It's a white, infinite extension of daisies that spreads all around in fields.

He has been here for a week and the air is so pure it burns his throat, ignites his lungs. His house smells like harvest, the front garden is in full bloom and he can't sleep in this quietness. He hates it, he wants to go back home.

But he can not. He has moved to this tiny, irrelevant town for a retirement supported by his company and his family - he protested but ended here anyway. All because he fainted, once, during his last performance after promoting his new album. In his opinion, it was nothing, but the others were adamant that he needed a break, a rest: four months out of the spotlight, away from home, stuck in a town without delivery service or a proper coffee shop, not a single distraction to keep his mind buzzing, stop the waterfall of thought that always comes to haunt him at night.

They were all overreacting. Even the doctor that kept him four days under observation. He prescribed that it was stress and, after running a few tests, anemia and exhaustion as well. Exaggerations. It was only normal that he was tired after months of practicing for his new album, worrying and keeping up with dance practices, filming the music video, appearing in shows, and fan-signs. Sleep was a luxury he couldn't afford and he had no time to properly eat: he was busy, vibrant with activities. He felt dizzy most of the time and had a constant, pungent, headache. And his mind was spinning, wobbling, out of oxygen - he had to deal with constant decisions, bargaining to get a minute to breathe, to take all into consideration -: his hair was growing thin and falling down easily when brushed, he was exhausted, all his body aching, his brain on auto-pilot. He had dealt with all of it before, so it didn't come up as something new, he was expecting it, it wasn't a surprise - it was common between idols. But, this time he just… He couldn't, his intakes of air were unstable and his vision ran black, splashes of broken conversations he couldn't follow, and his manager said enough - enough pretending, enough trying, enough forcing himself when he was crawling on the floor, totally drained, with no energy or power left, his mind totally blocked, shut down.

His company forced him to take a few weeks free - they pushed it on him, threatened him with kicking him out if he didn't comply. They took good care of him: they made up excuses to cover his absence, canceled all his shifts, gave him space to rest. But he didn't want that, didn't deserve their sympathy, their attention and affection: he had failed, disappointed them. He felt ridiculous, locked inside his home waiting for a verdict, guilty of being weak, a dreg out of the elite of idols where he belonged. He will never recover from this, his name was tainted, he would never be invited again to perform in front of a crew, to sing.

The doctor recommended him to rest. His company sent him to a town that he couldn't even find on Naver for that reason - to heal, to gain weight, mental stability: he doesn't know, he wasn't listening - too mad at their decision, the fact that nobody asked him, that it was all settled without his permission.

And now he is stuck here, in the middle of nowhere, in a house too quiet that makes him shiver, too alone to feel comfortable. He hasn't dared to step outside and has been surviving out of instant ramen that he has eaten straight from the packet and the food that Seunghoon prepared for him - there is a pile of containers on the sink waiting to be washed. He misses his Americano coffee, but in this town, there isn't a Starbucks or any other similar place to grab one on the go. And he doesn't know how to operate the coffee machine laying on the counter - because back home his manager has always one ready for him every afternoon, he never had to worry about that, his dose of caffeine was always granted.

He sighs. He has been walking around because, really, there is nothing else to do in this place but to take in the wonder spreading all around; the endless fields of flowers and evergreen trees that are now bearing their fruits, the wind pregnant with their fragrance (peaches, pears, cherries). At least the views are worthy despite that he can't take pictures - phone restricted, no laptop, even WiFi wasn't allowed, he can consider himself lucky to have a land-line to use from an old telephone hanging on the wall. He was properly stunned to see one. The house was decrepit, the floor cracked under his weight and was old-fashioned with a TV covered with tapestry and crotchet. Awful. And his manager didn't pack his stuff, just a bunch of clothes and some books so the house feels massive and lonely, creepy at night with shadows portrayed across the windows, the chirping of the birds at night, the sounds of nature he isn't used to and that keeps him awake until morning until the sun is up to illuminate his fears.

He has been around town but, until now, he hasn't seen such a big esplanade of daisies. Beautiful, six or more acres of it, a perfect view of flowers dancing. So peaceful, all white and bright yellow. It gives him a headache, his mind is so used to be black-out, filled with thoughts and busy schedules and work. Right now, though, all he can see is an endless sea of flowers blooming all around. He can't cope with so much graciousness, so much beauty - he misses the bustling life of the city, the cars' horn, the rush, the noise, the pollution, being in constant movement, never in one place, never with one person at a time, always on the run to somewhere, chasing stars, dreams, opportunities, never getting to them fully, not really.

He spots, miles into the field, a little house, and a path crossing the meadow, a scar parting it in the middle, allowing the pass to reach the building. He walks there with curiosity. Hammered on the ground hangs a sign, marking the beginning of the flowery road. He reads it with a smile.

Finally. A cafe has come his way.

