Sleep, and peaceful one on that, has never quite consumed Jimin like this. He was old, he knew that, joint aches and what not. But never had the comfort of sheets and mattress appealed to him as it would once in his youth.

He blinks the weight of slumber from above his lids, adjusting to the lights in the foreign room. The ceiling confuses his addled brain and so does the lack of clothes on his body. Yet heat surrounds him and a floral scent—

Mister Jeon.

The naked man in his embrace lays on top of him, head placed soundly in his neck, a hand right over Jimin's heart. His own cheeks grow hot when his sight takes in his body, the pooled sheet barely covering his torso. The florist breathes against his skin and it's warm, it's calming. His chest rises and falls, a rhythm of inhales and exhales — Jimin monitors it closely, tilts his head just a slight bit to smell his hair.

Peach blossoms, freesias, hydrangeas — Jeongguk.

With great care, the author places his hand atop of the florist's on his chest, right where his heart would be. It beats slow, yet has a tendency to turn him breathless, to bless him with a life as new as a foetus'. Who was to say his youth was lost? Who was to name him old? Youth, he realized, resided within a soaring heart, within a heart in love. What was lost and gone was found again.

He closes his eyes, hand engulfing Jeongguk's over his chest as he lays here, unaware of the time and day. A smile of bliss lifts the corners of his lips. He was happy — the happiest. In his arms, Jeongguk may have moved, stirred and pressed himself closer, but he remains there with his eyes closed, simmering through his heaven.

"The feeling is mutual, Mister Park. It is."

He blinks his eyes open, hand leaving Jeongguk's in a startled manner. The florist chuckles into his shoulder.

"You're awake," says Jimin.

Jeongguk hums, rubbing a lazy hand across Jimin's skin, playing with the sprinkle of hair on his chest. "Though, I awoke dreading it was a dream."

"I'd say it is," Jimin adds, earning a confused yet endearing look from the florist. "A dream come true."

The man in his arms huffs a laugh, straightening himself to lay on his chest, his features billowy and voice hoarse. Jimin can't help but caress his face, tucking his hair behind his ear.

"Good evening, my dear," the author mutters.

A smile graces the florist's face — eyes to lips, just how it has always been. He leans down, sheets rustling underneath them as he trails a path of kisses across his chest to his chin, stopping below to stare at his face. Growing mildly self-conscious, Jimin frowns, wondering if there was something on his face. But then Jeongguk is speaking, taking away all his doubts in one swoop.

"Do your eyes always grow this puffy after a nap?"

Innocent, innocent. Like a flower. Jimin grins full.

"I cannot say," he whispers. "Although, you must nap with me again to find that out."

Jeongguk giggles — and what wouldn't Jimin give to paint this moment as it is in his memory. He presses himself closer, lying above the author's chest. Jimin wastes no breath in wrapping his arms about him, tracing a loving hand up his spine and into his hair. It's liberating, getting to touch this man like this. He even brings himself to peck his hair, sealing the reality as it was.

Silence takes them over as they lay there, sharing warmth and breath. Sun sets and it's sometime after evening, Jimin can tell. However, he doesn't have it in him to part just yet.

"You have to leave," Jeongguk states.

"I do."

"Can't you stay?"

"Perhaps if Mister Conley was aware that I am to stay out the night," Jimin wonders out loud. "But he happens to know everyone in this town."

When the florist faces him, his eyes are dull and Jimin doesn't like that one bit. The light in those eyes shan't go out — it was as wrong as the sun rising from the west.

"I shall come by tomorrow," he promises, fingertips giving his eyelids a gentle caress. "At your shop. Or here."

"You must," he mutters, choosing to bury his face into Jimin's neck again. "But stay a few moments."

"Alright."

The florist then lets his hand explore Jimin's body, touches him as he pleases and the author lets him. He begins at his chest, brushing his fingers across the hair. It seems as if he wishes to memorize his body, the agony of parting putting him down in a different way. His hand then travels down his arms to intertwine their fingers, bringing it to his lips.

But he doesn't kiss it.

