⚠️ heavily implied sexual content ahead

S̶t̶a̶r̶s̶

S̶t̶a̶r̶d̶u̶s̶t̶ a̶n̶d̶

B̶r̶o̶k̶e̶n̶ s̶t̶a̶r̶s̶

C̶o̶s̶m̶o̶

When words grow jumbled in his brain, synonymous and all, Jimin lets out a berated sigh, a splotch of black ink forming on the creamy coloured page of his journal. He couldn't tell just what the pattern was. Here in the fields before Mister Jeon's cottage, under the cool evening sunlight, the inspiration comes easier to him. He has several things to name that he must write a few verses about.

Yet something remains twisted at the tip of his pen.

He raises his eyes to follow the florist. Mister Jeon works in the field, carefully tending to the flowers, a little basket to collect the fresh ones. Off with the coats, he sports a thin shirt and a sweater today, rolled-up sleeves making it easier for him to work. His curls, unlike everyday, are brushed back, revealing the lines of concentration on his forehead.

And all of this shouldn't be distracting at all. But it is.

Jimin's gaze remains switched between his journal and the florist. Here in this moment, he could think of many things he'd write about — the sunlight as it pours down and reflects off the florist's hair, the pursed smile he gives him once in a while and the petals that are tended so very gently in his hands.

Though, that's all it is. He could think, but he couldn't write.

"I could use another pair of hands, Mister Park," says the florist without looking at him. "That is, if the flowers interest you more than the words in your journal."

The author huffs a smile, shaking his head. "Not at all."

"You're free to step inside if you require quiet. I shall be done soon."

"I've had my fair share of writing in closed rooms, Mister Jeon. This is certainly better than that."

"Very well," he chuckles. "I should hope I'm not a distraction."

"You're not."

Another long moment of silence engulfs them and where it should have Jimin writing something, he fails to do so yet again. Somehow, when being around the florist, it was easier to fall into a conversation with him than remaining silent and writing his heart out. He should have plenty of time to do that once he's back within the walls of Mister Conley's residence. But each moment with the florist, as his mind tells him, should be savoured.

Thankfully, Mister Jeon ends part of his work, now arranging the flowers in the basket and continuing the chat.

"I can't help but wonder, what are your poems about?" He asks. "A novel goes about explaining particular events in an order but is that how you write a poetry book as well?"

"I cannot say."

"Why so?"

"Simply because I don't know."

Mister Jeon gives him a questioning look.

"I did say this was my first time putting these verses together as a poem. I remain clueless as to what shall become of them."

"Would you perhaps leave this for your editor then?"

"No, actually." Jimin closes his journal, giving the florist his undivided attention. "I shall like for this one to be published as it is, Mister Jeon."

The florist nods, though his eyes appear surprised. "I may have not known you for long but I shall dare to wonder if your perfectionism allowed you to do so."

"It has been humbled. And rightfully so," Jimin smiles. "Had I met you before, I would have learned a lot."

"Is it I who humbled it?"

"Fairly, yes."

He gestures towards Jimin's journal. "Then I must hope for an honourable mention in that."

Only if he were to know.

"I can promise you that."

And there it is again, that smile that turns the corners of his eyes wrinkly, adds to the streaks of gray in his hair and a sprinkle of facial hair here and there. Jimin stares when Mister Jeon is not looking, and for a brief while when he is unaware, it occurs to him as if he is floating. The glide is smooth, quick as though being among clouds. But when it's gone and he comes back with a blink, all there is left is wonderment.

He averts his gaze from the florist, from his beautiful smile and endearing eyes. His heart has quickened its pace, yet again.

Dear god.

What was to become of him?

He knew it, knew it as clear as daylight — that he was smitten. What was to be done with that now? He wonders if Mister Jeon should know, and just what would he think of this? But the thought scares him more than it excites him. What if he perceived the taller's kindness in an entirely wrong manner? Mistook it for something else?

If this breaks, he may never come to trust these small towns and all that he's written so far — a dread settles deep into his stomach.

"Here."