He follows the path between fields blossoming, an ocean of white and foamy sunshine greeting him with the sweet perfume of daisies intoxicating all his senses. It takes ten minutes to reach the front door, to push it open.

It feels fresh inside - the room is big, all wooden, warm and luminous, the walls covered with more daisies climbing from frames up to the ceiling. The windows all show the same display of flowers swayed by the soft wind, the sun painting them with a sheen of gleam. It is beautiful, quiet, a moment that sticks on his heart.

He looks around and what he sees leaves him breathless.

The room is half empty and, managing the coffee machine he spots the barista, a wonder of a navy apron, and soft blond hair. When he turns around to face the client he is attending, the air laces around his throat and his heart begins to beat in a cacophony of loud thumbs that make his face burn in shades of rose and red. He is gorgeous. Cut-out straight from a magazine with the most captivating smile - it sparks, alive, his eyes filled with the sunshine warming his inside, melting away any distress.

Perhaps he is not in the right place - he takes another glance but he can't spot a crew of filming cameras, the room contains regular customers and the staff of the cafe, nothing more but he is still stunned. Maybe it’s a set for a movie and they are actors rehearsing and he is standing there, in the middle, disturbing. He is about to step out and get back outside when he is welcomed in by another waiter wearing the same navy apron and denim.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, looking down, ready to depart. “I think I mistook this place, I don’t want to be a bother.” The man laughs.

“Only if you are not looking for a cup of tea,” he jokes, encouraging him inside.

“So, aren’t you filming something?” he wonders, astonished. The waiter laughs again - and it sounds fresh, joyous. He glares around, again, taking in the beauty of the barista that looks like the movie star that he could be - that he could turn him into.

“‘Course not!” he exclaims, “please, come in, we will find you a table,” he adds, leading him in. He glances, his eyes on the other waiter, who is beaming, chatting with another customer - and even when his voice comes from a distance, it is clean and precious, like hearing the song of the stars and his waiter must have noticed, because he smirks at him and then, pointing at his college, says, “this is Jinwoo, the owner of “Six Daisies”, he explains, “my name is Younghyun, and you must be a newcomer,” he says, with a pleasant smile, eyeing him keenly, with interest.

“Indeed,” he replies, matching expressions, content to have found this wonderful place. He sits on a table under the window, where the wind caresses his hair, bringing in soft, white petals from the flowers outside - and the smell spreads from the walls to his core, the daisies as beautiful as the owner. “I’m Minho,” he makes himself acquainted. He omits his surname because he doesn’t want to attract attention, even when this is a small, isolated town that probably knows nothing about him or his music - or the fact that he has evaporated from the public eye, has been on the hiding for a week, forced, obligated by his own company (he shivers at the memory but, right now, staring at this boy named Jinwoo, he forgets it all, his beauty is out of this world and deserves to be appreciated, contemplated, admired, written about - and maybe, after this break, Minho can compose a song about him, about a boy made of stars and daisies).

The radio is playing soft jazz that blends with the ambient perfectly and the coffee that has been served tastes wonderful on the tip of his mouth. When the song finishes the DJ introduces a few singles that have been released and, between them, his name is mentioned as the youngest producer among k-pop, an all-round idol who not only writes and composes his songs. He chokes on his coffee - too hot, too strong, too shock at hearing his name said aloud, his cheeks are the color of peaches and he wants the ground to swallow him, terrified to be discovered. But none of the clients notice it, the barista is busy taking notes and the wind brings a new melody - it breaks the static of Minho’s heart. Life flows again and he breathes, relieved.

He inhales, exhales, inhales again, and it feels so pure, it brings fire to his lungs but, at least he is alive, he is feeling something that isn’t the numbness of the past few years - he sees beauty and wants to pain, he touches the flowers and the petals are soft under his fingertips, spreading white and perfume on his hand and he senses it all, new, and it makes him laugh, drunk of life as he hasn’t been in years.

He doesn’t hate this place anymore - not when he can see Jinwoo smiling at his weird laugh that comes from the depths of his hollow heart, from the void of his core. He fills it with his presence, with his light and grace and the color of his almond eyes coated in silver star-dust. Minho drinks his coffee in one go and departs, back to his new home.

He comes back the next morning with a sketchbook, sits under the sun, and draws Jinwoo and doodles daisies all around, giggling at how stupid this is - at how smitten he is for someone who he doesn’t even know.

Minho observes the surroundings while sipping his Americano; he comes here early in the morning and asks for a continuous stream of refills, his hands busy tracing lines on paper, his mind clear of anything that it isn’t Jinwoo making drinks with a soft smile. He enjoys the moment when their eyes collide and he can contemplate universes expanding inside his orbs - they are beyond beautiful, gleaming, alive. And it has been so long since he has had a minute to himself, a moment that belonged only to him, to do what he wants - to think about how sweet Jinwoo’s lips would taste, how his hands must always smell like coffee beans and how much he wants to hold them, kiss his palm and drown into his eyes.