"What are you thinking?" Jimin asks into the silence.

"Many, many thoughts."

"Are they troubling?"

"They confuse me in my happiness," he pauses, raising his head to look at Jimin, warm breath fanning his cheek. "I may have never felt this way before, certainly not with a man."

"What we feel, you and I, transcends beyond that." Jimin answers, seeing through Jeongguk's troubles.

Knowing the florist, it was evident that there's very little that confuses him. It wasn't the abomination of being intimate with a man that addled him, however it was the feeling that followed it.

"There must be a name for it." Here it comes, wonderment illuminates Jeongguk's eyes.

"Do you have to name it?"

"No, but I should like to."

"Then let's call it love."

"Do you—?"

"I love you," words have never been so easy on his tongue. "I love you, Jeongguk."

Jeongguk's eyes widen, as if he wasn't expecting to find answers to his queries just yet. But before Jimin can say something, he leans in, planting a firm kiss on his lips. The author closes his eyes, letting himself be kissed. Flying, falling and what not.

The florist parts, breathing against his lips, eyes still shut in bliss. "I thought I must see it for myself."

"Well?"

"Love, it is love. If that's what it is meant to feel like," he echoes with a nod. "I love you. I..." he breathes, "god, I love you, Jimin."

Decades, he may have waited to hear these words. And those that meant something, those that would make his heart constrict with emotions he can't quite explain. Who was to know he'd find them here in this small town, in a cottage by the fields and within the arms of a man?

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

"Say, when am I to finally read that journal of yours?"

"Soon, but not too soon."

"I'd take that this soon never comes soon."

"That is, on how long it takes for me to turn this into a book."

"What if it takes you years? I'm old. I may die—"

"Don't," Jimin finds himself reaching for the man lying on his lap, fingers letting go of the pen to caress his hair. "No such thing is to happen to you."

"Oh, you'd say that but won't let me read your journal."

"My dear—"

"You say you love me."

"I very much do," the author quickly puts in. "Though, I would greatly despise showing my lover something crude."

At this, the florist purses a grin, pausing the twirl of this tiny flower he'd held in his hand, seemingly twisting the stem into new shapes. He raises himself off Jimin's lap, leaning closer, the floral scent invading his senses. Where the sun is hidden beneath the clouds this fine day in the field above Jeongguk's cottage, it illuminates the sky twice as before. Windy as it is, the florist's hair flutters with it — the sight of his face filling the author with a strange warmth that he's settled to call love for the time being.

"What is it?" Jimin asks, confused with the amusing grin that doesn't leave Jeongguk's lips.

"You said I was your lover."

Heat, heat all up his neck. "Well, are you not?"

Jeongguk shakes his head. "Not that," he averts his gaze, shifting it towards Jimin's idle hands sitting above his journal. "Love is a strange thing, is it not? Finds you when you're what? Thirty-nine?"

"Or forty-two, in certain cases."

He makes the florist laugh, endeared then.

"Had I been an author, I'd sit and wonder what was to happen if I never came to this small town."

"Oh, I do. Everyday." Jimin admits. "Don't you?"

"Hmm, a florist not so much," he shrugs. "Though, your lover does."

A blinding grin on his face makes Jimin's eyes close and he looks away, heart filled with emotions beyond explanation. Although it seems as if Jeongguk had followed his expression, had followed the blush that creeped up his neck and cheeks. For he's reaching out then, a gentle caress to his face, and then plants a kiss on his forehead.

And oh, if he had a better word to describe what he felt, he would. But for now, he melts in the touch.

"What— What is it that you make?" He finds himself asking quick, all before he entirely loses his mind in this newfound love.

"Ah," Jeongguk leans back, eyeing the twisted stem and white petals of daisies attached to them. "Flower pins. Although, I'm not particularly good at it, you see."

"I truthfully wouldn't know if you were to make a bad one."

"Flattery," the florist huffs a laugh.

"How low do you think of me?"

"Well, your love for me is the foremost thought."

"I see through the logic," Jimin says regardless. "Where must one put these flower pins of yours?"