He snaps out of his trance to the sight of a single stemmed blue hydrangea extended towards him. Upon raising his eyes, he's met with Mister Jeon's fond look and the basket of flowers settled close by. He hadn't heard him approach, let alone sit by his side and offer him the flower.

However, he accepts it. Like always.

"Blue hydrangeas are rare, hence lucky," the florist explains.

"Hence, given to me."

"You must take all the luck out there," he says. "Or as much as I ought to hold in my hands."

Jimin can't help the smile that graces his face, rolling the flower between his fingers. "Where shall I pin it then, Mister Jeon?"

"Hmm," the florist frowns, scanning Jimin's discarded coat by their side and shirt, seemingly dissatisfied. "Perhaps you can press it into your journal."

"I'm afraid it'll lose its colour."

"It will eventually," he nods. "But that does not necessarily require us to stay put and wait for it."

Jimin lets the flower rest beside his journal. For now. "I recall you being concerned about the gardenias weeks ago."

The florist nods quick. "Indeed, I was. But in all these years, Mister Park, I have come to learn an admirable fact about these flowers."

"A fact to be shared or kept a florist's secret?"

"Shared, of course," he leans closer and Jimin can't tell what scent is dominant today. Peach blossoms seem to be overlapped with freesias and now, hydrangeas. It was, no doubt, a garden. "You do know flowers live and breathe like us, don't you?"

"I have heard so."

"If I may add, they too read the souls of those who touch them."

"What—?"

"Once they're plucked, there's only a certain number of days or hours before they wilt. But I've seen, Mister Park, I've tended to them living longer than that. And you must know that the span has been rather short for many of the same kind."

"So, they know your soul…? And that they shan't wilt in your hands?"

"I may sound utterly foolish but… yes," says the florist. "However, you're not obliged to believe me—"

"I believe you," he breathes, earning a blink from Mister Jeon.

"You do?"

He nods shortly. "They live and breathe. And all that lives and breathes shall do so longer in the right hands."

"That's—" Mister Jeon huffs a laugh. "See, that's an incredibly intelligent way to put it. There's a reason why I don't write and you do."

"Your notions are not much different than mine," says the author.

"So, you must too wish for us to be like flowers? Have this ability to tell beforehand if a certain touch is to wilt us?" The florist mutters without looking at him.

"Yes…" he breathes, quite astonished at how he manages to say exactly what he thinks of. "I wish it was possible."

Mister Jeon doesn't meet his eyes, aimless gaze staring at the ground. It's the most bleak he's ever seen him, absent and pondering.

"So do I," he whispers a moment later. "But I must not lie. I have attempted to judge those who come at me this way."

"Did you find it working?"

When the florist raises his eyes to meet Jimin's, they're glossy — giving the author a skip to his heartbeat. He hadn't particularly thought of this topic to be something that the taller one holds close, so right this instant, he'd wish nothing but to take whatever glooms the man before him away from him.

"I cannot say," mutters the florist.

"Were you to judge me this way—"

"I did."

Jimin senses his fingertips getting cold, a strange sensation creeping up his system. He knows the questions that follow this, the And what did you find? or Am I good enough? But all that comes out of his clogged throat is:

"And…?"

He swears the florist appears closer than before, his eyes brighter and lashes in his line of sight that he can count. He holds his gaze like never before. He can recall the hesitancy, the reluctance that never let them— let him take a good look at those round brown eyes, the ones that may hold an entire world within them if he were to look.

But all that reluctancy, for now, is gone.

"I find that I shall not wilt in your hands."

His heart stops.

If he weren't to hold the man before him close and share all his being with him, then what would be the meaning of this life? Of this chance that brought him here from the crowds of London to the solace of Bellbarrow? Of the moment that brought him to the flower shop named Poet's Garden and into the acquaintance of this florist? Of this instant that brought him to witness exactly what and who he was being perceived as?

And indeed, none of that was wrong. Or a sin.

The florist begins to turn away, time slipping from within his fingertips like a silken cloth. He must not lose this. Must not let this one go.

"Mister Jeon?"

The dark haired man turns back, eyes meeting his — wondering, questioning. Expecting.