He notices that Jinwoo is kind to everybody, he greets all the customers by their name and knows what they will order before-hand.

"Jinwoo is very much appreciated by all," Younghyun says, answering Minho's silent question, at Minho's eyes falling on the counter where Jinwoo is. He offers him his regular cup of Americano and smiles.

"Do you know him much?" he wonders and his interlocutor laughs at him, at his silly inquiry.

"Well," he begins, smirking. "I know him by force".

Of course, Minho wants to smash his head down the table, obviously, he has to know his boss - who looks friendly and nice to everybody, especially to Younghyun whom he is always close to. Such a stupid question, he curses mentally, biting his tongue. Younghyun, though, is looking at him, pondering, realizing something.

"Oh, right! You don't know Wonpil," he exclaims, looking at Minho conspirational, "he takes care of the flowers," he lowers his voice, "and I take care of him," he finishes in a confidential way, winking at him.

"Oh, that's great," Minho starts, not following any of what he has said, lost in Younghyun's words that make no sense.

"Ah, right… I keep forgetting that you are a newcomer here," he apologizes, still smirking, "Wonpil is Jinwoo's little brother. Which makes me his brother, too. So, replying finally to your question, I do know Jinwoo well," and, just like this, he brushes away Minho's fears. "And I can't help but observe that you are here on your own… For how long are you staying?" he queries, a hint of an idea blooming, spreading from Younghyun to Minho, something shared between them both that is yet unknown but getting form.

"I'll be here for about four months," Minho explains and Younghyun nods, affirmatively.

"And you are here all by yourself... Must be boring," he is being very suggestive and Minho is just waiting for him to drop what he wants to hear. "Do you want me to introduce Jinwoo and the others?" and Minho only has to smirk at him - because it is very clear how interested he is about Jinwoo, Younghyun doesn't even need to ask when it lays in front of his eyes, pages filled with Jinwoo, his name burning in Minho's sight.

Minho nods vigorously, kindly accepting Younghyun’s invitation, already thinking ahead to the moment he will be introduced to the person owning his head - he doesn’t know him, yet, but he is deeply moved by his smile that sparks, alive, throbbing his core like an earthquake and he hasn’t felt anything like this before (hasn’t felt any emotion for so long he is now overwhelming, his heart shattered). “At least you have good taste in men, I can’t say the same about drinks,” Younghyun jokes, pointing at his empty mug of dark Americano.

“It’s very good,” Minho defend his choice but, honestly, he has never tried anything else before - Americano is made in a minute, after all, quick to get, quick to go, its flavor, diluted, spreads and awakes his sense first thing in the afternoon when he steps out of bed. But his mitigation, as poor as it is, only makes the corner of Younghyung’s mouth ripple, holding in the laughter threatening to explode.

“It’s coffee drowned with water! That can’t have a taste at all!” he says, adamantly, “but hopefully meeting Jinwoo will improve your knowledge about it,” and he gets up, patting gently Minho’s shoulders. And he is left alone, with an empty mug and a heart thriving with dreams and expectations, ready for Jinwoo.

Minho stays in the cafe until closing time with ten pages of his sketchbook displaying drawings of Jinwoo and the warm sensation that Younghyun is rooting for them, cheering up a possible romance that seems too distant, far away of Minho's reach.

When he leaves “Six Daisies” and waves at Younghyun politely, Jinwoo comes to open the door for him, beaming.

“Thanks for your visit, we hope to see you back again, soon,” and he is smirking at him with a suggestion of a secret - as if he knows that Minho will come again tomorrow and the day after and, if possible, forever - but, one day, when the weather is good for him, he will be back to the stages, to perform, to create, to have his mind split between music and art and his body torn with aches and pain. He will return and become the Song Minho that is loved and appreciated, his voice will be heard and he will forget Jinwoo, his memory will fade away, replaced by awards shows and interviews and all that swirls in his world of glory and fame, where waiters and coffee shop owners have no place. But he can't help the fact that he fancies Jinwoo a lot, that his beauty makes him thriver, makes him want to be better, keeps his heart at bay, wants to stay in this town just to be able to see Jinwoo always. And he can't deny the way he feels, the way Jinwoo makes him feel in cloud nine, walking under the sunshine.

Once he hits home, there is nothing for him to do but to sleep and dream about Jinwoo - and to wait for the morning, for that moment of excitement before getting up, with all the expectations about seeing him again, being immersed on the ocean that is Jinwoo’s eyes and his wide smile that takes away the oxygen from his lungs and the clarity of his mind and that is so different from the sensation produced by stress despite that the symptoms are kinda alike.

He has taken a shower and he is now drying his hair with a towel when the door rings, scaring Minho who, in two weeks hasn’t received a visit.