"In your hair," the florist frowns, seeming to be showing a genuine concern for the pin to be placed in Jimin's hair. He holds one up, sticking the stem through the author's greying locks, only to see it slip and fall off as soon as he lets it go.

The disappointing downturn of the florist's lips would be a heartbreaking sight to see however given the situation, it amuses Jimin a great deal. He finds himself reaching for the flower in Jeongguk's hand, placing the stem in his curls instead.

"I happen to have thin hair, my dear." The flower holds its place in Jeongguk's hair, the voluminous curls not letting it go. "This one is for your curls, perhaps."

"I would recall seeing your hair in curls as well the other day," the florist mutters.

"Oh, when?"

"The day rain soaked us all up on our way to the cottage," he begins. "Wet under the hat, I'd swear you had curls."

Jimin can't help but laugh at that, liberating and all, his body leaning close to Jeongguk. He doesn't remember laughing feeling like freedom in his past.

"Ah, that day," he manages to say between another fit of chuckles.

"What?"

"It's surreal, is all," says the author. "I stood there mortified to my soul that day, thinking that I had crossed a line stripping bare in your home."

"Why would you think that?" Jeongguk's eyes sparkle, amused.

"You looked at me as though you had seen a ghost."

"Oh, dear god, this is surreal," the florist laughs, shaking his head. "Truth be told, I was merely flustered. It can't be everyday that you walk out of your room and find a fine, fine man standing in the middle of your home."

"A fine, fine, nearly naked man."

"He was generous enough to let me see that," Jeongguk waves a hand at him, earning an equal laughter from the author's side.

"He has been incredibly generous ever since he landed his eyes on you."

The florist's eyes find his then, stars and all. "Had I only known it then."

"Would it make a difference?" Jimin gently tucks a stray lock behind Jeongguk's ear. "Has the time even passed at all?"

"It seems to never wait, but it too is frozen. It's quite complicated."

"Must we think about it then?"

"We mustn't," the florist leans in, a tender touch of lips to the corner of Jimin's mouth.

The author cups his cheeks, proximity making his heart beat above his ribcage regardless of this not being the first time. Jeongguk's hand rests over his, eyes refusing to break the contact. He's so close that if Jimin could, he would delve into the starry sky that awaits him.

"I shall be damned if I do not say it," he chooses to whisper instead. "But your eyes, they... they're so beautiful."

Jeongguk smiles, and his eyes follow suit. "No one has ever said that to me."

"Blimey," he mutters. "They are to be kissed."

"Well then, why don't you kiss them?"

Jimin sighs — a dreamy one, that is. And when he pulls back, the florist closes his eyes, awaiting the promised kiss with a contented smile on his face. Something about this moment makes Jimin's heart swell tenfold, enough to sustain all his love for the man before him yet nowhere near enough at the same time.

He leans in, lips a tender brush against Jeongguk's closed eyelid, and then he kisses it. Once, twice. And then the other one. His insides twist and turn — he had his lips on the eyes he writes about, the ones that he may have sworn to only see sparkle like they always do. They shall never be sad, he decides.

He pulls back, but before he's anywhere an inch away from Jeongguk's face, the florist leans in and joins their lips. Jimin smiles into the kiss, so in love. Under the orange tree before Jeongguk's cottage, the author believes he can sit forever if it meant to be this close to the surge of emotions, to this feeling that they call love.

So, their little moment continues, stretching into the time until Jimin has no recollection of the day turning into evening.

It has always been easy being around the florist, and somehow even when he'd dreaded for this to go all the wrong ways, it'd still remained intact. If anything, it was now easier than before, talking to Jeongguk, saying all that was on his mind — because somewhere, somehow, the florist understood more than Jimin's words could ever convey.

Once the worries were pushed aside, as from the day when Jimin had broken his own wall of fears to kiss the florist, words like breathing, being free and flying had begun to make more sense to him. They had shared it all, a bed, a breath, a heartbeat — connected, and it was evident to the author in the way Jeongguk would touch him now, the way Jimin would confidently trace his eyes and kiss his lips. The occasional formality then was the only one thing that had the author grinning, endeared.

