Archive of Our Own

“They sing back to you, you know.”
“Who?”
“The flowers. You can’t hear them, but they’re singing along.”

Their first non-encounter takes place on a sunny Wednesday afternoon.

Taehyung’s just finished watering the hydrangeas behind the weeping willows, wiping his brow on the corner of his cleaner sleeve as he retraces his steps back towards the manor. It’s a nice day out despite the strenuous work that had taken up all of his morning; the first flowers of spring had bloomed just a little over two weeks ago and he’s had his hands full with them ever since, spending most of his time out in the sun pruning the daphne shrubs and tying newly budding sunflowers to supporting sticks, the plants a little too young to hold them up on their own.

He’s halfway across the grounds when he hears it; a light rustle of movement, the sharp snap of a twig cracking underneath pressure. He throws a curious glance over his shoulder, expecting to find a rabbit, perhaps even a small badger scuttling across the grounds into the covers of the trees, but is instead met with nothing except the weeping willows that rain down towards the freshly seeded grass, waving gently in the light breezes that blow through their leaves.

He cocks his head, abandoning the handles of the small wheelbarrow he’d been pushing to turn around and scan the area. There’s nothing beyond a light rustle in the fallen leaves as if they had been recently disturbed, but that could have just as easily been the result of the afternoon breezes as much as anything else.

“Is anyone there?” He calls out in a soft voice, eyes quickly darting across the garden grounds. No reply comes, no sounds save for the heavy rustles of swaying canopies and small chirps from bluebirds that had recently nested in the oaks, and it feels strangely anti-climactic, despite him not having really been expecting an answer in the first place.

His shirt clings uncomfortably to his skin as he resumes his walk back, drenched from hours of physical labor underneath the sun. With the day nearing the evening, the wind gradually picks up, and it whips up the thin fabric of his shirt and makes it ripple through the air in a way that cools his skin. He lets out a contented sigh, thoughts about cracking twigs and rustling grass all but forgotten in favor of vivid daydreams about a nice, long bath.

//

The flowers start appearing after that.

He barely notices them at first; a scatter of forget-me-nots woven over the handle of his barrow, a dozen poppy stems tucked into one of the rusty cans beside his gardening tools. He’s often made cuttings to take home before, to use as herbs or to add a splash of color to the large, empty halls of the manor, and so he mistakes the little blossoms for his own and treats them like he would with any other spring budding — with gentle hands and an affectionate smile as he tucks them into the empty vases scattered throughout his home.

In spite of his oblivity, the flowers persist, growing more exuberant and eye-catching as the days pass by, but what finally draws his attention is a delicate sprig of honeysuckles that he finds tucked into a mug of paint water, right next to his well-used palette.

It’s something he’d taken up recently; painting in the stone pavilion behind the rose shrubs, having set up an easel, paints and a small wooden stool in one corner of the old ruins to try and mimic the vivid colors of nature he’s surrounded with. It’s a way to let time pass by when he’s not busy tending to the gardens, and he’s certainly not good at it by any means, but he finds a sense of tranquility in the activity; in the alchemy of mixing colors and forming gradients with inexperienced strokes of his brush, immortalizing a moment forever in blotched splashes of runny watercolor.

Right now, the mysterious honeysuckle stem dangles over the edge of his mug, precariously balanced on the thin width of the rim. A broad, olive green leaf acts as a resting platform for half a dozen flowers that are splayed over its length, their narrow petals dipped in champagne hues, flaring out as they flamboyantly curl outwards. Several long stigmas twine delicately as they plunge down towards the ground, dotted with tufts of fine hair that cover their lengths. It makes for an endearing sight, and he finds himself smiling as he picks up his brush, wetting its tip before dipping it into the gradient of yellows on his palette.

Studying the sprig of honeysuckles from the corner of his eye, he brings his brush up to the canvas, and paints.

. 

.

.

.

Hours later, as he walks back to the manor with a drying sheet of paper between his hands, the subject of his painting droops over the edge of the mug, curling around over its side as it attempts to gain one last glance at the figure that’s getting progressively smaller, eventually disappearing into the thick evergreens of the maze.

And amidst the yellow hues of its petals slowly spreads a splash of faint, rose pink.

//

When he returns to the pavilion the next day, he finds that the sprig of honeysuckles no longer rests within his water mug, all traces of its existence having vanished into thin air overnight. He’s a little disappointed, having wished he’d brought it back with him when he had gone home and found the empty vase by his bedside, previously having housed stems of gardenias that had eventually rooted and been transferred to a home of their own in the garden.

