When Jeongguk had complained about not knowing anyone at Mister Conley's, Jimin hadn't realized just where the florist's context rested. However, the moment the author had received him the following evening — his lover dressed the most formal he's ever seen him, even more so than his sister's wedding — he'd known exactly what Jeongguk had complained about.

For a person like Jeongguk, for someone who in Jimin's consciousness, was an epitome of perfection, it shouldn't have been difficult. Where the author has seen him the most calm in situations he'd deem his own self the weakest, he'd never quite let the idea of Jeongguk being as less as nervous pass his brain. It would be the first time, if he ponders, that he sees the florist, usually so bright, now dulled under a strange hue.

Jimin had wanted nothing more than to pull him in a corner, ask him what troubles him, and assure him that he needn't worry about anything. This has been the place where he's lived for weeks now, if anything, it is the last place Jeongguk should grow berated at. Anyhow, the author has no chance to do any of this. The florist enters the house with a customary smile on his lips — and it's the smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. He presents Mister Conley with the graulatory flowers he'd brought for them, generously accepted as Jimin's guest.

"Mister Park, it has been an absolute pleasure having you in Bellbarrow. I must hope you are to visit us again." And of course, he brings a bouquet of dahlias for Jimin — a flower that so very loudly speaks of goodbyes.

Jimin's heart grows heavy.

"I shall," he promises, eyes locked with Jeongguk's.

Before the dinner is served, everyone finds themselves seated around the table, a casual chat about food being the center of it all. Jeongguk remains mildly included, smiles and nods passed along. Jimin wonders if it would be too inappropriate to reach below the table and hold his hand? Ground him like he always does? If not before, the gravity of the situation was dawning upon him at this moment.

"I find myself compelled to ask, Mister Jeon," Jane begins with a beam in her eyes. "How did you two meet? As far as I can recall, Mister Park appeared no more than a lonely soul to me, with all respect," she smiles at Jimin, "and then one day he says he's got a friend."

"Oh, I wondered too." Mister Conley adds.

With all eyes on Jeongguk, the florist smiles, his own gaze lowered. A faint hue covers his skin, traveling down his neck that Jimin's eyes follow like a ritual.

"Well, we met at my flower shop," he makes it simple.

"Is it not the day when you convinced Mister Park to buy the flowers from your shop?" Nonchalantly, Cyndia asks.

And an eerie silence follows her words.

Jimin can tell that Jeongguk is taken aback, if not slightly. Mister Conley too, blinks in confusion, failing to put this into the context of Jimin being friends with the florist.

"There was no convincing, Miss Conley. I intended to buy that bouquet," says Jimin.

"Is your flower business similar to trade, Mister Jeon?" Jane puts in before Cyndia has a chance to form a reply to Jimin's retreat. "You see, father has always been involved in trade business and I wondered if yours was the same? Pure curiosity, don't mind me."

"Oh, not at all," Jeongguk practices a smile. "I cannot be certain if it's the same. Trade encompasses a lot, Miss Conley, and I just happen to run a small flower shop."

"That's hardly a business, Jane." comments Cyndia.

Jeongguk's lips turn down.

"No profession that puts food on your table is any less than a proper business, Cyndia." Mister Conley then says. "And the reasoning wouldn't matter, you are but a delightful influence for this young man here, Mister Jeon."

"You cannot be any more right," Jimin returns the spirit. "One of the several reasons being in Bellbarrow helped me put my book together."

"Mister Jeon helped you along?"

"In a way, yes," the author nods. "He has quite riveting thoughts on nature and general philosophy."

"You must read a lot of books then," Cyndia wonders.

"Not many, Miss Conley," answers Jeongguk. "But I do observe."

"I couldn't tell that alone bestows you with riveting knowledge."

"Correct, it does not," Jimin adds, earning a confused look from Jeongguk. "However, riveting knowledge differs from riveting thoughts, Miss Conley, which happens to be the focus of my point."

She gives him a tight-lipped smile.

"It would then be an honor to hear your thoughts one day, Mister Jeon," concludes Cyndia.

