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It starts 24 hours after Bam’s death.
It starts with Khun, sitting alone in his room, staring listlessly at the wall, fingers absentmindedly tapping the table. It used to be a nervous tic, quickly drilled out of him once the Khun family politics sank its claws into him. But now…
He’s not nervous, he knows that. Bored, maybe? He hasn’t…really done anything since finding out the news. No, that’s not right. He’s done plenty. Promised to bring Rachel up the Tower. Found out that Rachel was a backstabber and liar. Resolved to take her anyway to fulfill Bam’s last wish, as much as every rational side of him screamed kill her.
It’s not that he hasn’t done anything. It’s that he hasn’t felt anything. Sure, there’s the simmering anger towards Rachel, the occasional irritation from the gator, but those are…expected. He hasn’t…
Bam is dead, and instead of sadness, it’s just…nothing. An all-encompassing emptiness that threatens to eat him from the inside out. Khun takes a deep breath, then lets it out. Another in, another out. He shouldn’t be feeling this way. Bam was just…another person to fail the Second Floor. Just another Regular.
But he was an Irregular, the logical side of his brain says. He wasn’t just any Regular.
And his traitorous heart adds, You made a promise to him. You liked him.
Attachments are dangerous, and he knows that very well. It shouldn’t matter to him. And yet. Yet.
He’s almost surprised when he feels the burn in his eyes. He hasn’t cried since…he doesn’t remember. When he was very young, he supposes. Before he learned about the harshness of the world. Any display of emotion is weak, but negative ones especially. Anger must be controlled. Fear must be hidden. Sadness must be internalized.
But he’s alone. So, very carefully, he lifts a hand and wipes his eye.
Something digs into his skin. Khun flinches back, though the brief sting is more startling than painful. Something clinks onto the table, tiny, iridescent, sharp.
Khun stares at the tiny crystal and fights back an incredulous laugh. Out of all the afflictions…
He knows Hanahaki is born from longing, from the yearning for someone just out of reach, from each petal plucked off, loves-me and loves-me-not. Born from words that can’t be said, that instead choke one from the inside out, each one a flower curling around the lungs.
But Star Tear comes from grief. It comes from the regrets left behind, the wishes unreceived. A twinkling star for every lost moment.
Not every tear becomes a star. Most simply sting with unspoken regret, a trail of iridescence across skin. But some coalesce and harden, edges sharpening into crystal, with all the bitterness of loss.
It's said that the image of the grieved person would be the first to go. Then the sight. And as the condition worsens, all the memories as well. Grief is a terrible, festering thing that eats away the longer it lingers.
Khun doesn't believe in old tales, but…
He pulls out a jar from his Lighthouse.
He counts the crystals, one two three, and drops them in.
At least it’s easy to pretend.
Acting is second nature to him, honed since youth, refined to perfection. Sly smirks and cocky grins come instinctively. The marks left by the tears are easily covered with a little bit of cream and powder. He can ignore the way his skin stings as he blinks, and he’s in his Lighthouse while commanding the team.
(What’s harder to ignore is the jar of crystals, slowly growing in the corner.)
Khuns aren’t criers, and he is no exception. But diseases don’t care. The iridescent liquid forces itself out, trickling down his cheek, sparkling in its wake. It draws Khun’s attention, like it or not.
Sometimes, he wishes it was Hanahaki instead. The flowers have a cure, unlike the tears. But then he remembers the price, and perhaps Star Tear is luckier. Love may be easy to give up—the Tower is no place for it—but the memories are not. At least with Star Tear, he can keep those, if nothing else.
He brings up pictures of Bam sometimes, as painful as they are. Tries to commit every detail to memory. Tries to keep it in his mind when the image vanishes from sight.
Another crystal drops, and he catches it before it hits the ground. It goes into the jar with all the rest.
His teammates suspect something. Khun thinks he’s done a pretty good job hiding it, but unfortunately, his teammates are nosy people. Endorsi makes snide comments about his makeup. Isu gives him concerned glances every so often. Even Hatz remarks on his exhausted appearance, despite rising to meet Khun’s taunts every time Khun jabs out. Rachel is the only one that isn’t worried, despite her faux caring words. She’s gleeful every time she sees him suffer, and Khun briefly wonders if it’s possible to choke on star tears the same way someone with Hanahaki can choke on petals. The crystals are tiny but sharp. Maybe if he shoves them down her throat, they’ll tear her throat open from the inside out.
