Jimin believes he was appropriately dressed for a wedding — as appropriate as he could be. The last wedding he'd been to was months ago, of someone from the publishing house, and he'd returned as soon as the vows were said and the couple was congratulated. No ceremony to attend. But it was different, much different.

Mister Jeon wasn't there.

He hasn't had a while to just stand and stare at his reflection in the mirror. And this morning, when he did as he put on his coat, he'd halted. There were no possible drastic changes to speak of — his hair remains pushed back, thin with graying streaks of age, stubble from a recent shave, eyes darker browns and lips chapped. But below his eyes, the marks of stress, that had made themselves nearly permanent for the past year, were gone.

He'd stood there, wondering if he was finally getting enough sleep or was Bellbarrow truly suiting his health?

Or was it something else?

The little gratulatory bouquet of roses that he'd bought not a while ago from Poet's Garden was to be the only item he planned on carrying to the church. The said place — local church of Bellbarrow — was a small but beautiful building, as Jimin found out. Then again, there aren't many people to populate it.

Now that he admires the building from outside, people — men in suits, women in dresses — stepping in, he can't help but grow mildly anxious.

This nag hasn't touched his chest ever since he's come to this town, or met Mister Jeon. And when there was nothing he hated more than this feeling, he'd been elated. Though as it seems, it was back again to scare him in a foolish way. Scare him from being among people when he'd faced crowds larger than this. He could—

"Mister Park."

A tap on his shoulder pulls him off his thoughts, furrowed brows and pursed lips.

"Mister Jeon," the words from his mouth sound no less than a breath of relief.

"You're on time, a little early even," the florist says.

He's elegantly dressed in a dark suit for the occasion yet somehow, reflects as himself through it all. Maybe there were his cuffs, slightly loose. Or his blazer button with a stray thread peeking through.

"Flowers?"

"Flowers...?" The author blinks.

Mister Jeon gestures at the bouquet in his hand.

"Oh this," he extends them in his direction. "For the happy couple."

"Sweet, thank you," he accepts the flowers. "Let's go in, shall we? If I'm not misguided, I believe I've got us the best seats."

"I don't think you need the best seats for a wedding," Jimin adds as they begin walking, sensing the heat of comfort returning to his corpse-like figure.

"Oh, why not?"

"It's not a show, is it?"

"It very much is, I'd say. A show where people get to join in and watch a chapter of someone's life unfold. New beginnings."

The author remains silent at that, choosing to take a glance at Mister Jeon's face who, as it seems, expected it. For the taller man is returning his gaze with an awaiting grin.

"Now, now. I haven't known you for long but I'd reckon that look either says that I've said something tremendously philosophical or incredibly idiotic."

That, however, pulls out a laugh from Jimin's throat.

"Certainly not idiotic, Mister Jeon. I won't say that."

"Oh, but you'd think that?"

"You'd know if I do."

"It's a man for himself then," sighs the florist.

"I merely admired you," he says a moment later, without meeting his eyes, "yet again."

In a dim chatter, they enter the building, guided by the florist to take their seats. The pair sits side by side, and the author can't help but entertain the childish thought of this proximity. Goodness gracious, how old was he? Fifteen?

The seats are a relative front and as the gleeful look on Mister Jeon's face suggests, he truly seems happy to be a close witness here. Which is quite rare of a sight, Jimin thinks. Usually, people would want front row seats to watch you fall, not to witness your peak happiness. But Mister Jeon has been so different all this time. Different from the definition of people that Jimin carries in his mind — different from the world.

Does he ever ask back for the kindness he gives? Does he not grow sad when he realizes that it is not often returned?

Needless to say, the more Jimin knows the florist, the more intrigued he gets.

A few seats across from them, the author spots a couple that, by their stoic demeanor, appear to be the Nelhams. They're dressed for the occasion, however the firm lines above Mister Nelham's forehead suggest well the sentiment that he held in his heart. Though, his wife takes in the interior with a strange glint in her eyes — something that Jimin would otherwise call happiness had it not been suppressed like this.