"Of course," the florist nods.

Much after the dinner was served, everyone gathered for yet another chat around the fire in Mister Conley's living room, one that involved critique and praise for the dishes included in the dinner. Mary beams when she's told that her ever tasteful smoked ham recipe worked wonders yet again. And in all that, Jimin could sense a gradual decrease to Jeongguk's tense demeanor.

To the least, the author was at peace that the florist wasn't feeling unwelcomed here anymore. Even when he sits farther away from him, each moment that their eyes meet fills his insides with warmth. Though strangely enough, the bright light that always seems to be surrounding Jeongguk was dimmed. And that was enough of a reason for the author to wish for this time to pass quicker so the florist could be comfortable again.

Even when he knows that the passing time brings him closer to his departure to London.

His lover fidgets with his hands, blinking as he answers Mister Conley's inquiries, indulging the old man in a conversation that Jane and Cyndia participate in from time to time. Jimin finds himself nodding, smiling and acknowledging everything, a sense of detachment already settling within his heart. It was an odd sense, he observes. As if something had gone wrong.

Would he know that quite dreadfully, it won't take long for the wrong to prevail in the present.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

"We keep talking, keep speaking of how it would be for us to view Bellbarrow through Mister Park's eyes, but I do wonder what has it been like for him?"

Over the fading conversation, Cyndia picks a question again, perking Jimin's interest at the sound of his name.

"Do say, young man." Mister Conley encourages him.

The author rakes his mind, tired eyes taking in everything — the living room, Mister Conley, his gracious host, the warm presence of food in his belly and home-like aroma surrounding him, as though flowers, as though Jeongguk.

Jeongguk.

The florist's eyes seem to be on him too, endearing, curious, probably wondering the same thing as everyone else. Jimin inhales a breath. He had something to say. Yes, he did.

"If I am to account my entire experience of being here, I'd simply put it into a single word — new," he begins.

"New?"

"You see, Miss Conley, a few weeks ago when I stepped foot at Bellbarrow station, I was an entirely different being than I am now. I had written a book which was loved by many, yet after ending it, I'd desired nothing more than to part from it. Words were to come, mouths were to say, praise what I had written and I was to accept them all with a generous heart. Although, there I was, hoping that someone shall see through the detachment I suffered from and eventually cease mentioning that book of mine."

"A detachment from your own work?" speculates Jane.

"I'm afraid, yes," he nods. "I shall not expect you to grasp my situation just yet. But it was truly awful. I happened to come here, and ever since then, everything has been so new. At a certain age in your life, you stop believing that you're fit enough to try anything new anymore. However, as I've been taught, it's never too late to experience new things and speak of them in a manner that comforts you."

"So, you've had some new experiences here?"

"Many, yes. I did say it before, I shall again; London is a chatter, a loud one, a consistent one. Perhaps at one point, it was meant to burn me out."

"You could stay here," for the first time in this conversation, and quite timidly, Jeongguk adds.

Jimin's sight finds him and his innocent eyes, and there is an ache in his chest.

"I should like to, but I have to go," he nearly whispers, as if what he says is meant for the florist only. "A reality check to see if Bellbarrow wasn't one of my elaborated dreams."

"Oh, but would you truly ever be happy in a dream?"

"Dreams are disturbing most times," ponders Jane, a reply to Jeongguk's question. "Chasing after the most silly things."

Despite all, she makes everyone laugh. But the author wonders if he were, too, chasing something silly after all?

"For an author, dreams may be more than just what you see in your sleep, Miss Conley." explains Jimin — to her, and to himself.

"Are you afraid that being here and being happy is merely something that you conjured up in your brain?" asks Cyndia.

"I shall hope not," Jimin sighs. "Though, should I return to London, is when I shall know what it truly was."

"Anyhow, the doors to Conley residence shall never close on you, young man." Mister Conley provides.

"I must say, these few weeks hold more sentiment than the entire forty-two years of my life. Solemn beginnings have led me here, and it has been quite a walk on this path — a path of being an author to being a poet."