It’s Younghyun - and, holding his hand, a black-haired copy of Jinwoo, smaller, with more defined factions but fairy looking, with starry eyes and a warm, soothing voice when he introduces himself as Kim Wonpil. His skin, as expected, spreads the sweet perfume of grass and flowers, and Minho is drawn to him naturally because he is kind and nice and lovable and Younghyun can't take his glance off him.

Younghyun is so invested in Minho’s non-existent relationship with Jinwoo because he was once the same as him: whipped, smitten, instantly in love - he stargazes in Wonpil’s eyes and agrees on whatever he says and holds his hands as if the greatest thing in the world happened between their interlocked fingers. It is beautiful to witness, a love so great that can’t be contained, that overflows through every pore of their skin. Minho wants that, too, he hasn’t been able to love someone else but himself for the past years, hasn’t had the time to properly do anything that wasn’t compose and write music, chasing his dreams, hunting them giving up on the important things - family, friends, his own, personal life, love. How could he juggle between music and Jinwoo? He is really wondering even when he has nothing tangible yet with him - nothing but clouds on his head, fantasies. But Younghyun is rooting for him, he can read it on the corner of his foxy eyes, on the curb of his smile whenever he mentions his name - and he drops it even when it’s not needed, making Wonpil laugh and Minho blush.

“Jinwoo usually goes to have a drink after closing “Six Daisies”, you can just stumble by,” Wonpil suggests, sitting in the front garden covered in wild grass. Minho blinks at him.

“Won’t it look like I’m stalking him?” he inquiries, staggered, which only makes them giggle. They have something brewing, a plan, Minho heeds, watching their matching cunning expressions.

“Well,” Younghyun holds a beer, his cheeks cupped between his palms, elbows on the table, “you openly stare at him on the daily and I don’t think he has even noticed,” he says guffawing. “He won’t realize. But no, we will introduce you to him, tomorrow night. Eight sharp in front of the pub,” he commands. Minho doesn’t need to ask which pub because, obviously, in this small town there is only one and Wonpil assures him that he can’t miss it. "We are formally inviting you," he adds, high fiving Minho.

“A local band plays there every Friday, they brew their own beer and it’s very nice, really,” he promises before leaving.

The local is, indeed, nice. Wood floors and wood walls, it’s dark and welcoming, stinks of alcohol and sweat from all the men standing there, applauding in front of the TV - they are watching soccer, yelling, cheering, spilling their drinks. The sound of chatter and loud commands is overwhelming but it’s a good distraction: Jinwoo is nowhere to be found.

He is about to leave - he has been there for ten solid minutes and Jinwoo deserves more but all these noises are breaking his skull, his patience, - when he hears them coming. Wonpil waves at him enthusiastically, running.

“We forgot it is match day, so we decided to move the party to Jinwoo’s place,” he comments, apologetic. Minho nods, noticing the bags that they are carrying. “Hyung is going to cook!” he exclaims, following Minho’s sight. “He is really good, though he is a master of brewing coffee. He would grow his own coffee trees if only the climate was good for it; it's too cold in here for them,” he explains, his arm locked around Jinwoo’s, walking together like two little kids. Jinwoo smiles at his brother and pinches his side jokingly and they both giggle, a sight to behold.

“Stop it!” he says, his cheeks a lovely shade of peach - it must be so warm, Minho wants to run his fingers alongside his cheekbones, feel his embarrassment, his shame burning below.

“But it’s true,” Wonpil continues nevertheless, enjoying to torment Jinwoo as all little brothers like to do. Wonpil takes upon himself the task to introduce Minho to Jinwoo’s life; he tells him tales from when they were kids, he tells him the course of Jinwoo's existence: his childhood, his college years, when he started his business, all he is invested about, his dreams, his fears. And, when they reach Jinwoo’s house - a traditional house of wood and tiles, - Jinwoo disappears with Younghyun to the kitchen and Wonpil takes the opportunity to show Minho albums to prove him that Jinwoo was a wonder since birth much to Minho's delight.

“Pirie!” Jinwoo pops up from the door frame, calling his brother by his family nick-name “stop annoying him and be of some help,” he admonishes Wonpil who looks at him imperturbably.

“I’m keeping him company since you aren’t doing your job as a host,” he refutes Jinwoo, not moving an inch, which Minho thanks internally - he is very invested in discovering everything there is about Jinwoo, and Wonpil is more than happy to obligate, a constant source of Jinwoo's knowledge. By the time dinner is served, Minho has learned enough about Jinwoo to write a book about him, has fallen three degrees further for him.