But one thing that doesn't change would be the effortless skill where Jeongguk reads him, and he lets him do that — the walls that Cyndia talked about were no longer necessary. It has been the same way since forever, since he'd stepped into his shop and was handed the lavender bouquet — read beyond comprehension.

It comes like simply existing to Jimin, startling him at times. He lets the florist lay on his body, his back pressed to Jimin's chest as he situates himself between his legs. Time passes so quick yet so slow when Jeongguk makes the flower pins, trinkets and what not, showing them to Jimin. Kisses are exchanged, laughter echoes and soft trails leave Jimin's skin searching for more in its wake.

He wonders if he was ever truly happy. Because if this is what happiness felt like then no, he has never been quite so happy. He too wonders if he has ever been in love. Oh, because if this is love, if this flight, this glide in the air is what love is meant to be, then he knows he's never soared quite this high.

There would be several names he'd give to Jeongguk, to his lover — being an author and all, he'd write about it. And each time, the reverence would only grow. However love remains settled above it all. Were humans capable of this? Could they even hold such big heart and all the warmth in this world to give? Or would Jeongguk then not be human at all? Because he had sure barged in like anything, filling Jimin's life with colours as though he now stands in a garden, love his very being.

Perhaps, Jeongguk was love. Love personified.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

The breakfast at Conley's was like any other day that Jimin had spent here — maid scurrying about, scent of toasts and all wafting through the dining room. And it was to remain the same had the letter from his very own editor not approached.

Jimin had written to Joe regularly, he may recall, sending him parts of what he'd call poems, to read. The response from his friend has always been supportive. The last time he wrote to Jimin, he'd stated that he had gotten another author friend to read his poems and the positive feedback had pursued him to convey it further. All in all, his little poetry book was nearly complete, if Joe would deem so, he must add.

He'd written to all his might, his time in this town proving to be more than just a hunt for inspiration. He'd serendipitously found much more while looking for something he didn't even realize he needed all this time. He could still recall it — the fears and insecurities he'd stepped in this town with. Though sometimes, it gets too fogged up in the zealous present. He couldn't remember the last time he'd sat in his own skin, despising people for being so hollow and artificial.

His entire attention was diverted — in a rather unexpected way.

He wouldn't understand, even if he tries, how Jeongguk managed to pull someone like him, someone with a dark heart towards the mere word of life, precisely towards it? How is it that now that he thinks about living, he does so with the ever-present thought of the florist being in it? Of living for the said florist? What was it that he hadn't had a few weeks ago but filled his being now as if it were a part of it?

He remembers being sad. A sad person writing — for all sad people write. He remembers being broken in a delicate manner that no one would even pick it up. He remembers being awry of everything. And he remembers thinking that this forty-two years of life was enough, that it should end now.

But that's where it ceased.

He remembers it all, yet he has no recollection of how it felt. Perhaps a flicker, but it has all been long taken over by love itself. Love personified, entering his life with a rush of lavender, and leaving a mark that isn't to be forgotten, like freesia engraved into his very soul.

Jimin's thoughts are brought back to his body soon, to the table where he sat for breakfast at Mister Conley's residence. The old man, in fact, last to the table, walks in with a letter, handing it to the author.

"Your editor writes to you this time, eh, young man?" He finds his place around the table, taking his seat.

"Yes," Jimin manages a smile, receiving the piece of paper. "I apologize, I would've collected it myself."

"Worry not," he waves a hand. "I had the newspaper to pick."

"We always ask father to let Mary do her duties," adds Cyndia, gesturing at the maid, "but he seems to have something against it."

"There's nothing personal," the man replies. "This old man only happens to recall the incident when Mary got the newspaper soaked in the rain."

"That was once," amused, Jane shakes her head. "Give the poor girl a chance."

"I shall be alright on my own, thank you very much." Mister Conley straightens the newspaper before him, earning quiet laughs from everyone in the room, including the maid named Mary.

"Do you plan to read that letter now, Mister Park?"