The viewing of cherry blossom in Korea was enforced by the Japanese occupiers.

Chanyeol recites the brief knowledge he gained from Wikipedia about an hour ago. As he approached the garden, the pink flooded his eyesight, like a waterfall cascading his sense, luring him closer. The peace of the 13th day of bloom was interrupted only by the soft crunching of the twigs filling the air with decibels of disturbance. It was theraputic anyhow, even upon entering the garden.

Cherry blossoms symbolise clouds due to their nature of blooming en masse.

He never knew what en masse meant; he never bothered to find out. The blossom shielded him as he sank further into shade, eyes now becoming accustomed to the gentle colouring dominating his world. The peace of the 13th day of bloom was one Chanyeol emersed himself fully into, clearing his mind from all his troubles, worries, concerns. It was theraputic, wading through the trees and further away from the path.

One would usually find silence intimidating and become paranoid. Not Chanyeol. This was his refuge, his second home and his source of comfort, a cherished park for no one other than Park Chanyeol.

And the Pink Haired Boy.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

Chanyeol heard the pen scraping softly against the paper before he saw it. Every 13th day of bloom the same sounds encased his ears, bewitching him as if he was being charmed. The mesmerising crinkling of the pages in the gentle breeze encaptured Chanyeol completely, as they did every time in the season. If you saw the Pink Haired Boy, the first thing you might acknowledge is the hair. Not Chanyeol though. The hands brushing along the paper to smooth the creases caught his eye the first ever time it happened and ever since too. They were smooth, lacking blemishes other than the tiny indent of a callous on his right index finger, from the hours he spent writing. His nails were uneven but kept well and clean, sometimes being tapped agains the boy's chin when he was lost in his newest idea. His pale skin of his fingers blened into the blossom, but contrasted with the paper, outlining the bony knuckles that flexed and relaxed after every letter. 

That was not to say Chanyeol didn't notice the hair. Each strand look as if it was crafted by the Gods to flow easily in the wind that ruffled the blossom. There was a glimpse of sunlight reflecting off his hair had the capability to blind those who were not ready for it. Not ready for the peace, because they were terrified of their own company. Not the Pink Haired Boy though. He was so caught up in his thoughts, he became part of the garden and it's pure beauty. When he was frustrated with his work, he would run his pale left hand through the hair, exposing his small forehead for the briefest second one may experience.

That was not to say Chanyeol didn't notice his forehead, in fact his whole face. One would have considered the Pink Haired Boy a masterpiece that took years to perfect. Even if he had a blemish, it shone purposefully, as if it was not a blemish at all. Small crescents for eyes would form when his ideas pleased the unknown thoughts racing through his mind. Chanyeol always thought Earth had one moon, but then he witnessed the 13th day of bloom and those eyes, convincing him there were two more to add. His button nose often crinkle before a sneeze, yet even then Chanyeol would hear a melody, rather than a disturbance. The Pink Haired Boy was not like Chanyeol, just like precious China was not like a butcher knife. That was what encapsulated Chanyeol so much.

A cherry blossom is a flower of many trees.

Whenever Chanyeol recited that fact, he realised no other cherry blossom would affect him the way this one does. It wasn't just the blossom of the 13th day that lured him in every season, but the inhabitant who camoflaged himself with the trees too. Chanyeol also hid himself, not from the world, just from the boy. One could find it odd and somewhat worrying, as if the Pink Haired Boy had a stalker, but Chanyeol never followed the boy after sunset, opting to instead meet him once again next season. It was more of a routine, when one chooses to ride a bike or play the clarinet, Chanyeol chooses to observe a real-life piece of art. Mirroring the seating position of the boy, legs outstretched and back resting on a trunk, he watches from the third tree on the left of his subject and breaths. 

In, out, in, out

He let his body function like it should do, away from the artificial air that suffocated him every other day. The blush of his surroundings reflected off his white t-shirt, as if trying to enter him, to let him get lost in the unknown. Maybe that was where the boy found himself in those moments where his pen would leave the paper, inside the garden, fully emer