Dinner goes by too quickly, but it's only because the conversation is so pleasant and the food is too good, and Minho can’t tear his eyes from Jinwoo, who is as lovely as ever, as kind and nice and perfect as he has pictured him, has pinned down him to be. When he laughs he tends to smash someone - Younghyun most of the time because he is used to Wonpil who replicates his brother's behavior. His voice flows like water, clean, translucence, mesmerizing. He talks little but  Younghyun compensates the silence by joking and making them all clap. Minho, too, tells them about himself - not much, he doesn’t unveil the truth, that he is here prescribed by a doctor, that he is frail and his mind is recovering from stress and overwork, his body saturated with too many schedules to attend; too many performances, tiredness piling up, breaking his bones. He says that he works in music and none of them dig on it, taking his words at all there is about it, about him.

Younghyun nearly forces Wonpil to help to do the dishes, he pushes him to the kitchen mumbling on his ear, leaving Minho alone with Jinwoo.

Minho breaks the silence and, soon after, Jinwoo is a mess of laughter. He laughs so easily, is like constantly tickling him and when he compliments his barista skills, Jinwoo beams, bathed by the twilight - and his pale skin is painted in hues of purple and rose, beautifully.

“Younghyun said you could improve my taste in coffee,” he comments, remembering, gently, when Jinwoo realizes that, perhaps, he would like some right now. He fills the room with more laughter.

“I can prepare one for you if you want,” he offers, inviting him to the kitchen that is already immersed in coffee beans’ perfume. Jinwoo shows him how to grind them, how to boil the water to the right temperature, filtering the brownish powder until the pot is filled with dark, strong liquid. It smells already delicious, Minho’s mouth waters not only due to the coffee - his eyes are held hostage by Jinwoo.

Minho can’t be more fascinated. He follows all Jinwoo’s steps cautiously, taking mental notes of how gorgeous he looks while serving coffee in mugs, how the milk is crispy, and creates clouds on top of the drink. It is all captivating and Minho doesn’t want it to end - he would drink a gallon of coffee just to watch Jinwoo preparing it for him, his face concentrated, his movements studied, synchronized by years of serving coffee (his hands travels, dancing).

“At home, we use Arabiga, the most common one, but at the cafe, we have many options,” Jinwoo notes, sipping from his cup, elegantly. Minho looks at him with a raised eyebrow.

“Nobody asked me which one I prefer…” he pouts and Jinwoo coughs, the drink spilling from his lips, hot, staining the table, splashing everywhere.

“Well, that is because…” Jinwoo tries to explain, stumbling with words, fingers fidgetting, eyes down on his cup Younghyun, though, takes the lead with a sufficient smile.

“We don’t waste our precious beans on Americano. It completely loses its flavor when you drown it in hot water,” he says and Minho has to admit it - he swallows his coffee, this time an espresso that tastes aromatic on his tongue.

Jinwoo shows him his understanding of the matter of coffee beans and the different types of roasting, and Minho finds himself wanting to know more, to hear him talking about something he is so passionate about.

Younghyun accompanies Minho home.

“You caused a good impression on Jinwoo,” he comments, smirking happily. “I haven’t heard him talking so much,” he praises, rubbing affectionately on his back, in front of Minho’s door.

“You think?” Minho is unsure; he hasn’t done much, after all, he has been too caught up staring at him to realize if Jinwoo was paying special attention to him or acting any different from his nice, polite way. But Younghyun nods, he knows better.

“See you tomorrow! Please, make sure to not ask for Americano or else I’ll kick you out!” he yells, threatening with a side smirk.

The next morning he is welcomed to “Six Daisies” with another bright smile able to melt away all the sleep accumulated in his eyes - he has stayed up until late sketching all the memories he has of Jinwoo, he can wallpaper his house with all the drawings he owns now; he has painted Jinwoo with his flowery pot,  making coffee, holding beans, examining them in an explosion of shades and colors.

Instead of asking him what he wants, though, Jinwoo takes his hand and pulls him to the kitchen behind the counter, where Jinwoo bakes and grinds the coffee. Minho doesn’t flinch despite that his heart is drumming - in a rhythm that could be a new hit song.

“Look,” Jinwoo exclaims, pointing at the far end where there is a pile of sacks full of brownish beans. “Arabiga,” and he takes a fistful to show him, “this one is Robusta, it’s very strong in the palatal,” he lets him examine the tiny bean, his hands impregnated with its intense aroma, “and Liberica, that is not that known. Arabica is the most common and widely used. But I prefer a good mix. During winter,” he continues, “when the cafe is not that busy, Younghyun and I create our own blendings. Of course, we have them classified by types, such as Vietnam or Colombian, you know,” and Minho does, nodding, following Jinwoo around the kitchen, tasting coffee powder that comes from all the different places and regions where coffee trees grow. Jinwoo explains how their taste depends on how long you toast them, or alongside what other trees the beans are planted. “All this infers with the flavor,” Jinwoo smiles, putting back a jar of Brazilian coffee. “Sorry,” he says out of nowhere, “I’m rambling,” and his cheeks are pink and warm and Minho wants to pinch them - because he has never looked this adorable before.

“It’s OK, it is very interesting. Thanks to you I won’t ask my manager again for an Americano,” he lets it slide, not realizing the revelation he has exposed.

