Flower Shower

He comes in like rain in summer, the first droplets falling down on a dry August: refreshing, liberating, welcomed. He smiles and sunshine burns over his skin, glowing, prettier than any of his flowers, Jinwoo blooms with his own colours and Minho can't help but be entranced.

Like the wind from the east, he blows his mind away with just a greeting, with his voice filled with stars and his glittering eyes holding universes and the depths of the ocean. And Minho can only sigh at him, at his beautiful persona, yielding to him like the seasons, yearning for him like a starved kid. But for all that Minho does, he preaches in barren lands for Jinwoo is married with kids, the perfect image of happiness and loyalty, even when he comes to him with a hand full of papers and a mind full of love and ideas to share, he is out of his reach (has always been). And he perishes, wilts like his own flowers, running out of water because Jinwoo is what nurtures his heart, it’s the fragrance that floods his senses and all that lingers in his head. Jinwoo has bloomed under his skin, taking away any resistance, strangulating with fierce roots any opposition (he has bowed to Jinwoo, engraved his name on his flesh where it thumbs like thunders under it shape).

Even if he weren’t such a beauty, Minho would still be fascinated with him, a disposition as lovely and sweet as the rose shades on his cheeks, all the hues tainting his eyes (he is the perfume of wild-flowers and sudden rain). He is kind and nice and caring, always willing to lend a hand (or two, he has always a moment to spend to help others, never asking to be thanked).

Jinwoo walks to him, greeting him with his sparkling smile and Minho needs to assure himself, remembering that Jinwoo is just another client (that he is only a dream to treasure, the shape of all that love means and that someone else relishes in, not him). He shakes the clouds floating in his mind and stares at Jinwoo because it can’t be helped (it can’t because Jinwoo is gleaming with the sun caressing the autumn living in his hair, the shades of leaves falling down, swirling in the air). He will never get tired of admiring him, even when he shows up with demands and new arrangements and Minho has to start anew (he knows he does it because Jinwoo is a perfectionist, he stand for nothing but impeccability and his clients are challenging, difficult sometimes and Minho wants to be there when the weight of it is too much). On the occasions that Jinwoo has changed plans a bit too late, he stays over to help, collecting himself the flowers, putting lace and treats in bouquets, weaving flowers in lovely wreaths and he has never complained about doing Minho's job, he takes it gracefully, sinking his milky hands in mud and thorns with a sincere smile.

Jinwoo talks to him about a new order he needs for his new client: a bouquet of white, pure as snow with the smell of sweet-peas and jasmine.

“The wedding is Snow White themed so you can imagine what we are going for,” he sighs, tiredly, rearranging his copper flocks, revealing a bit of his pale forehead, a stark contrast with the colours that explode between his eyes, the little splashes of dark that are his lashes blinking, the moles that Minho wants to trace, all across his soft features with the caress of petals and fingers patting over the warm of his cheeks. He shows him sketches of the venue, the wedding dress, the other ornaments and Minho is already picturing his flowers blooming there with all the hues of white available. He thinks of scabiosa and wisteria filling vessels, daffodils and lilies to put on men's blazers, peonies for the bride's bouquet of alabaster.

Minho nods at him, taking rushed notes of what he needs (of how Jinwoo wishes the arrangements to be, matching his unmatched creativity, the magic of his hand making dreams come true in the form of a day to remember, a day filled with joy and happiness only). Minho can do it, can turn Jinwoo's observations into beautiful corsages or flower vases (or whatever order that Jinwoo has, the result is always prime).

Jinwoo has arrived in his life like scattered seeds thrown to the wind, taking land under the sun, rooting deep beneath his skin, flourishing in his blood, taking away the air of his lungs, burgeoning with every beat of his heart. He feels like dandelions and Minho wants for nothing but blows it away, makes a wish upon its fruits and kernels, but Jinwoo is the dream and will always be (he is hoping for someone else and Minho knows). Having Jinwoo is the only hanker that cannot be granted since he belongs to someone else, that he will always be just a friend, at most, if he is generous with their interactions, if he takes into account all the sentences shared and all of their moments together, working, exchanging opinions over flowers and settlements.

