the car, and the single mother wiping sweat off of her brow.
He squats down next to the boy and says, "Little boy, will you accept me?"
The boy doesn't answer, probably because he's a fried egg, his pulse fading with every second.
To the protests of the businessman, the figure takes the boy into his lap and places his right palm onto the boy's forehead. A brief bright glow, a flicker of life, and the transformation is complete. The boy is now just a boy, no longer an egg. He opens his eyes and slowly sits up.
The businessman unmasks the figure with just one finger, pointing at him and yelling, "You're Yixing! You're the Great Healer!"
His voice echoes off of the skyscrapers, and soon everyone on the street knows about Yixing's presence.
"The Great Healer!"
"He's here?"
"I made an offering to his temple the other day. It's a miracle!"
"Fix my broken arm!"
"My throat hurts!"
"Heal me!"
"Bring my husband back to life!"
"I have damaged hair!"
The voices swarm Yixing and start grabbing at him. They gouge out his eyes to place them in their own sockets, they scratch off his skin to smooth out their acne, they unwind his nerves to calm their own, they dig out his organs and gnash on them. The voices strip him of everything he has, pick him dry. Then they take his bones and crush them into a fine powder to mix into their tea.
Yixing, the Great Healer, is their god, their savior, their product, and they want their money's worth.
With only the great white egg in the sky shining down on him, Yixing walks through the streets in a city a few hours away. He has a new hat, this time a snapback, and a backpack slung over his shoulder.
Somewhere 30 steps away, a shop owner hacks out a deep, throaty cough. It shakes her entire frame, takes her from head to toe, and wrings her.
Yixing can smell them, the hard-boiled eggs sitting in her lungs. He follows the coughs all the way to her shop. She's closing up, refolding some of the clothes customers had scrutinized then rejected.
"Grandmother, will you accept me?" Yixing calls out.
The shop owner looks up from her folding and sees a figure obscured by a snapback. She coughs.
"It's nighttime. We're closed," she says.
"Grandmother," Yixing says, "I can hear you coughing. At least let me fold the clothes for you."
She doesn't have the heart, or the lungs, to shoo him away, so the shop owner shows him how she wants the shirts folded as she works on straightening out a few skirts. Her own daughter has grown out of these types of clothes, has grown so tall that when she looks down from her penthouse apartment in New York City, she can no longer see her tiny mother.
Patient and diligent, Yixing works on folding the last of the shirts as the shop owner rests on a nearby chair. When he finishes his task, he turns to her and takes her hand.
"Please accept this gift," Yixing says.
Before she can protest, he digs into his backpack and pulls out a pair of lungs, slightly used.
"These are my lungs, but I think you need them more than me."
She squeezes one of the lobes, examines it, and looks back up to him.
"You're the Great Healer, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"Are you truly what they say you are? A god?" she asks.
Yixing doesn't answer; instead, he walks to the front of the shop, hands gripping the straps of his backpack.
"I need to leave now, grandmother. Please take care of yourself," Yixing says.
After he spends the next few days handing out all of the organs in his backpack, he walks through the city, empty-handed. Yet, he's so, so full.
Yixing is brimming with life. It overflows, gushes out of him. It spills onto the concrete, drenches the sidewalks, and paves the streets.
Life is everywhere. Peonies and plum blossoms emerge from steel and concrete. Magnolias sprout through the cracks in the sidewalks, and orchids and irises flood the streets.
Squealing with joy, little boys and girls put on flower crowns. A woman's face lights up when she rubs flower petals on her wrists.
Hunched over, Yixing clutches his stomach and heaves. He retches azaleas and chrysanthemums and the occasional narcissus. His insides twist and turn as he stumbles down into the subway station. There, people bump against him, shove him out of their way. His whole body twists and turns.
Yixing gags up a lotus, soft against his lips.
Now, life has conquered the subway station, camellias lining the tracks and orchids hanging from the ceiling. It starts raining rose petals.
Delighted, a university student takes off the lid of his cup and lets the petals fall into his boba tea. He takes a sip. The student notices how Yixing's whole body wracks in pain, and he rubs Yixing's back in comfort as he chokes up another carnation. Just this kind gesture, this gentle touch, calms him.
"You're Yixing, aren't you?" the student says.
Yixing's throat is raw but he answers in the affirmative.
"Sehun," the student says, pointing to himself. "I go to the university a few blocks away."
When Yixing is too busy ejecting more flowers from his body, Sehun frowns. He brings his cup to Yixing's lips and urges him to drink.
"I'm not a doctor or anything, but I think you should go to the hospital," Sehun says.
"No, I'm fine," Yixing chokes out.
Sehun presses his lips together. "Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"How about if I take you to my apartment to rest?" Sehun offers. "My roommate's an asshole, but you're a god, so it might be okay."
Sehun opens the front door.
"Yo, asshole! I'm back!" he calls out.
The room spins around Yixing, a carousel of flowers. He almost slips, falls right through the floor and eight stories down, but Sehun grabs his waist and steadies him.
Sehun kneels before him, unties his shoelaces, and helps slip his shoes off.
"Oh my god, Sehun. Did you bring a homeless guy back to the apartment again?" Sehun's roommate says as he walks towards them.