There are shades of yellow paint still smeared over the palette set by his easel, the colors standing out against the light colored wood as if to serve as a reminder of how lovely the sprig of flowers had looked, patronizing him, even. It takes him an embarrassingly long moment to realize that all he has to do is go over to the honeysuckle shrubs at the back of his garden and make a cutting for himself.

He works hard for the rest of the day, spends most of the morning pruning the lone lemon tree next to the hydrangeas, and all of noon trying to gather his wits to throw away the twigs that he’d so carefully cut from their mother branches. He whispers apologies with each snip of his shears, feeling horribly guilty for the plant that'd worked so hard for so long to produce her leaves. It’s how you’ll grow even more, he promises with a final snip to a lower branch that had begun to dry out .

He eventually ends up gathering the twigs together, sorting them by size and discarding the entirely unusable ones before bundling the rest with little ribbons of cloth. He’ll have to cut up some bottles to get enough containers to put them all in until they develop roots, so he keeps them neatly stacked next to the trunk of the lemon tree, ready for collecting when it’s time to go home. Jotting it down on a mental to-do list, he walks over to the neglected hydrangeas, smiling bright as he tips one of its flowers towards him in the light of the temperamental afternoon sun.

“Did you miss me?”

He imagines a croon of yes's, laughs lightly to himself as he releases the bunch and gets up to retrieve his watering can. The well isn’t far along enough for him to mind a few trips back and forth; he slips the can’s head through the thin branches, twists his wrist by a little until the sprinkler is closer to the roots, wetting the soil with a generous amount of water that would be enough to last them well through the night and then some – though they’d need to be watered again in the morning.

“Greedy little ones, aren’t you?” He laughs as he gently runs a pinky over their leaves, tapping away stray droplets of water that had collected in the dips of their midribs, in the little hollows formed by their stems. The air isn’t warm enough for them to need the extra humidity, and the last thing he needs is an overwatered hydrangea — having fully learned his lesson in the past.

And yet, with the way his fingers keep catching onto the stems, getting stuck between flowers, it’s almost as if the shrub is stubbornly holding on to him; distracting him from his work while still demanding his attention. “Like you don’t get enough already,” he huffs teasingly, thumbing away one last drop of water before walking back to his wheelbarrow, placing the can next to the bags of fertilizer before making his way to the nearby hyacinths.

It’s while he’s watering the second row when he sees it; from the corner of his eye, a flash of yellow that’s gone as quick as it’d appeared. And while he would have passed it off as a trick of the light, a quick glance around the garden yields him not a single trace of the hue, not even an old leaf that’s on the brink of falling off.

A few weeks back, he wouldn’t have paid any of it much, if any, attention, but earlier this week he’d found that something had messed with his orchids; ripped barely blossoming buds right from their stems with absolutely no regard for the delicate flowers. He’d meticulously searched the whole garden for similar traces of damage and had found a handful of similar injuries to his flowering plants, eventually coming to the conclusion that it must have been the work of a garden slug — though he can’t imagine how it could have gotten high enough to eat through flowers so far above the ground.

Right now, all the strange events that had taken place over the last few weeks flash through his mind and slowly come together, from the rustling noises he’d constantly heard to the unexpected cuttings that he’d found in his barrow, sometimes even scattered through the garden pathways. It’s with a start that he comes to the realization that this might just be a little more than a simple invertebrate problem; a new animal must have somehow snuck inside his safe haven.

From then on, it’s a simple matter of checking the thickly woven fence that circles the grounds, inspecting them for any large gaps that a pesky animal could have managed to eat its way through. His worst fear is currently a groundhog, or even worse, a mischief of rats and voles that could wreak absolute havoc in the little plot of root crops he’s grown next to the well. As the sun dips lower down the horizon, it’s with a head full of worry that he walks back home, thinking of ways that he could somehow catch the offending animal and prevent any others from crossing the border in the future as well.

The bath he takes tonight does very little to relax him; the boiling hot water instead scalding his skin as he prematurely steps into the tub, brimming with impatience. He’ll come out with red, mottled skin and filled with regret, there’s no doubt about that, but it can’t be helped. He takes in a deep breath, exhales slowly as he leans his head back against the porcelain, wincing as a splash of water scorches the side of his neck at the small movement. With his vision tilted, he’s presented with an upturned view of the small window on the east facing wall, unhindered moonlight streaming in and flooding the tiles with its silvery blue illumination.

The petals he’d scattered into his bath float around him, brushing against the sides of his ribs. There aren’t much of them today; he’d only had a handful of jasmines and rosemaries, leftovers of what he’d pruned from the day before. Between them and the few herbs floating between the suds, the sweet, tangy scent from the water soon works their charm and slows his racing thoughts, softening the deep-set frown on his face to a slight grimace.