(But these are Bam’s stars. His murderer doesn’t deserve them, even if it’s for her death.)
It’s Rak that comes closest to finding out, much to Khun’s irritation. The gator is loud, boisterous, with absolutely zero concept of personal space. He barely hesitates in barging Khun’s door down, and Khun is starting to reflexively throw knives without even looking. They’ll have to go their own ways eventually, Khun knows. With the entire Rachel issue…Rak would never be able to keep the secret. Neither of them have truly ever integrated with Isu and the others, anyway. He appreciates them enough—it never hurts having an official and unofficial Princess of Jahad on the team, and Isu’s wit is nothing to laugh at—but it had been Bam bringing them together. And Bam is gone.
Still, he lingers. It’s a disgusting, sentimental habit, but this is a good team, he justifies to himself. It’ll be hard creating another one that is on par.
And one night, as he delicately plucks the tiny jewels from his eyes and wipes away iridescent tears, the gator bursts into his room. “Blue Turtle, where are my bananas!”
“Get out,” Khun nearly snarls, whipping around on reflex—freezing as they make eye contact.
Even Rak seems taken back. “Blue Turtle, are you…”
Khun lunges for the gator, wrapping his arm around the gator's throat and choking as his Lighthouses simultaneously soundproof the room. “Shut up,” he hisses. Rak thrashes in his hold, flailing and roaring silently, but Khun doesn’t let go until the gator has stopped struggling.
“…Blue Turtle.” At least Rak seems to have learned from his shouting. Shocking. Khun didn’t think the gator was capable of learning. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing.” If Rak doesn’t know the meaning behind the tears, Khun isn’t going to inform him. He rummages through his Lighthouse, hurling a bunch of bananas towards the gator. “Here. Go away.”
Rak doesn’t move, instead meeting Khun’s glare with equal ferocity. Then, he shuffles over and picks up one of the crystals, squinting at it in his claws. “These look like candy.”
“Do not eat them.” Not that he would mind if the gator choked.
Rak, surprisingly, listens to him, setting the jewel back. “The Black Turtle is gone,” he says gruffly, but unexpectedly soft.
“I know.” Of course he does, or he wouldn’t be crying crystalline tears. “So go away.”
Rak huffs, but finally, he tears a banana off the bunch and leaves it on Khun’s desk. “You need to eat more, Blue Turtle.” Then he stomps out of the room.
Khun watches his door slam shut. Unwillingly, another tear trickles down his cheek. He reaches up to wipe it away, and winces as the edges of another star nicks his skin. He feels a thin trickle of blood seep out, and quickly wipes it away with his bandanna. Then he cleans off the crystal and tosses it into the jar.
He needs to make plans to leave. He can’t stay with the others.
At least with this new team, they’re better at respecting his privacy. If he’s in his room, they knock and wait for his response. And if he says he’s busy, they’ll come back later.
Only Ran walks in on him once. He takes one look at Khun, face stained with dark trails left behind by rainbows, and simply lets out a long, annoyed sigh. Then he leaves without a word. Ran disapproves, as expected, but he trusts Khun enough to refrain from calling him out on it.
Khun’s just glad that he hasn’t pointed out the way Khun had been tensed up in pain. Keeping a straight face is one thing, but nerves in the skin aren’t so controllable. He’s careful to never even let a grimace through, even when alone, but it hurts, every time a tear forces itself out, every time he plucks a crystal free. The liquid bites at his skin, a gradual buildup that only gets worse and worse with each repeated trail. Part of him—that irrational, desperate side just looking for someone to blame—wants to pin it all on Bam. If Bam hadn’t asked him for help, then Khun would never have this to worry about. But even knowing this result, Khun would never take back his choice. Losing Bam cut deeper than any wound he’s suffered, but a life without him…he can’t imagine one anymore, and it scares him more than he wants to admit.
He sighs, head resting in his arms. Bam would be sad, seeing him like this. But Bam is gone. It’s only Khun left.