"That's Jongin, but you can call him asshole," Sehun says to Yixing before he turns to his roommate. "He's not homeless. He's the Great Healer."
"The Great-what?" Jongin says. "This guy? Are you sure?"
Jongin eyes the trail of flower petals behind Yixing in suspicion.
"You're suffering from pain in your lower back," Yixing says quietly. "I can heal you after I rest a little."
Eyebrows raising, Jongin takes Yixing's hand. "Wait, so you really are the Great Healer? Can you bring my dog back?"
Yixing frowns. "You know that's not possible."
Jongin's shoulders sink.
Yixing wants to comfort him, but Sehun whisks Yixing away, plants him on a couch, and tells him to make himself comfortable. With lilacs still decomposing on his tongue, Yixing ends up sleeping in an upright sitting position.
A few hours later, he wakes up to the aroma of scrambled eggs and wanders into the kitchen, which is only a few steps away from the couch. Sehun is just adding the finishing touch, a zigzag of ketchup, to the omurice.
"This is the only thing I know how to cook!" Sehun declares proudly.
He hands the plate over to Yixing. If overcooked eggs can cancel out undercooked rice, then this is the best meal Yixing has ever tasted. Sehun gestures that they should both sit on the couch.
As Yixing savors the last of his meal, Sehun taps him on the cheek. Yixing instinctively turns, and he finds that his lips briefly meet Sehun's.
A moment, an instant, a flicker of life. But instead of flowers, Yixing tastes Sehun. When they pull away, Sehun takes his hand and gently squeezes it. His eyes are shining.
"We should go out for boba tea sometime," Sehun says.
"Maybe in the future," Yixing finds himself agreeing.
It's a hollow promise, an empty eggshell. Yixing can't stay anchored to one place. There are people who need him, who need his organs.
But boba tea sounds good, and boba tea with Sehun sounds extra good.
Sehun grins. "Okay, you're paying then! I like chocolate, for future reference."
They stay there on the couch for a while, thigh to thigh, talking about yesterdays and tomorrows and the long stretches in between.
Later, Yixing knocks on Jongin's bedroom door to heal his lower back. Once he's finished, he starts slipping on his shoes, and he notices Sehun has appeared behind him.
"Do you think being a god is worth it?" Sehun asks.
Somewhere 30 stories high, a single mother embraces her 12-year-old son.
"It has to be," Yixing says before he slips away, leaving behind a hydrangea for Sehun to pluck off of the carpet.
Hours blend into days blend into months blend into a cup of coffee. Wearing a pair of large sunglasses, Yixing's sitting in a café, a milky heart drawn onto his latte. With each small sip, the heart deforms into what looks more like a gall bladder.
Since he has a limited amount of money on hand, the barista accepts his offering of a new set of wrists instead. She has carpal tunnel from pulling levers and scooping beans and pouring espresso all day. Of course, when the other customers in line see the barista's new wrists, they demand a new set of knees, a new pair of ankles as well. Yixing obliges, and he even unzips his DNA to spread nucleotides onto their pastries.
After everyone is satiated and has had their fill of the Great Healer, Yixing allows himself to rest at a small table by the window. Circular water stains decorate the top, along with a few carved profanities. He idly traces his fingers over them.
Maybe if the world spun clockwise, maybe if time didn't insist on ticking forward, maybe, just maybe, if he weren't a god, he could enjoy his goddamn latte in this goddamn café without people cracking him open and taking what's inside.
He takes another sip, tries to soothe whatever resentment grows inside of him. Yixing isn't perfect. Gods aren't perfect, but the people don't have to know that.
After all, they want his organs, not his emotions.
When Yixing looks out the window, he recognizes Sehun, hands shoved in his pockets as he walks across the street. And that's when he sees it-the egg pulsing inside of his brain.
Somewhere, a mug slams down on a water stained-table.
Chair screeching back, Yixing bolts out of the café, running and calling out Sehun's name. Sehun pauses and turns around to see Yixing waving his arms wildly at him. He lifts his arm to wave back, but his arm falls down, dragging his body with it. Raw egg coats his skull.
"Sehun!" Yixing screams. "Sehun, no!"
Finally, when Yixing catches up to Sehun, he knows it's too late, knows that the subarachnoid hemorrhage sentenced him to instant death.
And yet, Yixing places his right palm on Sehun's forehead and tries to summon life from the well inside of him. It coats his palms, glows, and speaks of new beginnings. Yixing wills for life to pour into Sehun, but it's like pushing a wall.
So Yixing pushes harder, whole body shaking with effort. He can feel the wall give a little, then more, and yes, it's working, yes!
And so life bursts from Sehun in the form of a cherry blossom tree. It breaks through his skull and shoots up into the sky in mere seconds, blossoms unfurling and perfuming the air.
He steps back, once, twice, until he clearly sees that Sehun is more tree than man now.
Somewhere 30 days later, Yixing orders two chocolate boba teas. He takes a sip, but all he can taste is raw egg. It slithers down his throat.
A/N: I had creamy omelet rice for lunch today. Now that's what I call eggsthetic. B)