If he’s being entirely honest with himself, the possibility of an animal infestation is currently the least of his problems. Winter may have passed, but spring still brings with it an unpredictable weather that he’s yet to prepare his gardens for; the nylon sheets are still in the shed from where he’d stashed them away after the last summer, and there are a lot of new plants that need to be tied to supports, and even more that need netting against bugs. It’s a lot of work, and there’s only so much that he can do by himself — he just hopes that the season passes by without anything extreme.

Lost in thought, he mindlessly picks up one of the leaves floating over his chest, rubbing it between his forefinger and thumb as he brings it up to his nose for a small whiff. A sweet and tart scent escapes from it, with just a hint of a mild, minty undertone, and he lets out a small sigh, relaxing into the water. Lemon balm; he’s always found that the scent of the leaves comforted him in a way that no other herb did.

Wait .

Lemons. The lemon twigs.

“Noo,” he groans and sinks further into the tub, the movement so sudden that the water around him grows agitated and splashes over the sides, extinguishing most of the candles he’d kept at the foot of the tub. Sighing exasperatedly into the impromptu darkness, he has to rely on the moonlight and the orange glow from the handful of candles that are still lit on the counter basin to guide his steps out of the tub, goosebumps racing down his body as soon it gets exposed to the cooler air within the room. A hasty grab at the racks yields him his bathrobe which he throws over himself as he walks out the door, taking care not to slip on his own wet feet.

He’s still loosely tying the belt around his waist as he walks out of his house, tugging on one of the edges as he stumbles down towards the garden entrance. The maze gives off an intimidating look in these last minutes of twilight; all tall shadows and dark crooks that become more frequent the further it goes in, but he manages to find his way through its passages with enough ease, cutting through shortcuts that he’d long memorized after having long crafted them with his own hands.

A left, two rights, and a long walk past three side paths lead him to an exit, the shadowy evergreens abruptly emptying into the first flower beds of the outer gardens. He has to take a moment, stumbling on his last step as he staggers to a stop, taking in the sight before him.

The garden always looks transformed at this late hour.

A thin crescent missing from its side, the moon hangs low tonight, its face a startling blue hue that outshines the light from the stars that twinkle further towards the edges of the horizon. It floods the grounds with its light, casts its cool hues onto bushes and creates long shadows out of trees whose leaves look silvery as they shimmer in the lighting, collectively rustling in large, gentle sweeps in rhythm to a melody in the wind that only they appear to hear.

To his right, the small patch of sunflowers stand with their heads hung low, and he smiles sympathetically, refraining from the urge to run his thumb down their heavy stems. They mourn the loss of the sun they hold so dearly, and he almost wishes he could reassure them of its return.

It’s something he likes to speculate on; whether the garden can understand him, of the songs he sings and the compliments he showers them with, the scoldings he gives to runners that are being mischievous, the encouragement he gives to newly sprouting seedlings. He likes to think they can, wants to believe they return his affections. It lessens the load of the lonely echoes that ricochet off the walls in his manor.

The fast trickles of rushing water can be clearly heard over the collective chirps of crickets, and he follows the sound, quickening his pace as he passes by the daphne shrubs. At this hour, the shapeless shadows and dark corners give the tree branches the appearance that they’re moving of their own when observed from the corner of his eye. He almost jumps out of his skin when he thinks he sees shadows dancing from beyond the cabbage patches, right up until it dawns on him that it’s just the weeping willows swaying to the breeze.

Abashed by his cowardice and at the same time thoroughly grateful that no one had stood witness to it apart from his garden, he renews his pace, taking another shortcut through the small makeshift greenhouses he’d made last summer. An owl hoots in the distance, and he finds an odd sense of comfort in it, keeping an ear out for more signs of nocturnal wildlife as they slowly awaken after a day of being well-rested.

It only takes him a few more steps to reach the hydrangea rows, and the cuttings from the lemon tree lie exactly where he’d placed them; neatly stacked together on the grassy mound, protected underneath the shade of its mother tree. He lets out a relieved sigh before scooping them up, trying to balance them within the crooks of his elbows as he murmurs a soft apology for his inconsideration, and is preparing to leave when he sees it; something moving, right from the corner of the eye.

That was no stray wild animal.

“Who’s there?” He calls out in a sharp voice, and the shadow freezes for a suspended moment, then rapidly scuttles towards the bushes. "No – wait—," he tries to rush after it but the action proves too sudden for the twigs in his arms that almost come tumbling down, saved only by his fast reflexes as he snatches them back into his grip. He makes a frustrated noise, carefully placing them atop a patch of grass next to the hydrangeas, mumbling a small apology before taking off after the intruder.