Maybe Jinwoo doesn’t need to visit Minho’s flowery shop every morning, but he still does. He likes it in there, he likes the feeling of freshness, the lush covering the walls with open colours, the evergreen smile on Minho’s face, the twinkle on his eyes whenever he talks about his posies, when he sketches floral sorting for him, with a glint of a smirk and good intentions. He enjoys all his chat about the meaning of flowers, all the ways a daisy can hold a different meaning according to the situation (and he likes it because daisies are his favourite and Minho talks reverently about them, holds them close to his heart). He appreciates Minho for who he is, for the way he rambles about his passions to him (even when he is just a mere customer and he has no reason to be this nice to him, to answer all of his questions, to allow him to remain in his shop longer than needed, than appropriated, hogging all of Minho's time), how, sometimes, he can spot him chatting with his flowers (an odd habit he quickly has picked up), how nonchalant he is, relaxed, tending his business with care, explaining to his nephews how flowers grow, naming them for Taeha and Junhu, who clap, delighted, getting home with head covered in wreaths that Minho crafts for them alone, fostering Jinwoo's feelings for him, allowing them to flourish wilder, uncontrolled, unrestrained with words that hold no special meaning but that sinks deep, spattering them with care and soft glances.

“I’ll see what I have in stock,” he assures him, glittering his morning and, when Jinwoo closes the door, his chest is lighters, brighter, his mind filled with the shades of Minho’s smile and the form of his pressed lips that he has once dreamt to kiss.

But Minho is too good to be true: he is nice and friendly without second intentions, he is clean like dewdrops hanging over leaves, swirling in the cold air; he is sincere and honest and Jinwoo can’t hide the way he makes him feel, the constant blush in his cheeks whenever he enters his shop, the way his core thumbs as if a beehive looking for the nectar that it’s Minho.

They have cooperated on weddings and graduations, christenings and mornings, all the important events, in every little step in others' lives, they have been present, somewhat. He has created all the flower arrangements under Jinwoo’s commands and Minho draws petals that will linger on their grand day (and it remains a fantasy because Jinwoo has already walked to the altar, has sworn love to his wife, has brought kids to his life), but Minho is blessed still to be able to glance at Jinwoo every day when nobody is there; when he is pouring all his attention to his flourishing buds, Jinwoo comes in like a phantom of light and flame, a miracle, an insurmountable shade that clouds the sky of his eyes with explosive, unnamed colours, bringing glee to his life, sparkles to his core (like water running wild, fostering his roots).

Spring and Summer are the busiest months and so it's normal for them to work shoulder to shoulder but, when Autumn begins to show, with streets canopied with creaking leaves of yellow and red, Minho knows that his time with Jinwoo is slowly running out, despite that he likes the season, mild and savoury, like the caramel latte that Jinwoo brings in with him and that spreads its sweet aroma all around, silencing the always in bloom springtime that vim all year long inside of his shop, where buds and florets are blanketed with love, crafted, mastered by Minho’s hands in order to create the perfect bouquet. Jinwoo comes over now more than before, carrying little thank you shaped like his favourite coffee or a touch that loiters in his hand a second longer and veiled intentions and insinuations that are never clear and that Minho takes as just jokes, dismisses them as niceties.

Whatever that Jinwoo tries, it never reaches Minho, everything fails on him like air, inconspicuous, slip by. And he has run out of ideas, of pretences and excuses to come over, to see him. He has followed Hera's tips and tricks, has shown an unusual interest in flowers, has swallowed his shy demeanour just to be brave, just to prove Minho that he could (but nothing worked, written off, even when Jinwoo has come straight for him, has been very open about his purposes, his appreciation towards Minho).

He doesn’t have events coming up (he is done for the wedding season, there is little left but to wait for new opportunities to sprout up). But he can’t give up on Minho, even though he doesn’t notice, even if he doesn’t waver, he still goes every day with hopes in his heart and an excuse ready on his lips. It doesn’t matter how long it will take, he is ready to wait (Minho is worth it, every minute of this thrilling loiter: he is patient, he can wait longer, he can remain there until Minho is ready, until the day he will pick up his feelings).

Autumn has arrived with the expanded perfume of pumpkin seeds, chestnuts and soft rain and Jinwoo keeps coming even when Minho knows he has no wedding to plan, none a single event requiring his flowery guidance. And, despite it, he continues to show up, persistently making his heartbeat intensely, canopying the chill of the ending month with a warmness that comes from the rapid palpitations of his chest.