"There's something…" he raises his hand, pointing at his face. Lies. All lies.

"Huh?" Mister Jeon reaches to touch his face.

"Allow me," heart bursting in his chest regarded little, Jimin slithers closer to the florist, on his knees when he finally touches his face.

And oh, how long did he dream of this moment to come?

He waits a beat, lets Mister Jeon turn away and tell him he's read it wrong all along. But he doesn't. Not one bit.

His cool fingertips meet the florist's face. Skin coarse at the edges, unshaven for a few days, yet so unbelievably soft. Tiny rays of freckles dot his cheeks like stars, much like the stars that twinkle in his eyes. The birthmarks adorn his cheek that Jimin dares to trace, down to the corner of his lips and chin.

And he lets him. Oh, he lets him.

"Mister Jeon, I—" he fails to hear himself over his racing heart. It's loud. "I should hope it's not rude if I—" he pauses. "May I—?"

"Yes," the florist breathes. "Yes, please."

Loud. Too loud.

Jimin leans close, fluttering lashes closing on their own. The floral scent, so inconceivably close, as he breathes it in — delves in it, lives in it. All before his lips meet the other's.

And if his heart could explode, it would. Into a million pieces and tatters. Oh, it would.

They remain liplocked like this for a moment that is stretched in time, stopped for the author to live in it until his heart gives out, chest constricts and fingers grow numb. It is then that he feels the brush of lips against his, inviting, expecting. He backs away, but only enough to put a hair's breadth distance between their lips.

Realizing that even this little distance pains him to his core.

He leans back in, fingers digging into the florist's head as their lips meet again. Though he recalls how to kiss, it comes slow to him. But when it does, he finds it hard to part. He brushes his lips against Mister Jeon's — soft, soft to touch. A part to his own, a split second, and when he kisses again, it is to find his lips captured within the other's.

Goodness gracious. He was kissing him.

From there on, he loses conscious of his limbs, of the way his fingers hold the florist's head so close, of the way his lips explore, part and let more of the other in, of the way he tastes him on his tongue, of the way the florist tugs at his shirt and pulls him close. He may know Jimin's heart that beats out of his ribcage, know the irrevocable step he's taken with the reciprocation.

When they part, simply because breathing happens to be an unfortunate necessity, he all but fills a lung full before he leans for more — earning a breathy chuckle from the florist.

Chimes. Bells chiming in heaven. God, he was smitten. Perhaps more so than that.

"I take you've been meaning to do this for some time now," Mister Jeon whispers among them. And it feels like a secret. Jimin swears he wishes to hear many more.

"You have no idea," he chooses to croak, delving back in without a delay, hearing the florist's breath hitch.

Right here and now, the author drops all that he's ever held — the barriers, the hesitation — kissing the man before him as he likes. His fingers grow impatient in the florist's hair, tracing the shell of his ear down to his neck. Mister Jeon's nails scrape at his shirt, dizzy attempts at finding purchase. Jimin pulls away to press fluttering pecks against his lips, at the corners — and oh that birthmark below his lips.

"M-Mister Park—"

"Jimin," he mutters between the pecks, another two dotted on his lower lip. "Call me Jimin."

"Jimin…?"

"Yes?" he smiles against his lips. "Yes, my dear?"

The florist — Jeongguk — backs away, putting a distance between them. And that is when Jimin finally looks into his eyes. So close, so unbelievably close. His pupils are dilated, lips kissed the colour of cherry and cheeks flushed. Jimin suddenly wishes he was a painter instead of an author so he could've preserved this image to see for an eternity.

"We—" he pauses, eyes so endearingly lost. "We must go inside."

"Inside?"

"The cottage," he frowns shortly, out of breath. "It's—"

He hopes Jimin will understand.

"Yes. Yes, of course."

The more time their hasty steps take to carry them inside Jeongguk's cottage, the agitated Jimin becomes. Suddenly, the realization makes itself known, absorbed into his system. The air grows heavy on his skin inside the cottage, dim lights bringing him back to sanity.

He had been so forward, he'd kissed a man, he'd kissed Jeongguk.

What had just happened?