Finding them proves to be a simple enough task; he only has to follow the loud rustles of bushes as the intruder desperately tries to hide within the branches though to no avail. The moon had risen higher up the sky in the little time that had passed, managing to flood the garden with its light, and it easily betrays the figure that sits crouched at the foot of a particularly branched shrub, face pressed into their knees, arms pulling their legs towards their chest in an unsuccessful attempt at making themselves unnoticeable.

Taehyung frowns at the sight, tries to think of a way to handle the situation with care as he approaches the huddling figure. “Um, hello,” he tries to soften his voice but the figure still flinches. The slight action is barely discernible but he catches the way their hands curl into fists as they shrink into themselves, the way they move a little further into the shadows of the bushes. He has to bite down on the little no, don't! that tries to tumble out of his lips; it’s hard to remain stoic with the tide of concern that comes rushing in, though the irony of the situation does fall on him wherein he’s worrying over someone who had somehow managed to breach the privacy of his own home.

Though how they’d managed to do so, he still can't tell.  

He takes a deep breath, exhales slowly as he crouches down towards the ground, coming to level with the figure as slowly as he can so as to not scare them away.

"Hey," he speaks in a whisper-soft voice this time, shuffles a bit closer while he waits for a reaction from their side before strengthening his approach.

The response comes gradually; they lift their head, slowly at first, wisps of hair parting over their eyes to frame the sides of their face. With the moonlight temporarily hindered by a passing cloud, he can only see a sliver of it; blinking eyes, the round curve of a cheek, a soft jut to their chin that looks oddly endearing.

How did you find your way in here?

“Hey. I mean, um—hello there,” Taehyung fumbles over his words, letting out an airy, embarrassed laugh at the complete lack of grace to his words. He hadn’t really expected to have come this far; doesn’t know exactly how to pick up from here on. “Hello,” He repeats himself, a little more surely this time, shuffling just a few inches forward and letting out a quiet sigh of relief when the stranger doesn’t immediately cower back into the bushes. “My name is Taehyung, I’m the caretaker of these grounds. Would you, um—would you mind moving a little forward? I’m not going to harm you, I promise, but I’m a little scared you might get hurt by those branches. They have a mind of their own, you see.”

There’s no response from the stranger, just a careful gaze and a light fidgeting that Taehyung hopes is at least a sign that they are contemplating his words. Raising his hands to show that he means no harm, he slowly shuffles forward just a little more so that only a small patch of grass separates the two of them.

A flutter of lashes greet him just as the moon comes out from behind the clouds, illuminating their face and drawing a gasp out of Taehyung’s lips because there, right amidst the shimmery blues, he sees it again; a splash of bright, vivid yellow.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” He says breathily, eyes alight with wonder.

The stranger remains mute, but there’s an alertness to the way they look at Taehyung now, hinting of a quiet contemplation. Their gaze runs over Taehyung’s frame, once, twice, before falling back towards the ground, chin jutting out by just the slightest as they take a deep breath before looking right up at him.

Feline eyes, their color indiscernible in the moonlight, meet his own without any hesitance this time, framed with a thick fringe of lashes that all but disappear underneath hooded lids. The cutting corners of their eyes dip inwards towards the wide bridge of a nose, not quite small enough to qualify as a button, though equally sweet in nature.

That’s the word to describe them, Taehyung realizes with a start; sweet, because despite the harsh slants and the strong curves to their face, they manage to exude a… gentleness, something that rather comes from inside of them that softens their features, makes them look simply, irrevocably sweet.

It’s while he’s staring at the stranger, just a touch spellbound, that it dawns on him that his gaze is being returned; sharp eyes continuing to flit over his frame while an unreadable expression settles over the stranger’s face. He wonders what they’re seeing, what they’re thinking of right now. Self-consciousness comes rushing back as he remembers that he essentially ran all the way down here in the middle of a bath, and he sharply draws back, losing his balance in the process and letting out a surprised cry as he throws his hands back to try and catch himself.

It happens so fast, with his eyes clenched shut as he prepares himself for the inevitable impact with the ground, but there’s a rushing sound and something rapidly winds itself around his wrists and his waist, tightening its hold around him before growing taut and suspending him mid-fall.

He opens his eyes with caution, taking a moment to adjust to his upturned vision of the world from his current position. The sky looks infinitely larger compared to a few minutes ago, and he thinks he sees something shoot across its expanse through the gaps in the canopies that frame his view, disregarding it as he focuses his gaze on the bundle of vines that currently hold him within their grip.