"Trick or dare!" a pair of twinning voices shrill from below the counter, delightedly giggling. A Cheshire Cat and a White Hare and Jinwoo holding tinny hands with a board smile painting his face, lips stretched like blossoming strawberries, sweet, appetising, glossed with secrets. The kids look adorable in their costumes and Jinwoo beams at them, proud of their doing and Minho, too, is entranced by it, by how adorable and cute the scene is.

“Are we gonna get candies?” one of them pouts, looking expectant at Jinwoo (looking at his father with the same admiration that lingers in Minho’s eyes, a love that is different but equivalent). Jinwoo rubs messy hair and smiles at him, pinching gently one feathery cheek.

“Don’t be so greedy, little Cheshire Cat!” he tells him, glancing at Minho, blinking a bit sheepishly. He turns for a second, rummaging in his bag until retrieving a box that he processes to hand over Minho. “We made this,” he says, hands heavy, the container filled with sweets, “handmade spicy pumpkin cupcakes with a side of carrot cake,” he explains and Minho is amazed at how talented Jinwoo is (how he, above all, can cook and he blushes recreating in the image of Jinwoo wearing an apron, making dinner for him). The cupcakes look all delicious and, not for the first time Minho wonders if they will taste similar to Jinwoo's lips that he tents to bite nervously, out of habit.

“But, uncle, shouldn’t he be giving us instead?” The White Hare asks, confused, tiny brows furrowed, and his words make sense. Minho should be the one giving, not receiving hand-baked goodies that carry the whiff of fall days.

“We made too much of them, Taeha, we shall share with our friends, don’t you think?” and the little child eagerly nods just to please his father (and a small voice inside his head bugs at something he has heard, but he must have been mistaken, so he shatter it out of his mind). Minho thinks that he, too, would do anything to indulge Jinwoo, even when he just calls him friend, even if he means nothing at all to him (he would do anything for Jinwoo).

“Mama helped bake!” chimes in the other twin, proudly, tearing apart revelries and expectations, reminding him that Jinwoo is taken, that they are his beloved kids and he has no right to meddle in, to break such a sweet family out of an immense love that will never be reciprocated (that Jinwoo is only being kind, that they are only close partners in crime over bouquets and floral arrangements, that it has been like this for years, since the first time Jinwoo stepped into his shop wondering if he could help him with a commission).

Minho remembers it clearly, the moment that Jinwoo first barged into his shop. It felt like Spring even though it was well entered Summer, with the sun heating the windows and his plants perishing under the incessant touch of the scorching sun. He had helped him and saved the day, for Jinwoo was in a rush, desperately looking for flowers for an extra demanding bride. And Minho fell for him right there, with hands full of earth and mud and thorns in his hair, the counter covered with white roses and the pure smell of love lingering in his eyes. They managed to produce the wreaths of roses and carnations and, by the end of the day, Minho was already enamoured with the man with scratched hands and a grin always on his face, despite the tiredness and the havoc of broken steams and petals draped all over his copper hair.

Since then, Minho has been Jinwoo's flower supplier for his business, he has come over every single day, without faltering, sometimes for work and duty, others just to catch up, have a quick chat, stumbling by just to wave at him, pointing the name of different blossoms to his bubbly babies, who waggled inside uninvited (but always welcomed), touching and breaking and filling the room with giggles and the possibility to see Jinwoo again without being noticed. And it didn’t matter that Jinwoo never mentioned a wife, Minho was sure that he was totally, completely out of his span, therefore enjoying the rare occasion he had to contemplate him, to caress the side of his hand as if an accident, fingers casually lingering on his skin for a second too long (and the feeling would last days, the memory never foundering).

“Your mother must be a really good cook!” Minho tries to conceal his dejection with a cheerful tone that matches the voice of the kids, who gleam at hearing it.

“Yes, mama is better than uncle Jinwoo! But uncle Jinwoo made our dresses, does Song Flower love them?” and he bounces like a little bunny, so dainty that Minho ignores the flavour of Junhu’s words in order to giggle over his leaps.

“Junhu, he is Song Minho, no Song Flower,” Jinwoo snaps, a finger on his nose, pressing gently, scolding, "you have to learn people's real names," he adds, more tender, simpering, keeled in front of his kid, fixing his fluffy hare ears.

“It’s OK, I do like it, it sounds lovely,” Minho says, not bothered by the sweet pet-name. It is endearing after all, and he doesn’t mind a bit (and it sounds cute in this little Junhu's mouth, round and childish, with a small hint of Jinwoo's voice and Minho wants to hear more - wants for Jinwoo to say his name, reverently, the same way he grasps his own, deep down in his core).