He’s always been alone, but rarely does he let himself actually feel lonely. It’s a dangerous emotion, the type that leads people to trust blindly, to be ruled by desperation. Bitterness is easier. Vengeance can be planned and executed. There can’t be room for anything else.
But as another rainbow tear falls, clinks against the table, he wishes, briefly, that Bam could be here with him.
They nearly fail the next test.
Not that any of their teammates notice—in their eyes, everything had probably gone perfectly. The other team had been ruthlessly eliminated in one neat sweep. But it had all come down to timing, and Khun had nearly missed it.
A second later on the switch, and the Shinsu wave would have wiped them out instead.
While Star Tear aims for the memories, it still does cause the afflicted to cry. Except unlike normal tears, there is no stopping a Star Tear once it comes. It’s not like choking back a petal of Hanahaki, swallowing roots and flowers. Brush it away too quickly, and it’ll tear through sensitive skin. The liquid has to flow its course.
The plan, all things considered, had been a simple one. Distract the opposing team, then lead them right into a trap. A Shinsu wave crashes through certain sectors of the arena at set intervals. The trick was controlling which ones.
The team had been right on the edge of sector one, leading the opposing team chasing them into sector two. Khun was in charge of moving the wave right into sector two as it started crashing down. And he had heard the wave coming, heard their opponents shouting, but…then Rachel had mumbled something, acting all scared and nervous, about how this reminded her of being in the bubble on the Second Floor, and for a moment, Khun couldn’t recall an image of Bam at all.
And he realized his mistake when his vision blurred over as tears suddenly forced their way through, leaving him blindly scrambling at his keyboard in the hopes that muscle memory would type out the right commands, fighting the urge to rub his eyes and dig sharp crystals in.
It had worked, and they passed, but he had to hide away in his room for some time to make sure no one had caught any hint of weakness.
Rachel had lied, as she always did. But as he brings up a picture of Bam on his Lighthouse, ignoring the way his hands tremble slightly on the keyboard, he finds that the image can’t seem to settle in his head at all. He knows how it’s supposed to look—Bam smiling as he talks with the others in the cafeteria, golden eyes sparkling with naive innocence—but his eyes can’t focus on it at all.
Apple messages him about Cassano before the fear can set in.
But his gaze is startling clear when he sees Viole—Bam—again. Clear as fire and rock crashes down on them, Bam’s shout rising above the cacophony—
“Run away, Mr. Khun!”
And then there’s nothing to see at all.
Team Sweet and Sour is a disaster in every way possible. It’s clear that without Bam, they would’ve long since died a miserable death. But at least they get along with each other. Managing his former team with Ran and Novick constantly trying to duke it out had been quite a headache at times. All things considered, this isn’t the worst team to be working with, even if they’re subpar.
The annoying thing, really, is that they’re all so nosy. And he knows he’s an outsider, but still, they’re incessant in bothering him. Most of them figure out quickly that Khun isn’t going to be answering any questions, but he can tell when they’re keeping an eye on him.
So perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised when Wangnan is the one to catch him shedding tears. The blond opens his mouth to speak—shriek in shock, probably—and Khun covers his mouth before a sound comes out. “Say anything about this to the others, and I’ll make sure you no longer have a tongue to speak with.”
Wangnan nods rapidly, but his gaze wanders towards the jar, where crystals have accumulated over the years. “You… Are you…” Wangnan, for all his shortcomings, is stupidly bold and brave, never hesitating to speak his mind. “Are you going to do anything about it?”
“Like what?” Khun scoffs. “This isn’t Hanahaki. There’s no surgery to make it go away.”
“What if there was?” That’s…an odd follow-up. Khun narrows his eyes the best he can, briefly forgetting the tears that sting, and Wangnan adds quickly, “There isn’t! I know that. Just…you know, if you had the option to remove the tears and…well.” Remove the image of Bam from your mind forever.
Never. “That’s none of your business.”
Wangnan sags. “Should’ve expected that.” He mutters something else under his breath, and it sounds like Viole’s name is mentioned there somewhere.
“What was that?”
