Below the orange tree and over the bed of grass, Jimin lays with his eyes closed. Wind wafts alongside the aroma of oranges mingled with flowers he seemed to be surrounded by, though he can't name them all. For once, breathing truly feels like breathing. A puff of air, in and out. Life tastes ample on his tongue.

"This view, I'd suppose, is a luxury that you don't enjoy in London."

The author blinks his eyes open, and added to his breathtaking sight is the face of the florist he so adores. Mister Jeon has taken a seat by his side, gentle hands extending a teacup in Jimin's direction. He reverently accepts it.

The calming field devoid of chatter and hustle was none other than the one before Mister Jeon's cottage. Jimin found himself inquiring about it after he'd first seen it at the night of Miss Nelham's— now Missus Avery's wedding, and the florist had been kind enough to eventually invite him over. Most of the flowers had already been here, he was told. But there are several that are Mister Jeon's own hand-planted. They regularly provide for his shop as well as keeping the view divine.

And for this once, he sits here enjoying tea with the said florist. If Jimin notices that Mister Jeon, in fact, remembered his favourite kind of tea — ginger — now that which he sips on, he doesn't say.

"Not quite," he chooses to answer the taller man's question. "There's always a bustle around that may appeal to some," he frowns, "but I'm terrible with that."

"With the bustle?"

"That too and..." he bites his lip, "and perhaps I ought to feel less. And practice it more so often."

"And why must you think this is necessary?"

"Is it not?" Jimin spares him a glance. "I tend to ruin things for myself, something as minute as London's charm, only to seamlessly wonder what others think of me."

Mister Jeon answers without looking at him. "You're not alone, Mister Park. We all do that."

"Does that not addle you?" He can't help but let the tinge of desperation slip into his words. "It eats me away. And horribly so."

The florist inhales, then exhales slow.

"You see, the world around us, around me and you, it's made of countless components," the florist says as he takes a sip of his tea, curls fluttering in the breeze of the afternoon sun. "Each one to satisfy and to make sure that no soul in this earth detests you. If not quick, one must eventually grow tired of this. Or addled, as you may say," he sighs.

"Years of learning and there is one thing that remains criminally untaught. That this fear, this despair and this wonderment, it's all in here."

And he points at his head.

"No matter what you do, Mister Park, there shall always be people who detest you. And believe you me, you may not even have a remote idea of who they are." His eyes find Jimin's then. "Our lives, to others, may as well be a book, a picture, and awfully so, a source of entertainment. They must see as they like it, must see you in your unfathomable happiness, having all that they cannot have. So tell me, Mister Park, are you truly bound to expectations of favour from these souls, despite knowing that what they resent is not you but what you have?"

For the first time in forever, the author hears his mind growing silent, as if the thoughts, the voices had collectively shut themselves out. The things Mister Jeon says are not farther from his grasp yet they play magic with how they wrap around Jimin's brain.

And perhaps, when the words come from a practitioner, they do leave a mark.

"That is what humans are supposed to be — muddled creatures, part curious, part envious," the florist concludes.

"Have you ever faced someone who hated you?"

"Me?"

"I mean, you're a lovely soul. Anyone who is to resent you must hold a grave reason to do so."

"I'm sure there are quite some people, but I have never looked for them," he says. "Should I set out to seek those who hate me, as you put it, I shall only hurt myself. So, why should I not seek those who love me instead?"

"Rightfully so."

"I found you, Mister Park. Same principles."

Words die on the author's tongue. In any other circumstances, he would have questioned the florist, the choice of his words to say that he found Jimin amongst those who loved him. But then, would he even be wrong? Jimin adored him, and had been on acknowledging terms with that. So, is it not the same?

"My mother used to say that there resides an artist in everyone," Mister Jeon says as he finishes his tea, placing the cup away. "I shall not deem myself as such but I do admire you as one, Mister Park."

"How so?"

"You so very bravely put your mind, your words out for people to read. In turn, if someone was to judge you for that, then I shall not hold you to the blame for not speaking fondly of them."

"You mention critiques?"