Stray leaves grow along their length, accompanied by the occasional cluster of flowerbuds that slowly unfurl to form an inflorescence of blossoms — honeysuckles, he belatedly thinks — that appear to breathe as they flutter with no wind to assist the movement. His eyes follow the vines to their origin, mouth growing slack as he finds their ends protruding from the stranger’s arms, currently thrown into the air like they’re reaching for him.

It takes him a minute to fully comprehend what he’s seeing; the pale skin of wrists melding into a woody texture, thick and branch-like before they rapidly dwindle in size to form the tangled vines that currently hold him within their grip. They’re a part of them, he realizes as he tears his eyes away from them with some difficulty, going back to focus on the stranger’s face, that, even in the moonlight, he can see has gone stark white.

“Your—”

He doesn’t get to complete his sentence as the vines fall away from him in an instant, the stranger lurching back like they’ve gotten scorched with fire. There’s raw panic in their eyes as they scuttle backward until their back hits the bushes behind them, and before Taehyung can say another word, they’re jumping up and darting off into the outer gardens, disappearing somewhere behind the dogwood trees and leaving a long trail of sweet-scented honeysuckles behind them.

Taehyung lurches up onto his feet as soon as he recovers from the initial shock, takes a few rushed steps in the direction that the stranger had run off to before staggering to a stop, slowly changing his mind. If he looks carefully, he can still see a faint rustling in the bushes, and the realization that the person might be afraid, that they’re seeking cover instead of running away makes him think that perhaps this intruder brings no malicious intent with them.

He thinks out his next words very carefully before he says them.

“Thank you.” He tries to keep his voice soft, hopes that his sincerity carries in his tone. “For just now, I mean. You didn’t have to do that, but I’m... grateful, that you did.”

There’s no response, not a single sound beyond the steady noises of wildlife. He takes a deep breath, then voices what’s been at the forefront of his mind for the last few seconds.

“You’re from the gardens, aren’t you? Your arms, they—” he breaks off, shakes his head. He realizes that he doesn’t want to press too much on their first meeting. “It’s a cold night, are you sure you’ll be fine out here?” He pauses—then catches the error in his questioning. “You don’t– you don’t have to reply, just snap a twig or– or maybe throw one of the pebbles..” he trails off awkwardly, shoving his hands into his pockets for the lack of a better place to put them. He shuffles on his feet, moves his weight from one foot to the other as he waits for a response. Perhaps he’s being too wishful all in one night, raising his expectations a little too high—but Taehyung has always been a dreamer, or so he’d once been told.

And so he waits, waits, until he hears the telltale rustles in the bushes, a subtle disturbance that preludes something small hitting his leg and bouncing off, noisily scattering off into the night.

He doesn’t try to hide his smile, positively beams towards the direction it had come from before walking back to the hydrangeas to retrieve the twigs he had abandoned for a second time. They seem lighter as he hoists them up into his arms, and he furtively glances back one last time, hoping, despite the odds, to sneak even a small glimpse of the stranger in his gardens.

“I’ll be back tomorrow, I hope I’ll see you again!” He calls out with a little more confidence as he resumes his walk, determined not to seem discouraged by the lack of a reply.

He manages to walk for all of three steps before the urge to look back has him turning on his heel towards the bushes. “I, uh,” a flicker of emotions cross his face before he clears his throat, breaking the silence with a wildly rushed “I’ll take my leave now, goodnight,” before fast pacing himself out of the gardens, pushing down the overwhelming urge to look behind one last time.

.

. 

. 

Back in the manor, as Taehyung walks through long corridors hoping to find a stray vase that he might have missed, he finds his head turning towards the windows each time he passes one by; hoping, despite the late hour, and the transition of the sky from twilight blues to indigo, to find a flash of yellow within the canopies of green.

//

Morning doesn’t come soon enough.

A basket of freshly pressed clothes weighs down Taehyung’s arms as he walks down the garden path, partly hidden in the covers of the violet blues of dawn leaking into a non-morning. Having remembered, albeit belatedly and with a strong wave of shame, the state of undress his intruder had been in the night before, he’d spent the first hours of the morning steaming a selection of clothes from the side of the wardrobe that mostly went unused.

Admittedly, if he were to rationalize the situation to himself, the unnamed person had for the most part been hidden in the darkness of the shadows, and he does have a vague recollection of asking after their well-being before turning in for the night even if it was in his own clumsy, inelegant manner; yet, there’s a lingering feeling of guilt from having slept in the comforts of his bed while someone had spent the entire night exposed to the chilly fogs left over from the late winter.