The blond jumps. “Um…he missed you too?” At the obvious lie, Khun gives him a look, and Wangnan elaborates, “He, uh, really liked these blue flowers. Forget-me-nots, I think? Used to find petals all over his room. I guess they reminded him of you.”
Khun never knew Bam to be one to collect flowers. Then again, he hasn’t seen Bam for years. How much did he really know Bam in the first place?
“If you don’t mind me asking…how is your sight?” Wangnan asks.
“I can lead just fine,” Khun declares.
“That’s not what I meant—I just—Are you okay?”
“I know Bam is alive,” Khun says. There’s no reason for him to grieve—how can he grieve someone that’s alive? But the tears still keep coming, and Khun almost thinks that they fall even more now. “I will be fine.” He has to be. He has to ignore how difficult it is to recall the image of Bam at all.
He doesn’t understand why the tears still trickle—slow, steady, sure.
“You grieve for the Twenty-Fifth Bam that you lost. The Bam of the Second Floor that no longer exists,” Hwaryun states.
Khun scowls at her. “What did you do to him?”
“We made him into our god. That’s all.” She catches a star before it hits the ground, offering it to him. “You should be careful with these.”
“I hate you.” He says, cold and exact.
She smiles. “I know. But you don’t have any other choice, do you?” And her smile turns a little sharper, “I’ll even give you a bonus gift.” She pulls something small out from her Pocket and tosses it at him—Khun catches it on reflex, opening his palm to reveal a small flash drive.
“What is this?”
“See for yourself. Maybe it’ll help you remember better. Good luck.”
As if luck ever favored him. Khun puts the flash drive away into his Lighthouse. He doesn’t trust the Red Witch one bit, but if the Workshop Battle gets Bam back to him…then he’s going to participate, and he’s going to win.
When he’s alone, he plugs in the flash drive and takes a quick look. It’s filled with videos. He clicks on the first.
It’s a recording of Bam. Khun watches as he’s slammed into the rock wall. Bam stumbles to his feet, Shinsu gathering at his fingers, but he doesn’t get the chance to fire before his opponent attacks first, snapping his arm with a sickening crunch.
Khun rips the drive out of his Lighthouse right as he hears the scream. There’s something a little off about it—a little hoarse, almost more like a cough—but Khun doesn’t want to dwell on it. The flash drive clatters to the floor, and he doesn’t bother picking it back up.
His breath is shaky, but he forces it to even out, even as tears trickle down his cheeks. It’s only a few minutes later that he hides the crystals away, and puts the flash drive out of sight.
It’s not something for him to see.
The Workshop Battle, to put it lightly, is a disaster.
But somehow, things work out. Somehow, Wangnan manages to summon Bam, and somehow, they hold off Beta long enough for Isu to forfeit the game, and for Bam to come back to them all.
Khun swallows the lump in his throat and exits his Lighthouse.
For a moment, he can’t see Bam at all. He forces down the panic, forces himself to concentrate, and his gaze meets Bam’s. At least I can still find his eyes. The rest of him slowly filters into clarity afterward—his robes, his long hair, the soft smile on his face.
Khun smiles back.
And then Reflejo messages with a threat about Hwaryun, and Khun is silently grateful that he can turn away before Bam sees the tears.
He doesn’t understand why the tears still come.
Bam is back. Khun has nothing to mourn, no one to mourn. There is no explanation for why the Star Tears haven’t gone away, why they still fall despite the relief in him. Every search on his Lighthouse gives the same description: Star Tear goes away when the afflicted has moved on from their grief.
Khun has moved on. Hasn’t he?
But Bam is…different now. Quieter. More withdrawn. His smiles, while genuine, are tinged with an aching sadness. And he seems to be…treading delicately around Khun. The first night had fine—all of them too tired to do much besides pass out on some spare blankets—but afterwards…
There’s a tension between them that Khun doesn’t quite know how to describe. Bam stares at him with this soft, fond look that he doesn’t know what to do with.
Isu finds him one night, brushing twinkling tears away into the jar. Khun starts to turn away, but he knows it’s already too late to hide it. Then he realizes that Isu hasn’t reacted much at all.
He sighs. “So you knew already, didn’t you?”