"One of the many, yes."

"They find their way continuing to judge us, so we, too, have grown to learn our way around them. The unspoken foremost rule of writing, Mister Jeon," he gives him a beaming look, "you must never put yourself out in your words."

"Never truly?" The florist whispers, eyes curious.

Jimin shakes his head. "A part, perhaps."

"Well, that's... fascinating."

"I should like to think that my words, eventually, have a very tendency to hurt me. The less I say, the merrier I'll be."

"And remain frightfully unexpressed? Overthinking yourself into agony?"

Jimin purses his lips, unsure. "I so wish I knew how to cease feeling this way."

"Do you believe you'll genuinely be happy if you learn to not feel things anymore?"

"Yes."

Mister Jeon then blinks at him, and Jimin finds himself unable to decipher his gaze. It's sympathetic yet troubled at the same time.

"Fear is a wretched thing, Mister Park. Once it engraves itself into your soul, you can't part from it. One must learn to live with it."

"I'm afraid that'll only shorten my lifespan."

The florist cackles at that — a beautiful sound. Jimin keens to listen more, heart at peace.

"Now, I certainly cannot promise you that," he says. "But I do call it a wild animal inside us that needs to be tamed."

"It's ultimately just that, isn't it? Waking up each day in hopes of making it to the end."

"You can look forward to tomorrow."

"What for?"

"Face of god."

"Now, what on earth is that, Mister Jeon?" Jimin can't help but be amused.

"Face of god, I call it something that pulls you off your bed. You must find it and wake for it."

"Ah, a cup of tea, you say?"

"Jolly, indeed," he makes a face, earning a fit of laughter from Jimin.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

All read and studied, three days later, Elayne's Selection in Jimin's hand enters the returning phase. Giving the borrowed book back to Mister Jeon may just be an excuse to see him, and the author will eventually admit to that. But he wasn't taking more than he had to. For once, it felt easy — the righteous thing to do.

He'd stayed holed in his little room, within the walls of Mister Conley's residence, spewing sentences and poems. And just like that, for the coming three days after their last encounter, the only moment he ever truly sees the florist is through his window. On his mint coloured bicycle, the man leaves for his cottage everyday. The same cottage that Jimin had had a chance to visit a few times, and the same space he cannot seem to get out of his head.

Today, however, he puts on his coat and hat, skipping his steps down a few minutes prior to when he has calculated Mister Jeon to be leaving his shop. The book rests in his coat's pocket, ready to be returned. And if need arises, he has a good review sitting right below his tongue.

The florist locks the shop door, visible from a distance. Jimin approaches him when he begins to pad towards his bicycle.

"Mister Jeon?"

The said man turns at once, a smile that touches his eyes eventually graces his face. Beautiful.

"Mister Park," he nods at him, wheeling his bicycle close. "You are a pleasant surprise."

"Flattering," he returns the smile. Easy. Easy.

"Not at all. As it happens, I did think of you today."

"You leave me intrigued then."

"Oh, it is your book. Surely. I often wonder when you will complete it."

"Well, then you must know that once it's done, I shall be compelled to leave Bellbarrow."

"Is that so?" An eerie edge surrounds the florist's words.

"Editing and publishing, you see."

"Right," he lowers his gaze, blinking the thoughts away. And for a moment, Jimin does wonder if it was something that he said. "Is there something you wished to speak of with me?"

"Ah, yes," the author reaches for his pocket. "The borrowed book must be returned."

"You read it already?"

"Gives me an incredibly eager persona, but I did happen to read it in two days when you first lent it to me."

"Trust me, Mister Park, I cannot hold you to the blame for that."

"It is good."

"That good?"

Jimin meets his eyes, and the light that they reflect. "On several occasions, I found myself in utter awe. So, yes."

"A cup of tea?"

"Huh?"

"You must join me for the evening tea then. There is much in here that asks to be discussed," says the florist, taking the book from his hand.

"Uh, I—"

"At my cottage, it's not a long walk."

Jimin has no excuse, none.

"Of course, then."