He has to walk all the way to the fences to reach the honeysuckle shrubs, balancing the basket on top of a large decorative rock before leaning down to make sure the piece of paper he’d tucked into its side is properly exposed into the air. For you, the note easily reads, and he gives the basket a small pat on its side before retracing his steps back to the main pathway, determined to keep his mind occupied with the list of tasks he has to complete for the day — and more importantly, away from stray thoughts of yellow flowers and of the possibilities of second meetings.

The hydrangeas, as expected, need watering despite it being the first hours of the morning, and he has to work twice as hard to retrieve water from the well given that it hadn’t rained for almost all of the week. He’s not worried since it’s still the early weeks of spring, summer’s unforgiving heat a long way from now, but it still means having to heave the old bucket up by a much longer distance, which was an inconvenience, if he were to put it lightly.

Shrugging the hair out of his eyes, he skips down the last few steps leading to the well before leaning over its edge to peer inside. It’s a long way down, layers of green moss and fern coating the walls just above the water level. If he squints hard enough, he thinks he can see a shadow of his own reflection against the startling blue skies of the early morning.

Sighing in resignation, he walks around to the lever while pushing up the sleeves of his shirt, letting them bunch around his elbows. He rests his hands on the lever, positions his feet just so, and with a light grunt, pushes forward on the pole until it makes a groaning creak and begins to slowly rotate forward. Sounds of splashing water echo from the well as the bucket shifts within its depths. With a few clangs and a couple more splashes, the rope starts to pull up, slowly winding around the makeshift pulley as it draws the bucket towards land.

He’s up to his fourth bucket for the day when he hears footsteps behind him.

His hands pause over the lever as he tries to hide his smile, ducking his head in the nick of time just as his face splits into a wide grin. It’s one of his shortcomings; his inability to contain his happiness regardless of how much he tries to keep it to himself, all too ready to share it with the rest of the world in whatever form that he can.

The sounds of approaching footsteps grow louder while he frantically tries to regain his composure, slipping up and beaming some more even as he resumes his work. Seconds pass, until the sharp crunches of grass being flattened underneath footsteps slow to a stop. Somewhere in the distance, a charm of goldfinches chirp wildly, and Taehyung continues to smile even as the butterflies in his stomach fly up, up, up, flutter haphazardously in his chest before taking shape in the form of a rapid heartbeat.

“It’s a lovely morning isn’t it?” He finally announces when he can no longer contain himself. There’s no answer, but he isn’t really expecting one, hoisting the bucket off the hook tied to the end of the rope with well-practiced ease. Water splashes about and forms a small puddle underneath the bucket as he hauls it to the ground, shaking the wetness off his hands he begins to turn around. “I’m glad that— you...”

Words slip away, thoughts growing scarce as his eyes finally land on the stranger, standing underneath an archway of morning glories in full bloom.

The first thing he notices is the basket in their hands, the clothes he’d placed inside replaced by cascades of honeysuckles that overflow past its brim in a stunning array of blooms and leaves. Pale hands clasp over the braided handle in a tight grip as they clutch the basket close to their chest, their hesitancy obvious in the way their fingers tighten and relax, fiddling with each other for the lack of elsewise to do with them.

The second thing he realizes is that moonlight didn’t do them justice.

Their face, almost unnaturally pale in the blue tint of the previous night, now glows with a newly found warmth that pools in their cheeks, the tip of their chin in the form of tinges of peach. Taehyung’s struck with a sudden urge to discover if it would be as soft to the touch as it appears, blinking away the improper thought only to find that his feet have carried him forward in the brief moment lost in reveries.

“—you came… back,” he finishes weakly, pretends his voice didn’t waver on the last note.

Pretends the butterflies in his chest aren’t fluttering wildly without abandon, colliding with his ribs, making a mess of his lungs.

The stranger’s eyes, Taehyung learns, are brown.

They pierce right through him, a sharp, purposeful stare that’s equal parts terrifying as it is compelling. The distance between them has somehow dwindled in the last few seconds, the two of them almost as close as they were in last night’s chance meeting, and it’s all Taehyung can do to not openly gape at the wisps of green hair that fall over the stranger’s brows – where as he watches, minuscule leaves bloom from between stray locks, gives way to little trumpet-like flowers that unfurl outwards as they bloom in the sunlight.

Something nudges his stomach and he looks down, finds the basket being pressed into his arms with steady hands.

“For... you.”

Their voice is low, a quiet, gravelly sound that’s a complete contradiction to their appearance.

All too soon, Taehyung wants to hear it again.

“What do I call you?” He asks in a single breath, holds the next one in as he waits.

And before his eyes, little branchlets grow from behind the stranger’s ear, drawing closer to him in a slow approach — stopping only inches away from his face. Slowly, carefully, a sprig of honeysuckles blooms on its tips and brushes against the side of his cheeks, and Taehyung accordingly learns that pools of peaches and honeysuckle leaves can have a devastating effect on his heartbeat.