“Manager?” Jinwoo mumbles, blinking at him with his round, starry eyes.

Minho bits his lips and pretends he hasn’t heard it and Jinwoo doesn’t ask again, doesn’t push it, leaving it as it was, a mystery he doesn’t want to disclose, to resolve. The silence slides between them and, for a moment, it is uncomfortable.

“It’s like I’m getting a master-class about coffee,” Minho jokes, breaking the stillness, the stuffed air with a jet of laughter, and Jinwoo follows, beaming. They finish a minute later and Minho sits on his table, cursing, with all the coffee beans he has held swirling on his hands that taste like them.

Another week passes by and, then, yet another, and Minho is so comfortable here, after one month, he has finally settled in, found a place to call home. Younghyun comes over uninvited - as most people do in this town, - and Minho enjoys his company that is usually accompanied by Wonpil and Jinwoo. They guide Minho around, Wonpil shows him the fields of flowers he cultivates, pointing out colorful petals that name plants that are totally aliens to Minho but that he begins to appreciate. He learns about the earth and the air, about all that grows and, mostly, about Jinwoo - his kindred heart, adopting wounded animals, taking care of them, helping the elders, doing errands for them, on his free days, he reads books to kids in the local library and cleans the streets just as the rest of the inhabitants do. He is loved by many but, mostly, by Minho who, with every passing day, feels this love enlarged, beaming like the endless universe, as big and deep as it is.

Minho hasn’t talked much about himself with his new friends but they have respected his boundaries, haven’t pushed him with inscrutable questions about his job, about the reasons why he has left Seoul to settle temporarily in this small, remote village. They joke, show him around, talk about their youth, their past. And Minho lets them carry the weight of the conversation, follows the flow they mark, agrees and laughs and smiles fondly at them, feeling that he has found, finally, real friends.

When Minho looks at the calendar hanging, crookedly, on the wall of his home, he grins at how three months have already gone. He feels changed, better. His mind doesn’t spin and his sight is clean. He can breathe in and the air, fresh, pure, doesn’t prickle his core. He can sleep at night after a walk with Jinwoo, after one last shot of soju with him at his place, one last glance at him to remember later with closed eyes and Jinwoo is the star of his ceiling. He is content, something he hasn’t been in so long - now he is happy, delighted when before it was the only high of the performance, the adrenaline fogging his senses, nothing durable, real, tangible. Smoke from the fire burning inside his core, extinguishing his passion, leaving ashes, the flavor of nothingness behind until he was emptied of all, a shell: all glamour and appearance.

He enjoys Jinwoo’s presence and holds it dear, counting all the changes he has found on him since the beginning - Minho, too, has mutated, has become someone entirely different (someone he likes to be). Jinwoo is more talkative now, he clings to Minho, holds his hand, walks with their arms intertwined, laughs at everything Minho says and does, even the silliest things, even by the stuff that Minho can’t label as funny: he laughs at it, too. His eyes follow him around like moths to a flame, instinctively. He is prone to greet him when Minho is nothing but a shadow crossing the flowery road that leads to Jinwoo, an evergreen smile on his lips, ready. Jinwoo is as lovable as always but, with Minho, he tries even harder to be seen - or so has explained Younghyun in a hushed secret manner. Minho was in extasis hearing that, beamed under Younghyun’s words as if they were made of light - Jinwoo’s beams covering him with warmth, with tenderness, replicating what was growing wildly inside Minho’s heart.

"It's just a crush, hyung," he dismisses vehemently when Seunghoon points at the art filling his room, covering walls and floor. He doesn't want to argue with him, not when he has come to visit and to restore his fridge with more containers of food. And, besides, it’s true.

It was, at the beginning, at least when he first saw Jinwoo. Now, the more he knows about him, the more he discovers, the more Jinwoo dispenses him his care and attention... The more he craves for it, the more he wants - and dreams and hopes even when he is aware that this is impossible, that this is passenger, that he will have to go, back to his routines and he won’t have time for Jinwoo, he won’t have a spare space to let him in, to let him stay. He should keep it as it was, an innocent crush, but now it has covered his inside with flowers - he breathes in and the air tastes like marguerites.

He had rooted inside his heart, had bloomed, a daisy painting in white his blood, with his warm eyes, deep, oceanic, coated with spangle, the light in them tilting, alive.

"Hyung, back then I felt like I became a zombie," he sighs, confessing finally the truth. It feels liberating to say it, to let the words escape the cage inside his mind where he kept them hostage. "With an empty mind and an empty heart. I couldn't feel anything at all, it was veiled behind stress, anxiety," he continues. Seunghoon, cross-legged in front of him, smirks.

"And this man helped you go through this, right?" he teases him, Minho can sense the mocking coming to chase him with Seunghoon's good humor.

