“Your azaleas aren’t looking well.”

From the other side of the crowded greenhouse, Jimin tugs a few strands of his auburn hair in front of his eyes, and sighs when the pink-white blossoms on his head shed a few more petals. “Sorry, I thought I was better at hiding them…”

Beside him, Namjoon makes a deep sound at the back of his throat in response and turns back to tending the pot of daises on the desk. “No, it’s my job to keep an eye on you and I know the signs.”

It’s not quite a lie, but maybe he’s extra observant and knows what to look for. Or maybe Jimin just wears his heart on his sleeves and hair, more so than most.

The quiet between them is easy as they work together in a choreography that is built up of twelve months of moving alongside each other, weaving through the overhanging runners from various plants that spill over pot edges.

Jimin is tending to a bed of bright pink Widow’s thrill when Namjoon steps in beside him with a pair of shearing scissors in his hand. Automatically, Jimin sets down the watering can and turns to face Namjoon, bowing his head.

Gently, Namjoon picks at the azaleas with long fingers and gathers the withering stems like thoughts in his hands before cutting them from the healthier ones. Jimin stands still, his breath quiet, but his small hands curl in the fabric of Namjoon’s t-shirt front.

“Just promise to take care of yourself when I’m not around, yeah?”

When the last of the azaleas are tossed into a steel bucket nearby for compost, Jimin shakes his head, shedding the rest of the leftovers and two new buds appear amost the auburn strands.

Jimin never makes promises that he can’t keep. So Namjoon doesn’t worry when the younger nods and replies, “I promise.”

He returns the smile and runs a hand through his blonde hair. “Good. You’re hiding them just fine, it’s just my job to keep an eye on you.”

It’s not quite a lie, but Namjoon has always taken special care of Jimin. Ever since he first caught sight of the fluffy head full of half-bloomed flowers wandering into his greenhouse garden a year ago, Namjoon has never quite taken his eyes off of Jimin.

Namjoon isn’t a doctor, though his clients like to affectionately call him so. He prefers to be seen as a simple stylist, a gardener, or even friend, to help carry the weights that people can’t carry anymore. Both good and bad.

No one knows quite what had happened, but he is the only one in the town who doesn’t grow flowers in his bleached hair that’s shaved on the sides. Namjoon doesn’t explain and is thankful when no one asks, but sometimes he is disappointed too.

He spends his time in the greenhouse gardens that he had spent four months fixing by himself. When he had first arrived, he immediately took to repaneling the glass structure, laying out the orientations, and getting the best equipment he could for temperature and light regulation himself, before starting to take patients one by one.

His regulars are as versatile as his flowers – there’s Hoseok who is always overflowing with coreopsises and red poppies, and is always glad to donate for research. Seokjin is a bit more sparing with his coral roses, but Namjoon understands that it’s been hard for the older to maintain them these days and always gently reminds him to de-thorn the stems when he has time.

He buys his flowers like a barber would with hair – only if they are offered. Though, there are times Namjoon has to trims the occasional dead monkshood or yellow hyacinth off as they sleep. There are various beds tucked in corners of his greenhouse or meditation rooms branched off from the main gardens. Namjoon only does this because it’s not healthy to have them so overgrown. Sometimes he has to refuse cutting any more off, lest they get even sicker than now.

And sometimes, he just lets them find their own way.

It’s been hard, tending to so many people, learning about each plant from an outdated encyclopedia and updating notes in a leather bound notebook, but Namjoon’s getting a hang of it.

Ever since the accident three years ago, he’s thrown himself into his garden to cope, and they seem to sense his pain and respond by blooming so beautifully beneath his fingers.

The day Taehyung arrives causes a stir among the quiet of the town.

Lore has said that only the most broken people can find this place, and only those who have dreams beyond the town walls can leave.

Most people who wander in – by themselves or from the rickety steam train a day’s journey away – usually don’t leave, stitching themselves into the fabric of the quiet life here.

Regardless of lore or not, it has been more than a year since someone has made it here.

The previous summer, it had been Jimin who wandered through the surrounding gates. Unlike everyone else, however, he had not gone to see Namjoon right away. Or at all, until he wandered into the greenhouse of his own accord a few months later.

But according to Yoongi and Seokjin, Jimin had looked far less lost than just completely broken, with glazed eyes and black hair tangled with dried azalea petals and leaves.

Namjoon is overlooking Jimin’s work as he checks the gardenias and nudging him in the right direction. He’s in the middle of telling Jimin to make sure the drainage is good and to leave the small pot in some more sunlight, when the greenhouse doors open.

Nodding to Jimin, Namjoon sends him to place the flowers in its new spot. “Please close the door quickly, you’re letting out the humidity–” he starts, but stops when he catches sees who it is.

Yoongi is the closest to him, frowning through his soft blonde locks and has his arms crossed his faded black gatekeeper uniform. His small buckwheat flowers stand on end and tremble with tension.

In the back, Seokjin closes the greenhouse door behind him and chews his lips, his sensitive coral roses shedding a few petals from his soft pink hair.

Between them is a tall figure that Namjoon doesn’t immediately recognize. Even without a large