The pair begin their walk from the cusp of Mister Jeon's flower shop. Light conversation follows their steps as they walk towards his cottage. The faint sounds of the florist's bicycle wheeling along serves as a connection to the mundane world, Jimin would say, for he seems to get lost even in the slightest words that they exchange.

However, halfway through, the thunder roars like a bad omen, pulling their attention towards the darkening sky.

"I should hope you're carrying an umbrella, Mister Jeon."

"A gentleman always carries his umbrella with him," the florist replies, yet makes no move to produce it. Jimin raises his brow in question. "But I may not be the gentleman you look for, my dear."

The author deliberately neglects the endearment, choosing to laugh at the taller man's apologetic expression.

"We must hurry then," he says. "I hear rain spares no one."

"You heard right."

And indeed, it doesn't. What starts as a mild shower soon becomes a heavy downpour. On their path to Mister Jeon's cottage, the lack of shelter has them jogging their way through. Jimin is sure they'll reach the destination with clothes dripping wet no matter how quick they make it. Holding their coats above their heads and with hasted laughters echoing close, they trot in rain.

Summer rains, he duly notes, are just like that. His floral surroundings waft with the scent of freshly watered fields. And where the rain makes it hard for him to see, he still manages to wipe his face with the back of his hand, catching a glimpse of the florist with his curls matted to his skin. The droplets of rain cascade down his face, tracing his lips and chin. The author's gaze stays there a little longer, enough so to completely miss what the man before him appears to be saying.

"There we are," thankfully, the florist repeats when the cottage comes into sight. "I shall unlock it quickly."

Several moments later, and with the rain still falling in all its might, Jimin finds himself standing with his cladded boots on the grounds of Mister Jeon's cottage. He doesn't dare move further, fearing to ruin the floor with the wet splashes from his soaking coat and hat. Mister Jeon removes his shoes, padding in to find towels.

"I should hope that the book is intact," he reaches for the said item in his pocket.

"Well?" Jimin questions.

"Thank heavens, it is." And with that, the surprisingly dry book is placed on the table in the middle of the living room.

"I shall have blamed myself if something were to happen to it," says the author as he unbuttons his coat.

"Not at all," the florist waves a hand, bringing him a towel that smells like freesia. "You may lose that coat and shirt, I'll bring you a fresh pair."

"Thank you, Mister Jeon."

Jimin hears him leave, proceeding to take off his soaking coat and waistcoat. Astonishingly, his pants were dry, perhaps under the cover of his coat. The author turns his back towards Mister Jeon's room, making mental calculations as to how long it will take for his clothes to dry if he were to borrow an undershirt from the florist. He strips off his own, the drenched material sticking to his hands as he spreads it across the back of a chair. In no time, he stands there with a bare torso, humid air cool against his skin.

"I found one, though I cannot say it—"

When Jimin turns over, he catches himself in a bizarre situation.

As he continues to stand there shirtless, Mister Jeon halts, a fresh cotton shirt in his hand. Even though his skin appears paler in the dull colours of rain, the way his eyes widen and lips part don't go unnoticed. Candidly, Jimin has never seen the taller quite so tangled in his mind as he appears now, his eyes raking the author's figure in a quick manner before he averts them, extending the shirt in his direction.

And if Jimin could see through his sticky lashes, he'd witness the heat creeping up the florist's cheek. He accepts the shirt, pressing it close to his chest. This too, he notices, smells like freesia.

"I— I'm sorry. It's so terribly rude of me to take these off here—"

"Not at all, Mister Park," he breathes yet doesn't meet Jimin's eyes. "You must change and be comfortable. I shall return."

Jimin puts on the shirt, buttoning it up. It hangs a bit by his arms and shoulders but it still is better than standing here bare. It must be dignity, he tells himself. Even if they're both men, one may not like having a shirtless man standing in the middle of his cottage. If anything, he sure has made the florist uncomfortable. An upsetting frown etches itself onto Jimin's forehead.