"Not only him. This place," he takes in the room, the house the town where he is reclosed. "I hated it at first. And it was the first feeling I had in years".

Seunghoon looks at him, looks at him intently, with care, with appreciation, with realization. He nods, all the teasing in his lips replaced with concerns.

"I knew. But you didn't want to hear any of it. Too busy, too deep into producing your music and all to think about anything else," he ruffles his hair like he used to do when Minho was a trainer. "You are in better shape now."

“I am,” Minho confirms with a soft smile. It’s true. “I’ll get over him once I’m back in Seoul but, until then, what harm can do a little bit of flirting? He is lovely,” he explains and Seunghoon doesn’t argue. He stares at him in silence, thinking.

“It’s more than a crush,” but Seunghoon doesn’t need to know, he doesn’t need to suffer the moment Minho decides to break his heart, to smash it against concrete, trying to delete what it is engraved inside - trying to get rid of Jinwoo, the love he holds for him. But even if Seunghoon isn’t aware of the matter, he will be there for Minho, he will be there to wipe away the tears, no questions asked. He will help him mend, heal - he will as his manager, as his best friend. “You will suffer,” he points out, sternly.

“That’s my problem. Besides, that might provide me a new experience to write about,” he tries to keep it light but Seunghoon observes him, his lips in a straight line. “Come on, hyung! It’s really nothing, don’t worry.”

But he will.

The movie flickers, the lights tilts and Jinwoo is pressed in his arms, curled on the couch. He smells like coffee and flowers and his hair, so blond, looks like golden rivers flowing between Minho’s fingers when he runs them down and Jinwoo, below him, purrs, content.

In a few weeks, it will all be over, it will be part of a dream - Jinwoo, his presence, his voice, all he has taught him, soon will become a memory, a recollection, perhaps the lyrics of a new song.

It’s time to tell him before it’s too late - before his lips sink on him, before getting lost in a kiss, he deserves it: the truth he has been denying him for months. It’s now, the moment has arrived and he wipes the sweat off his hands discretely on his jeans, gets distracted contemplating his strawberry-like lips under the shape of a crescent moon.

Other than coffee and flowers, Jinwoo is a movie addict and he has insisted on watching one with Minho, cross-legged first, relying on Minho’s chest, later on, ignoring the screen in favor of staring at his eyes. They have been staring at each other for a while, he realizes, not flicking, not batting his lashes to break the trance. Minho wants to trace Jinwoo's smile, wants to drown on the taste of his kiss, and, deep in Jinwoo's orbs, there is a light mirroring Minho's hunger, eagerness.

But it’s not going to happen, not after Minho’s revelation, not after the truth will be said - Jinwoo won’t want to do anything with Minho and he can’t blame him because it was his choice (he will leave, Jinwoo will stay, there is nothing, really, that can save this blooming, uncertain relationship).

He breathes in and lets all the air go before saying goodbye to Jinwoo.

"I… Have something to tell you," Minho says, eyes falling from Jinwoo to the floor, ashamed.

"I know," Minho blinks: he isn't expecting this, "I know who you are, why you are here. And I know it's impossible so I'm not going to kiss you, to tell you that I really, really like you. Because it will be pointless since you have to go, back to the stages where you belong. And you know I have roots here that I can't cut off," Minho nods: his business, his family and friends, his whole life is here, in this small, remote village, entrenched with the ground and the air, he belongs to these flowers that bloom for him. And Minho can't stay, because all he has here is Jinwoo, everything else is far away but he can grab it and Jinwoo… It’s totally out of his reach, as distant as the horizon, a star that will always be inside his sky, gleaming on him. Jinwoo understands, agrees, has the same feelings, has held them in.

Minho sighs: so his secret has been discovered - has never truly been a secret after all. He smiles, at least this weight, this fear lingering on his mind is out and he feels lighter, like clouds. And Jinwoo, too, is looking at him, proud and happy and smiling.

"We can still be friends," he offers and Minho accepts it wholeheartedly - because even with the distance, he can keep him, pressed inside the pocket of his ripped jeans, near his heart where he belongs, as something else than a friend, something less than a lover would.

They talk all night. They talk until they run out of words, of things to say, of love to show. They agree to let it die young before more feelings get them more attached; before it will hurt, be real. Now it’s just a bit of “I fancy you”, innocent, something they can erase completely from their systems, from their hearts without tears, without suffering and Minho pretends, really, that he is alright with it - that he won’t have his heart split. It’s no big deal and Minho can totally play it cool - has been doing so since the beginning, it’s part of his job.

Minho uses his last days with Jinwoo. He goes to “Six Daisies” and stays there watching Jinwoo works, painting him on his sketchbook. He chats with Younghyun and, sometimes, Wonpil also shows up, coming over for a cup of tea and to steal some kisses from his boyfriend - and Minho isn’t jealous because he has no right to be, has not a single reason even if the memory of Jinwoo’s lips lingers behind his eyelids.