“Well, most of us suspected Hanahaki,” Isu says in lieu of a response. “But, well, you left before any of us had the chance to confront you, so—”
Khun had left pretty suddenly. “You didn’t ask when I left?”
“We never found any petals, so we could never be sure,” Isu says. “And the team was…pretty strained at times. It wouldn’t have helped.” He looks over to the jar. “I suppose asking if you’re okay would just be mocking.” He sighs heavily. “So…how’s your sight?”
Khun doesn’t deign that with a response.
“I thought…doesn’t Star Tear go away once there’s nothing left to grieve?”
“You don’t think I know that?” Khun bites out. “I don’t know why they’re still coming. Bam is right next door.”
“Have you talked to him about it?”
At Khun’s silence, Isu gives him a deadpan look. “Seriously?”
“I—”
“Look, I get not talking to us. But it’s Bam—don’t give me that look, you look exactly what I’m implying. And even if it weren’t for that, don’t you think you should talk to the person that’s causing your illness?”
“…I’ll talk to him eventually,” Khun says.
“When your Star Tear goes away?” Isu counters. “Come on, Khun. And maybe if you talk to him, you’ll figure out why you still have it.”
“…Maybe.”
Isu pats him lightly on the shoulder. “I really do think it’ll help you. Talk to him, Khun. Before…” He glanced at the jar again. “Before you regret waiting.”
Khun stares at the jar, and doesn’t respond.
It ends 24 hours after they fall asleep together.
It’s as they’re reorganizing the blankets on the floor for the night, smoothing out the ruffled corners and adding a few more for extra softness, waiting for Rak to join them, that Bam says, quiet but sure, “I love you.”
Khun’s hands still on the blankets.
Bam doesn’t look at him, not that Khun could tell if he wasn’t squinting. “I have for a while. I thought about you a lot when I was with FUG.”
Khun doesn’t know how to respond to that. He doesn’t know if he should be responding.
“You don’t have to reciprocate it, or anything,” Bam adds. “But I thought you should know.”
“I…” Khun swallows. “I do…feel the same. But I…I don’t know if I can say it back right now. It’s not—”
Bam inhales deeply. “I know.” Having deemed the blankets good enough, he stands up. Khun follows. “Isu said you had something to tell me, but I thought I would get that out of the way first.”
That bastard. “Yes. I…” Taking a deep breath, he summons his Lighthouse. It’s easy to locate the familiar glass jar, and he sighs and pulls it out. Half-full, but glittering with tiny crystals. He hears Bam’s breath catch as he takes the jar, and Khun pulls out a handkerchief, wiping away the makeup that covers up all the marks. He doesn’t need to be able to see Bam to feel his gaze, tracing down the dark trails left behind by iridescent tears.
“Can…Can you still see?” Bam asks softly.
“Mostly,” Khun replies. “The only blurry part is…” You.
He feels them coming as they always do, the starry, clear liquid that gathers in his eyes, and he looks away, even though there’s no way to hide it. “I don’t know why—you’re back with us now. There’s no reason for them, but—”
Bam opens his arms. “May I…?”
Khun steps into the hug. He lets his face drop into Bam’s shoulder, and if Bam doesn’t point out the way his breath trembles and his form shakes, Khun won’t bring it up either. His arms slowly make their way around Bam—figuring out where to rest comfortably. He’s not used to showing this much vulnerability, but he appreciates Bam’s silence. So he simply listens to Bam breathe, until his own calms down in time, and they breathe together in the quiet.
(And later, when they’re in private and completely away from the others, they go through that flash drive together, and Khun finds out how Bam had coughed up brilliant blue flowers, how each breath had been ridden with petals. He learns about just how closely Bam had brushed with death, choking with each gasp for air as the roots spread through his lungs.
But that is for later. This is now.)
And when his breathing finally grows even again, and his tears dry on Bam’s shoulder, he finally notices that none of them have crystallized. He shuffles back slightly, arms resting on Bam’s shoulders instead, eyes blinking open. Bam lifts his hands, cupping Khun’s face gently, giving him time to pull away. When Khun doesn’t, he presses his lips softly to Khun’s forehead, then one on each eyelid.
“I missed you,” he murmurs.
“…Yeah. Me too.”
He rests in Bam’s warmth.