“Uncle Jinwoo likes Song Flower, too!” he yells, all excited. And Minho has to blink, has to digest what he has heard (for the third time in the span of just a few minutes). Jinwoo wants the Earth to swallow him, the floor to open beneath his feet. He puts a smile to conceal the betrayal, makes it look light and fun, plays it down (despite the ting of pain stinking his heart waiting for Minho's reaction with his emotions revealed, floating in the air thanks to Taeha's sincerity, his voice always honest, speaking the truth that he has known since long ago, that has seen it gleaming in his uncle's eyes whenever he was around Minho - the joy, the beaming, the longing to get closer, all the attempts and tries and jokes on him by his mother).

“Isn’t Jinwoo your dad?” he asks, tentatively, not fully believing, unsure of how to take it (if he will be able to take it, if the idea will fit inside of his mind, replacing rejection and deception with being entitled to be with Jinwoo).

“No, uncle Jinwoo is our uncle!” they elucidate for Minho, untangling the truth for him.

“Her mother is my eldest sister,” Jinwoo clarifies, smiling at him shyly, an intense pink over his cheeks that makes Minho raise a brow in curiosity.

Minho is torn between kissing the kids or kissing Jinwoo (or to kiss them all).

Maybe kissing Jinwoo deeply in front of the kids is not the brightest idea, but he can’t hold it any longer, not now that he can release his feelings, pour them into Jinwoo, make them bloom (and Jinwoo fits perfectly encircled by his sleeves, his chin resting on top of his shoulder, his voice trickling his ears with soft promises of later and forever; like this he can’t care much about two toddlers scattering petals all over the place, showering them with flowers and giggles and Minho is too occupied stargazing into Jinwoo's eyes, holding him, kissing all the moles hidden in his skin to mind the mischief, the pool of scattered petals, all his flowers pulled up from their pots, all his shop in a disarray. But he can't care now, not with Jinwoo enveloped in his arms, not when the wish he once made upon a dandelion has become truth, finally).

"Aren't you married, for sure?" Minho asks, still in disbelieve, holding Jinwoo slender fingers between him, entangled under the sunset, the kids jumping ahead of their feet, running to the park. Jinwoo sighs.

"Absolutely," he replies, simpering, the sun stealing the shine of his auburn hair, flocks of it swirling in the wind and Minho halts him just for an instant, to lock his glance, to brush his tresses back in place, fluttering caressing his warm cheeks, thumb tracing every inch of Jinwoo's features.

"I can't believe that I wasted so many years to ask you out," Minho heaves, deflated with the realization (all of Jinwoo's attentions water-falling over his head, a windmill of memories and moments, soft smiles and secretive glance that he can only begin to recognise now). "I can't believe how fool I was, to keep you waiting when you were all that I desired," he continues amusing Jinwoo, who is none to hold grudges, who doesn't mind the delay because now they are together, walking hand in hand.

"So... the girl I saw you once with is... your sister?" he wonders, later on, a week after they have begun. Jinwoo is in Minho's kitchen, fidgeting with his apron, hands deep down a bowl, kneading the mixture for another round of cupcakes.

"Were you jealous?" he queries, smirking, fingers coated with flour, "because you shouldn't. She is my sister," he explains, a quick peck on Minho's lips before turning back to his baking.

"I thought she was your wife. That's why I never said a thing because, in my mind, you were already taken and I held nothing but wild dreams," Minho sits next to him in the stained counter, not caring about the mixture spread, threatening to spoil him. He stares at Jinwoo with his heart on his sleeve, all his feeling revealed, exposed, all his fears and insecurities in the open, and Jinwoo has taken them all, has accepted him, loves him despite everything (despite that he is an idiot who never asks first, that he has kept him expecting, has ignored, obliviated all his flirts, every try that Jinwoo made to get him when he already had it in the palm of his hand).

"Idiot," Jinwoo punches him gently, kisses him eagerly, the sweet essence of his baking clouding Minho's sense, bleeding with the even sweeter taste of Jinwoo's lips over his mouth. "I love you still," and this is a promise, "but stop your constant flower shower, Hera doesn't know where else to put all the bouquets you are continuously sending home," and with another kiss, he erases easily the slight pout out of Minho's lips (a kiss that mingles with the joy coming from the twinkling sound of Jinwoo's laugh).