“Yoon-gi ,” their voice is a whisper; a well-kept secret being shared for the first time. “I’d like to be called Yoongi, if by you.”

Shining, shining, shines.

Freckles from the sun, floating dust motes that grow agitated with every breath they exhale though Taehyung swears he’s not breathing, and Yoongi with their juxtaposition of cutting eyes and soft cheeks fits right into the name with such ease that he almost feels embarrassed for not having realized it from a first glance.

Yoongi, Yoongi, shining, shines.

Nervous laughter not belonging to himself brings him to the realization that he’d spoken the last words out loud, though he doesn’t even have the mind to feel embarrassed, distracted by Yoongi’s laughter, crinkled eyes and the pinks of their gums bared for the entire world to see — and Taehyung never wants to close his eyes again.

//

Yoongi helps with his gardening sometimes.

They wait for him at the hydrangeas every morning, stands to a side with their hands tucked into the pockets of the robes they’d taken a special liking to from all the garments that they’d been offered. Face ducked, lips curled into a natural pout as they kick small pebbles between their feet, glancing up at the first sound of approaching footsteps and meeting his eyes with a pensive gaze — always so intuitive, like they’re seeing the world in a different light, like they’re seeing something more than simply his outward appearance.

Taehyung finds himself doing that a lot; wishing he could hear their thoughts but for a fraction of a second. Wondering what they are thinking of with the slight shifts of expressions on their face, wondering what each of them might individually mean.

A lot of his thoughts rotate around Yoongi these days, he finds.

They’re cleaning out the root crops today, with Yoongi pulling out the weeds while Taehyung thins out the radishes and turnips so that the seedlings have more space for their roots to develop. It’d taken Yoongi a few tries to differentiate between what was a weed and what was not; a half dozen seedlings lying at the bottom of his barrow as proof of a mistake that was understandably easy to mistake. Taehyung hadn’t really minded, but Yoongi’s face had fallen when he’d told them about the error, shoulders hunching down as they stared at the limp beet plant in their hands, with a face so regretful that it would have been comical if Taehyung didn’t know just how important this was to his leaf-haired friend.

(“Do you think that maybe… you could teach me too?” They’d been observing him while he made cuttings from a rosemary plant, making little snips the size of his forefinger from the newer, healthier stems. The flowers were a beautiful violet in color, forming an impromptu bouquet as he dropped them into the small can he’d placed not far away.

“Teach— what?” He looked up, distracted from his work. Yoongi averted their eyes, shrugged with a light jerk to their head.

“I just. Before, when I brought you flowers, I think I—,” their voice dropped an octave, the next words coming out as a hushed confession. “They gave me their permission, but I think I accidentally hurt quite a few of them when I took their flowers.”

Oh.

“They tried to be quiet, but the orchids cried for a week,” And then in a tighter voice, “I didn’t mean to hurt them, really.”

“I—” Taehyung faltered, tried to think of the proper words to comfort them. “Yeah. Yeah, of course I’ll teach you.” He finally said after a pause, voice growing firmer with each word. He watched with relief as some of the tension left Yoongi’s shoulders, glad to see that they were feeling slightly better.

Returning to his trimming, he contemplated his next words carefully before speaking. “And Yoongi?”

There was a rustle of leaves, a small hum in response.

“I know you didn’t mean to hurt them. And they probably do too.”)

“Yoongi, can I get a hand over here?” He calls out in current time, looking over his shoulder just in time to see Yoongi cock their head, a confused look crossing their face. Little flowers bloom around their head just as they do every time Taehyung refers to them by their chosen name, falling over their ears until finally coming to rest dangling down next to their chin. He doubts that Yoongi is aware of them, of that little habit of theirs.

“Get a… hand?” They ask awkwardly, and Taehyung has to hide his smile.

“Can I get a little help with these beets? I need to add some compost to the soil before I replant them.”

“Oh, of course,” They hurry towards him, careful to avoid the radish plants that are already thinned out in neat little rows. “How do I…”

“Here, give me your hands.” Taehyung guides them to the ground with his own, curls their fingers to form little cups needed in order to scoop up the earth with ease. He ignores the feeling of warmth that spreads through him at the casual contact, but the tugs at the corners of his lips are much harder to dismiss, and he ends up giving in to the smile as he gently pushes Yoongi’s hands into the soil. “There, see?” His fingers get coated with hummus along with Yoongi’s as they dig a little deeper, a small seedling rooted within the soil now trapped between their hands. “You use your hands like a shovel, of sorts. And then here, gently—,” he wriggles their hands together, gently coercing the soil to come loose. “you slowly twist your hands — yeah, like that —until you can scoop up the soil without using much force. Aaand…there! Easy, right?”