Mothers. It's always the mothers.

The chatter in the church dims when the priest begins, going on about the sacred relationships and ties of Adam and Eve. In no time, the groom walks in — a man with slightly more streaks of gray hair than Jimin's, yet well-kept — followed by the bride. And when Miss Nelham comes into the view, Jimin could swear he spots the glint in her mother's eyes taking the shape of unshed tears.

"She's beautiful, isn't she?" Mister Jeon observes — happy, proud, or even a little emotional in there.

"Magnificent." The author keeps the reply short.

All while the vows are said, rings and kisses are exchanged, he can't help but notice the sheer gladness that Mister Jeon's figure radiates. He was happy for his sister would be a way to put it, but it was perhaps more than that. If anything, Jimin has only seen empathy lost as the time moves forward. But somehow, a florist in this small town has it intact in its pure form.

Greedily, Jimin wishes he could have some for himself.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Much later into the ceremony, and as the sun occasionally peeks through the white clouds, vibrant within the clear blue sky of this day, Jimin sits on his table, observing everything from afar.

The Nelhams occupy a table on the farther end and despite the longing glances of his wife, it seems as if every man's attempt of making a small talk with Mister Nelham goes futile. Jimin can't help but wonder how tiring it must have been to convince him to attend the ceremony. Mister Jeon truly did wonders there.

His eyes, on the thought of the said man, begin looking for him. He stands out, he always does. Some of his curls have let loose and he may have had a drink or two, but he doesn't look inebriated. The florist laughs with people Jimin has never seen, helps around and evidently enough, is the messiah in the eyes of his sister. Merely by the look that she gives him tells the author more than he needs to know.

When no one listened to her, he did. And perhaps sometimes, you don't need anyone to devise solutions or go out of their way to help you. Sometimes, all you need is a pair of ears to listen. And Mister Jeon did exactly that.

The newlywed couple greets everyone, and there's Henry too, side by side running errands. Happiness surrounds the little family like anything and the author feels his hands itching to write something about it, a few words to jot down, mayhaps. He doesn't happen to have his journal with him but maybe he could scribble something on a handkerchief, only if there was a pen around...?

"And there's Jeongguk's regular customer, Mister Park, if I'm not wrong?"

Raising his head, Jimin is met with Henry and his now-parents smiling at him. Oh, the introductions. Right.

"Yes, that is I," he nods, an immediate formal smile taking over his lips. "Congratulations, Mister Avery." He extends a hand.

"Thank you for coming," the man replies in a voice that's deep, shaking his hand. "Any acquaintance of Mister Jeon is welcomed here."

"He's been a great help to you," Jimin adds. "I realize."

"Truly," says Anne, passing a loving glance at her husband. They seem happy. Genuinely happy. "How long have Jeongguk known you, Mister Park? I assumed you two must be close for it is not usual for him to invite someone over this way."

It's been what? A few weeks since he's known the florist? Jimin doesn't even know why he's special enough to be here.

"Oh, actually it's—"

"Why are there no drinks on this table?" Mister Jeon, thankfully, saves him the explanation, padding towards the table and the little gathering around it. "Mister Park, you were not served, were you? Blimey."

"I'm fine—"

"Here you go," and a glass of what seems like wine is thrusted in the author's direction.

He wonders if the alcohol has mildly gotten to Mister Jeon's head. The man smiles more than usual, although, a beautiful sight, Jimin wouldn't complain. He accepts the glass, returning the smile and taking a sip.

"What have you been inquiring him about? He's my customer, not yours."

"I only wondered if this customer was your friend as well. Since you have him invited here." Anne puts in.

"Certainly a friend," Mister Jeon nods. "But Mister Park is an author and I may pass as a reader too."

"Though, he yet has to read my works, that is." Jimin helpfully adds, earning a few laughs from the group.

"Oh, you wouldn't know that," the florist complains. "Maybe I've always been a reader and all of it was an elaborated scheme to have you over at my sister's wedding?"