Younghyun laughs when Minho reveals his identity. And, when he tells him that they knew all along, he smirks.

“We might live in a small village but it’s only two hours from Seoul. We have TV and radios and we watch your shows. But we keep it quiet because we thought that was what you were looking for,” and Minho can’t be more thankful to them - they have changed him, have molded to be a better version of himself.

“I really needed to have a break, to rest. And now I’ve learned that I can lead a more tranquil life, all thanks to you,” he says with gratitude. Younghyun nods.

“What I’m sorry about is that you and Jinwoo hyung didn’t end together. I was so sure he loved you, too,” he admits, apologetic. He has been plotting it with Wonpil, has encouraged Minho, and, in the end, he was misled, read it all wrong - but he didn’t, Jinwoo’s sentiments are real, just coated with indifference to help him face the moment when Minho will disappear from his life.

“It’s OK, we will keep being friends. You too. Don’t forget to invite me to your wedding. I’ll sing for free!” he jokes, just half-serious.

Jinwoo kisses his cheeks. He has his suitcase with him - no phone, no laptop, just the same few things he came here with and Seunghoon’s containers, now clean thanks to Jinwoo. Minho is leaving; Seunghoon has come with the car to collect him, bring him back to the city.

“I’ll call you,” Minho promises, Jinwoo’s phone number written down in a paper crumbled inside his fist. “Oh, before I go, do you want my autograph?” he laughs.

“Not yours, but I would love to have G-Dragon's one!” Jinwoo beams, smiling at him with constellations inside his eyes. “If you can get it for me, I’ll hang it in the cafe for everyone to see,” he adds, joyfully.

Minho can do that, they are under the same company – he can do this for Jinwoo, to honor their friendship, the least he can do for all the joy Jinwoo has brought to his empty life.

He waves to them one last time and gets in the car. They all become little until they are only dark dots against the sky. Minho’s heart sinks, pressing deep the smell of daisies, the taste of coffee, the shape of Jinwoo’s lips on his skin.
 

His place feels big, empty, lonely. Cold wind, his mind is hollowed, a void of images; of Jinwoo’s voice. But he can endure it; he gets immersed in work, producing music to shush Jinwoo, to dilute his phantom with words that come from his core, and Jinwoo's shadow follows him around, a taunted memory he wants to dispatch but that sticks to him like a second life. He knows what to do: he burns his drawings and writes down all that is buried inside his head.

In a matter of a week, he has five new songs written and the agency approves his return to the scenes. He recloses in his studio, composing, arranging, forgetting. He puts his heart in each of them, he pours Jinwoo in them, wishing for him to listen to his songs, to hear his feelings roaring, out and loud. Perhaps, when all that Jinwoo means to him will be out in a song, he will be able to breathe, will be cured, cursed, thrown back to an existence of endless work and schedules, empty, like before, like always.

But, even then, even when he has composed a full album about him, he is still drenched with Jinwoo, his words, his eyes, his smile, the warmth he exuded and that wrapped his heart, soothingly, relieving.

“Where are all the stars of Seoul? In your eyes!” Minho sings it for the first time. Seunghoon smiles at him with a hint of sadness and he knows that he has noticed.

"You really love him, don’t deny it,” and Minho can not. He has tried, though, but his heart still contains all that Jinwoo means, all of his light and he thinks of him, dreams of him holding his hands. But he can’t have him, this love has no future, has no starting point because if he clutches into it he will have to leave who he is behind - the music, the stages. And, yet, Jinwoo deserves it - deserves to be loved.

"He wants Jiyong hyung’s autograph,” he recalls and an idea blooms inside his mind.

It’s just a two hours drive. It’s not impossible and he has promised his company to take it slowly, to go easy on him, on his own body - that he is healthy but they want to minimize any relapse, for his own sake. He can produce music anywhere, he doesn't need to be stuck here - he only has to return when necessary.

He calls Younghyun to get everything arranged - to rent the same house, to get all his belongings shipped there. The company grants his wish - it's nothing much and they would do anything to protect their artists. And he is not cutting his ties with them, he will still work for them, write and arrange and compose and create music for them,  he will do that somewhere else. They will always represent him, will always support him. They will organize his future Come Back when his latest album is ready, will help him with his performances, grant him shows to appear. He can live where his heart pertains - and that's with Jinwoo.

Younghyun comes to fetch him with a waving, bouncing Wonpil who rushes to hug him, to greet him again, holding him like family. And with their aid, he settles down while thinking about Jinwoo - thinking about all the dreams that pain his blood.

Four days after he is in front of his favorite flowery road that will lead him to a future untold. He steps, confidently, into it, daisies growing, big, an ocean of white and cream, all around, their perfume a balsam to his heart, Jinwoo’s voice at the end waiting to welcome him in with crinkled eyes that will shine in delight, happiness.