"A journey, indeed," acknowledges Cyndia.

"I may not speak for anyone else but it sure has been a particularly new experience for me to see an author in his potential, inspired and creating something new right before my eyes," adds Mister Conley.

"And I shall hope I'm not intruding but your lover back in London is sure a lucky girl," Jane brightly states.

"Ah, Miss Conley—"

"A lover?" Jeongguk breathes.

"Oh, it's just something me and Jane assumed," Cyndia apologetically explains. "With the way Mister Park writes, and as we happened to read a couple of his poems, it seems there's a lucky girl back home waiting for him."

"Have you read his poems?"

"Did you not?"

Jeongguk pauses a beat. Blinks. And then: "No matter what, he wouldn't share them with me," the florist replies rather somberly. Jimin picks his own heart racing.

"Perhaps a keen philosophical eye like yours is not good for an unfinished poem...?" Mister Conley laughs shortly, directing the question towards Jimin.

"Well—"

"Is it, Mister Park?"

Jimin has never heard Jeongguk speak in such a manner. It's bleak and empty, the author's chest constricts at his inability to tell just what the florist was thinking at this moment.

"I shall rather share the processed book with you."

"Blimey. It would've been a particular delight to learn about the woman you love through your poems."

"There's... no one—"

"Not just yet," says Jane. "But I speak with assurance that she is to fall weak to your words once she reads them."

"Jane, you mustn't daunt Mister Park like that," her father says.

"Quite right, father. You'd know when you're invited to his wedding coming winter," grins Cyndia.

"Hush, girls. I apologize on their behalf, Mister Park. They get all but persistent."

"Not at all."

"However, I should like to hope that there was no lack of comfort in your stay here."

"Worry not, it has been a pleasure of mine."

"So was ours. Having someone so brilliant around is always a wonderful influence."

"The news writes it and they portray artists, or people of inspiration, in a different light. But it's pleasing to see that it isn't the entire truth," continues Jane in her own rhythm.

"A different light?" Jimin can't help but wonder.

The young girl opens her mouth to say something, then closes it back again, as if unsure. She blinks, eyes aimless as they stray away.

"Oh, I never deemed Mister Park to be a man of such kind. He's a gentleman, dear Jane." Her father answers for her.

Confused, Jimin's eyes switch back and forth between the two. "I beg your pardon...?"

"There's always an article or two in the newspaper about the certain doings of artists — writers, poets and painters, experimenting new things for the sake of inspiration," Mister Conley summarizes. "One can't be blamed when his imagination is tainted for such people."

The look that crosses Jimin's face must be that of confusion, for Jane tries to extend on the definition.

"They've been known for trying rather outrageous things," she says. "Lone travels, near death experiences, intoxicating themselves or... activities of unspeakable... grotesque sorts..." she exhales, seeming disturbed.

"Grotesque sorts...?" wonders Jeongguk.

"Oscar Wilde sorts," Cyndia provides.

There's a moment of silence in the room. Jimin knows it, knows what was being said. There is no surprise to how the writers, poets and artists of all kinds had their names tainted for trying things that were abnormal to many. Men sharing an intimate relationship among one another being one of them. Sodomy, homosexuality they too call it, in unspeakable words. Oscar Wilde sorts. Yes.

A man to even less as looking at another man with desire was rooted in the scandalous mud of this society. Jimin wasn't the kind to sit through and sort himself out. At forty-two, he was much past that. These post-situation thoughts had never crossed his mind in all that time that he was with Jeongguk. There were doubts, yes. The possibility of reluctance. But it was all to be forgotten when he'd loved.

And truly loved.

They talk about bodies — of men and women — but Jimin was simply in love with a soul. And a soul knew no bounds.

Although, now that he ponders, he must have been no different to the Conleys when he first arrived here. Their wonderment of Jimin being a scandalous writer was overlooked eventually — proven wrong. But in the end, how right were they?