"And that's how you tell the wine's gotten to his head," Anne announces.

"Not yet, not at all," he contradicts. "And I hold my liquor well, young woman."

"You may, but in case you decide not to—" she turns to Jimin, "apologies for troubling you Mister Park, but will you be kind enough to walk him home?"

"I uh... I'm not quite sure of where Mister Jeon lives."

"Oh, right here, I'll write it down for ya." Henry is quick with grabbing the unused napkin to jot down the address, producing a pen from his pocket that Jimin had earlier looked for.

"You say that when I'm pie-eyed," Mister Jeon huffs. "I'm all fine and holding conversations."

"There is no wrong in looking out for my brother now, is there?" Anne makes a face, the one that has the florist waving his hand in dismissal, smiling through it.

"Few more hours to go, don't suppose I'll pass anywhere more than this," he declares, leaving the little group to attend to other people. He's not mad, it's evident.

"He's just... unbelievably happy." Anne is saying, watching her brother leave.

"I understand," Jimin purses his lips. "And worry not. I shall take him home."

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

When the first dance begins, or even the one after that, Jimin yet again watches it from his table. One would say it's quite bland, sitting here throughout the ceremony, he may want to leave. But for once, the author finds an underlying sense of peace within the company of these people. It's nothing like weddings he'd been to all his life, nothing like London.

If these people are happy, they radiate it. And Jimin wouldn't understand how something so simple is so far from most humans' approach. The couple dances to the tune of a slow classic, held close and within the golden hour bestowed upon them, it looks no less than magic.

"Quite a first dance, isn't it?"

And he hadn't realized just when Mister Jeon had taken a seat to his side.

"They're— Yes, it's beautiful."

"I imagine first dances in London must be different."

Jimin manages a lopsided grin, "First dances are the same everywhere, Mister Jeon."

"Have you ever been a part of one?"

He knows the florist is talking mildly under the wine's influence, his speech a bit more free than usual. But he still can't help when his eyes fall on his own left hand, on the empty ring finger precisely. He had a ring there, years ago. For a few months maybe, but he did. Once upon a time.

"It was different, you might be right after all," he says. "But it wasn't... pleasant enough to speak of."

Mister Jeon remains silent, eyes lowered and a strange purse playing on his lips. Here in this moment, the classical piece, the faint chatter of people and somewhere close, the chirp of evening birds — all but fades. Here in this moment, it's just him, his eyes and ears for Mister Jeon. Perhaps he's had more wine than usual? Or would he take it this way because he had, after years, felt like he could open up to someone?

"She and I, we had our differences. So, I had to let her go." In a hushed whisper, he says the most of it.

"I wouldn't put it like that," the florist shakes his head almost immediately, as if he's known this better.

"You—"

"I'd say you deserved a fairly fascinating first dance. Still do."

Jimin blinks.

"I may be too old for that—"

The florist scoffs, "No one's too old for the first dances. You just need a hand and off you go."

"You're merely being optimistic."

"Am not," he shakes his head. "I'd offer mine," he extends his hand out — slightly bigger than Jimin's, rough yet delicate in its own way, the one that tends to flowers with utmost intricacy — and then pulls it back. "Definitely if the wine didn't give my head this jab."

The author raises his eyes to rake Mister Jeon's face, who frowns the ache behind his eyes with them closed. It would've been hard telling if he was joking, giving his hand out for a first dance to a man. One would say it's obviously the wine speaking. But Jimin knows him better. Better enough to say that he'd do just that had they been not here and at his little shop closer to his residence.

"Maybe we should walk you home," Jimin suggests.

"Oh, can we? Can we, really?"

"I don't suppose you regularly drink that much, Mister Jeon."

"Oh no," he replies, pushing his hair back, ready to leave. "Should've kept my buzz in check. A couple extra glasses of wine in my system and this head pounds like there's no tomorrow."

"That's fine," Jimin rises from his chair, putting on his coat and helping Mister Jeon with his. "Sleeping certainly helps."