The florist closes the door behind them, turning over to face Jimin with a strange expression painting his face. His cheeks appear covered with a pink hue even now, but his eyes question — they expect.

Jimin's mouth dries.

"I—" the author clears his throat, lips tasting awfully a lot like the florist's. "Out there, I was— I kissed you—"

"I returned the kiss," says Jeongguk. "And if I have to, I shall do it again."

Something about his words, about the way he stands there so in his skin, his confidence, makes Jimin's heart race. He returned the kiss, his mind chants at him, louder than it had ever been, he shall do it again. And for this once, perhaps, that is all he knows. His feet then move on their own accord, picked up over his heart beating behind his ears, hands finding Jeongguk's face.

And mouth finding his lips.

There's a tremor, they bump against the wall — Jimin halts, and then deepens the kiss.

This is much slower than what had transpired between them in the field. The author takes his time, picks apart all that he's been meaning to. Eyes shut into the bliss, he lets his lips part, pressing himself closer when Jeongguk's hands go about his waist, pulling him against his body. It is as though he's being swallowed, engulfed from each corner by the garden he'd wished to step in ever since he's met the florist. The peach blossoms, the freesias, the lavender and gardenias — all of it, all of it.

Jeongguk's mouth works against his in a longing manner, pulling the strings of his heart. The author explores, his curious hands tracing everything he's written about — his hair, his skin, his neck and chest, the sweater coming off in moments. Time seems to have frozen, breathing an unwanted hassle. Jimin doesn't wish to stop — this is heaven. And he knows it now.

When the florist's lips ghost against his cheek, shivers break all over his skin, eyes fluttering to see his own fingertips caressing Jeongguk's chest through his unbuttoned shirt. The air between them flows like the river water in rain, and where it shouldn't, it pains Jimin's heart at the oddest of times.

Why must anyone think this was wrong? Why must anyone see it as a sin when he's found the virtue here in these arms after the damning forty years of search?

"Jimin—?" He breathes so close to his lips.

The author puts an agonizing distance between them to find his eyes. "It may seem wrong—"

"No," he's quick, as if he's past these accusations, these words. "It is anything but wrong."

And helplessly, Jimin stares, tongue-tied.

"Do you— Do you deem it wrong?" There's a flicker of pain in those eyes — those eyes that Jimin could all but kiss.

"I only—" he pauses, giving his head a shake. His hands travel back to Jeongguk's face, to his cheek. "I don't know, and I don't wish to. However, you," he rakes his features, "you enchant me, Jeongguk. Forgive me if I don't trust my words anymore."

"Do not speak then," the florist whispers. And oh, what wouldn't Jimin give to hear that sound over and over. "Do not say a word. But kiss me, if you may."

His heart soars, eyes begging to be closed in this bliss and lips still in search of more. They find it, find it good when they kiss this time. Worries stripped aside, doubts spoken and dealt with, they have no fear to face now. Jimin's fingers are impatient as they take in everything. The florist caresses his back, fisting his shirt to pull it from his pants. When his hands find the skin underneath, Jimin swears he sees stars behind his closed lids. The same fingers that tend to delicate petals all but twirl across his bare skin. There is an alarming need to see, to touch the man before him, the man he's admired for so long.

His lips know no bounds when they litter kisses over the expanse of Jeongguk's neck, hearing him pant and make that breathless sound at the base of his throat.

"Bed," he mutters, finding purchase in Jimin's hair to face him. "Pardon my rudeness but we must go to my bed."

"Yes," Jimin has never been this sure of something before.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Words. Oh, there are none.

There are none to express all that Jimin feels. A vague wonderment finds home at the back of his mind; if he would be able to write something out of this. But his mind seems to be disconnected from his heart, body on a different plane. Through his lashes, he sees the intertwined fingers of his within the florist's, ones that rest by his head, sees the rise and fall of the man's bare chest, parted lips and bliss painted all over his face.

There's heat as it creeps all over his system, shivers traveling in waves each time he moves in synchronization with the man underneath him. They're so close — attached — that merely thinking about it makes his face turn crimson. Yet he's here.

Yet he makes love to Jeongguk.