A strange heated gaze seems plastered to himself at this moment. The one that he can't seem to shake away. The growing silence in the room awaits him to break it, and so he does just that, seemingly agreeing with the focal point of the conversation to end it. Anything to end it right away and get the attention off of him.

"Rather grotesque, indeed," he says.

And just like that, they move on, lifting the weight from his shoulders. He breathes, taking a trembling look around the room to find nothing new. But Jeongguk never raises his head, never meets his eyes. Maybe he is tired, maybe he is thinking. Jimin makes all sorts of assuring speculations. However, just as before, he can't help but think that something had gone wrong.

Terribly wrong.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

"I dreaded their conversation was to never end," Jimin finds himself whispering in a hush, standing in the vicinity of his room — the door closed for good measure when he finally has Jeongguk inside the space he's lived in for weeks.

"They sure got a lot to speak of," the florist replies, hands secured in the pockets of his coat as he scans the room with an unreadable look on his face.

"But they are to leave us alone for now."

"They are to question the closed doors."

"Creative privacy," Jimin lets a smile play on his lips. "I did say I had something to show you."

Jeongguk's eyes never meet his, seemingly staring out of the window that Jimin remembers sitting by and watching the florist ride on his bicycle from.

"Do you, now?"

"I truly do," a hesitant moment later, Jimin adds, turning over to his desk.

His fingers brush against the very original journal he'd been jotting down his poems on ever since he'd stepped in Bellbarrow — or ever since the inspiration had been kind enough to bless him with Jeongguk. For his parting present, he'd decided to give the journal as it was to the florist. If anyone had a right to take a glimpse at his rawest form, then it was Jeongguk. Perhaps with the notes or two that he'd written along, the florist will eventually know what resides true in the poet's heart.

"I shall go," he hears Jeongguk say.

A frown etching above his eyes. Journal forgotten, he turns around to face his lover. "What?"

Jeongguk blinks, "It's dark outside. I shall head home now."

"But... you must stay," he breathes. "I leave tomorrow, early in the morning."

"And I did say my goodbyes," the florist gives him a quick glance, as if a prolonged moment was to burn him as a whole. Jimin's heart sinks like it has never before. "Before your host thinks wrongly of me, I must leave."

"Jeongguk," with his arm stretched out, Jimin all but pleads. "Please. What— What is the matter?"

"Nothing," he sounds different, a tone that the author has never heard before, and a tone that pierces through his heart like an arrow. "Nothing at all."

"Is... Is it about what they said?" Jimin brings himself to ask. "Miss Conley and—"

"I must leave, Mister Park—"

"There's no one in London," he repeats, shaking his head in hopes to disprove anything Jeongguk may have believed earlier. "There has never been anyone to love but you."

"No," Jeongguk hisses, stepping away from him, a strike against his already sinking heart. "It is about time you stop lying to yourself. It was never me."

"Jeongguk—"

"This is what you love," he gestures at his desk, at his books and journal — his writing. "And this is what you lost. You came here just to find it."

"I found you here."

"I was nothing but one of your outrageous experiences."

"That's not true!"

"And shall you ever have a proof of that?"

"Jeongguk, I— I don't understand—" words clog his throat. "See, if this is about what I said earlier then do know it was merely to end the conversation. I meant nothing as such."

"It isn't," he replies, somber eyes straying away.

"Then why do you say these things?"

Jeongguk inhales a trembling breath, as if being here pained him physically. "I'm not blaming you. I simply happened to realize I was wrong here. Nothing is to ever become of the likes of me, and of any fleeting imagination that you ever had. Nothing functional, to the least."

"But you wouldn't need to become anything. You're the most complete human I've ever encountered."

"You take that, you use that and you write something out of it," he says. "This is what you love."

"I love you!"

"No, you don't," pained, the florist contradicts. "See the broad difference—"

"Oh, but I choose not to!" Jimin cuts him off. "I stand here, loud and clear, telling you that you're all I've ever truly loved."

"It's the idea of me that you've grown to love," quietly, Jeongguk says. "It's on the paper, it shall go out. And then you'd wish nothing but to part from it."

"And how would you decide that for me?"