"It bloody should."

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Mister Jeon walks slow, steps a little slurred under the influence of tired limbs and wine-cladded brain. Jimin takes the responsibility to walk his bicycle side by side, earning a surge of gratitude from the florist.

As the daylight dims into the ultramarine evening sky, the lampposts begin to illuminate their pathway. Their written destination lies safely folded within the handkerchief inside Jimin's coat pocket, and he hadn't had to take more than one look at it to know that this was that one secluded corner of Bellbarrow where fields are more common than houses. No wonder Mister Jeon chooses to live there.

"It'll certainly be a hassle," Mister Jeon complains in a tired voice, "walking back to your residence from here."

"I didn't drink much, you needn't worry," he says. "And it's not far from your shop, really."

"Mister Conley's residence?"

"Mm-hmm, the window from my room opens to your shop," he admits. "You're quite visible leaving each day."

The florist gives him a strange expression and it is then that the author wonders if he said something wrong. Telling someone you watch them leave from work each day cannot be pleasant in any way. His addled mind searches for words, to somehow make it seem different than what had been let on.

"Oh, that's your window?"

Jimin swallows.

"Yes, actually—"

"Then I shall make sure to wave at you the next time."

And of course, that's Mister Jeon.

That's no someone, that's no other human. That's the only person who changes Jimin's views about every human he's ever known, about how cruel they collectively appear to be. And the ease that settles with this in his heart is unexplainable.

"I'll look for you."

A few more minutes of walking have them finally standing before the little cottage that Mister Jeon calls his home. The field that surrounds the small piece of architect blooms with several different flowers, and there's one that stretches ahead but the limited light only allows Jimin to see so far.

The bicycle stand immediately draws the author's attention and he wheels it to its final resting spot. Mister Jeon steps further, opening the door to his cottage. Jimin hesitates for a moment, wonders if this is where he bids his goodbye and leaves. But will the florist be okay? Will he safely make it to his bed?

He may be a fool, but with the wine in his system, everything is excused.

"Um, Mister Jeon, I shall leave—"

"Come on in," the taller man says, entering inside without even checking if he follows. "I may be plastered but I must not let a guest leave without a glass of water."

And that's how Jimin finds himself within the walls of the cottage Mister Jeon of Poet's Garden lives in. His residence. The place where he sleeps. Voila.

"I'll take your coat and hat," the florist offers and Jimin shrugs the items off, handing them to him.

The simplicity of the warm coloured cottage that has a floral aroma surrounding it is peaceful in itself. Somewhere in there, Jimin hears the wind chime, added to the gentleness the space emitted. Mister Jeon walks around, turning on the lamps and letting Jimin take in the full view of his cottage.

The furniture is no extravagant, smaller wooden chairs and a table resting in the middle of the cottage. A kitchenette to his right and a door to his left, which he assumes to be the florist's bedroom.

"I'm afraid you'll have to help yourself with water, Mister Park," he's told. "This suit sticks to me like anything, I shall change before it sews itself onto my skin."

"Please do," Jimin offers him a smile, watching him shed the blazer as he enters the room, leaving the door slightly ajar.

For a brief while, the author remains on his spot, stoic eyes following Mister Jeon, mind quite weak to unclasp the sight of him taking off his blazer. He must really be changing into comfortable nightwear right in that room, merely a wall apart. And he—

Goodness gracious.

Goodness gracious, indeed. What was Jimin thinking?

He blinks multiple times, pulling himself from the alcohol's grip. It's a terrible thing, he'd presume, to be thinking of another man in such a way. So, he pours himself a glass of water, chugging it down in one go. That should at least wake him up enough to walk home with sane thoughts. He finds a chair, takes his place and remains there for the coming several minutes, not daring to spare a glance towards Mister Jeon's ajar door.

However, the silence slowly begins to grow louder than it all. Louder than his breath and chirp of crickets somewhere close. And that is when he truly wonders if Mister Jeon in there was alright.