However, the frown and his worry is short-lived, for when Mister Jeon returns in a dry pair of trousers and cotton shirt, he's smiling like he always does. Later when they sit by the fireplace in the living room, a kettle of tea brewing in the kitchenette, Jimin can safely say he even forgets what transpired between them moments ago. The florist goes through the poetry book, a familiar purse of nostalgia settled on his lips.

His hair may have dried, yet they sit atop his head in an unruly manner, perhaps with the humidity in the air. Jimin wonders if his own looks the same. The rain, per say, hasn't stopped yet. Although, one must step outside to truly tell if it even got any weaker. Through the window of Mister Jeon's warm cottage, it doesn't seem as brutal as it had been to Jimin and his attire a while ago.

"I wonder when the rain will stop," he says.

"Perhaps it shan't," the florist offers unhelpfully. "Perhaps it shall rain all night."

"How do you plan to let me go then?"

"I plan to let you stay."

Jimin meets his eyes, the ever-living amusement still in there. Where it makes it hard for the author to sometimes tell if Mister Jeon was joking, it evidently was a signature look to the florist's eyes that he wouldn't trade for anything. Adding to that, a moment of stretched silence seems to change the course of air around them. He has noticed, but he won't say, that it's often Mister Jeon who alters it before it gets too thick.

"I'll lend you an umbrella, Mister Park. But then you must come back to return it."

"Truly an excuse to come see you."

"All until you're done with that book of yours," he replies. "I shall keep running into you."

"I'd like that," Jimin nods with a smile. "I'd, too, like to keep running into you."

"Of course you would, wouldn't you?"

Silence.

It is as if whatever they say today begins on a lighter note yet drags them to the same point over and over. The point which is similar to an edge of a cliff. He has absolutely no clue what comes next from here on. His heart races, quite like how it does when he writes something in a fit of emotions. Quick and probably incoherent.

And that is not how he wishes to feel around the florist.

"So, the book," he clears his throat, gesturing towards the item in Mister Jeon's lap. "I must say it's simply beautiful."

"Oh," the florist blinks, as though only realizing what was being said.

"For one, the order of poems is extraordinary."

"Right," he breathes. "Mother is quite fond of this."

"I can tell that."

"Which one would be your favourite?" He asks a moment later, an inept attempt of keeping the conversation going. "The poem, I mean?"

Jimin frowns. "There's unbelievably skillful poets compiled there. It's harder than life itself to choose."

"There must be a poem, or a verse that caught your eye?"

"Would that say something about me, Mister Jeon?"

The florist laughs, shaking his head. "We cannot go there."

"Very well," he replies. "Then, there's one I remember."

"Do say."

"Shelley's Love's Philosophy."

A spark twinkles in the florist's eyes, the one that follows with an elevated smile as he remembers.

"See the mountains kiss high heaven, and the waves clasp one another; no sister-flower would be forgiven, if it disdained its brother."

Jimin recalls the rest at once: "And the sunlight clasps the earth, and the moonbeams kiss the sea—"

"What is all this sweet work worth, if thou kiss not me?" And just like that, the florist completes it.

A hitched breath. Time stops.

Jimin's gaze follows the florist's — all as it traces his lips. His eyes have always been expressive, he's known that. But something about the urgency in them at this very moment makes his insides twist. The words break upon him like a revelation. The poem, and what it conveyed.

And exactly why he was beaten to the last verse.

"You know it," Jimin observes.

The florist waits a beat. "By heart, yes." He breathes — a line of sight that switches between his eyes and lips.

It may be an abomination, it may be wrong. But he knows that if this instant, right here and now, the taller leans in, so will he.

But with a whistle, the burning kettle makes them snap out of the haze.

Inhale.

Exhale.

It is as if Jimin let out a held breath for a long, long minute. The florist is blinking quick, leaving his place to check on the tea, and giving him moments to collect the pieces of his shattered sanity. Just what was to happen here? Was he to kiss a man had the kettle not gone off? And that too without any thoughts to spare?

His heart pounds out of his chest, painfully enough for him to put a hand on it, ground it for it had been close to taste what they'd call a sin, but was the most virtuous the author has ever felt.