Yoongi stares at the little plant in their hands with curious eyes, lifts it up to their face for a closer look. The tip of the seedling brushes against their nose and they scrunch it, wrinkles forming around their laugh lines and bringing out the deep-set dimples in their chin, and it’s all Taehyung can do to not do something completely embarrassing — like perhaps leaning in to tap their nose with dirt-coated fingers just to see if it would scrunch up even more.

“Why can’t we just use a— a show-well instead?” Yoongi looks expectantly at him, and Taehyung has to blink a few times to understand the question, clearing his throat as he reaches for the bag of compost that lies to his side.

“A shovel? Well, we could, but I prefer directly using my hands when handling smaller plants. The roots are still very young and fragile, so they need to be handled very gently, or they might get hurt. Or worse, I might accidentally cut through them with the shovel. See how there’s a bit of the root below your hands?”

Yoongi raises their hands even higher, letting out a cognitive noise as they find the spindly growths hanging below their fingers. The leaves in their hair flutter about, evidently equally as excited by the discovery, and it brings a smile to Taehyung’s face; the way Yoongi's reactions to new experiences is so childlike, almost naively innocent, though Taehyung suspects that they would be extremely bristled if that fact was to be actually pointed out to them.

“Yoongi?” he finds himself calling out, distracted by a thought on the forefront of his mind.

They turn towards him, a quizzical look on their face complete with a raised brow. Even as they do so, thin branchlets continue to grow down from their hair, twining through the air as they approach the small beet plant held in Yoongi’s palm. They brush against it, almost tentatively at first, then with a little more confidence; sprouting a jittery cluster of flowers with each little touch as if the sprigs were ecstatic to meet a new friend.

It takes him a few seconds to think of the right words.

“How did you… take your current form?”

Because Yoongi is devastatingly lovely and brilliant and so eager to learn about everything new that comes their way, but it’s the one thing that they are not; human, and the proof lies before Taehyung’s eyes in the form of the honeysuckle leaves that rustle amidst their hair, the vines that extrude from behind their ears and tangle and twine mid-air with a life of their own. Yoongi’s not human though they look very much the part, and as wonderful as Taehyung finds their presence, it’s not the first time that it has occurred to him that what could turn human could also turn back — indefinitely, even.

He’d like to be prepared, if that were the case.

“Oh.” With the softly spoken word, the vines retract from the seedling, slowly drawing back into Yoongi’s hair where they tuck themselves between the locks of mint green and the occasional flower and leaf. Yoongi themselves doesn’t say anything for a while, just stares at the seedling in their palm that they’ve now lowered to their lap, and Taehyung almost wonders if he’s asked something that he shouldn’t have — that is, until he spots the faint tinges of pink that's begun to color the flowers in their hair, the apples of their cheeks.

He’s so fascinated by the sight that he misses the next words that are mumbled his way.

“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?” He blurts out, embarrassed.

“I wanted to be closer.”

Yoongi looks up, catches his stare and instantly drops their own back to their lap, cradling the handful of soil closer to their chest. If Taehyung didn’t know any better, he’d almost say that Yoongi looks… embarrassed.

“Honeysuckles don’t need a lot of care, do they?” They suddenly speak again, and their voice sounds a little strange, a little bruised. “We grow and spread as long as there’s new life around us but — it gets… lonely, sometimes. At the ends of the garden.”

Taehyung winces at the implication that he doesn’t visit the area as often as he does with the others, though it’s undeniably true.

“But you, whenever you came by, it felt a little… less so.” Yoongi finally meets his gaze then, determination shining through their eyes though the faint tinge in their cheeks remain. “So I wanted to be closer. To you. And then… I just was.”

Taehyung blinks.

Lets the words sink in, juggles the vowels and consonants in the back of his mind to try and make sense of them.

“So that’s it. You became human, just like that.” he replies slowly, lets his back hunch over from his crouched position on the soil bed, grateful for the steady contact with the ground. “No magic wand, no divine act from the Gods, you just — wished for it.”

“Is that strange?” Yoongi’s voice is quiet, but there’s an underlying tone of despondency that whips Taehyung’s face towards the other, a strong objection ready on the tip of his tongue.

“Of course not!”

Yoongi looks at him with a raised brow, clearly not impressed, nor convinced, by his answer. Taehyung falters, then shrugs, focuses his stare on the bag of compost lying in his lap as he makes quick work of its ziplock. “It’s a little strange.” He admits to the earth as he layers it with a bed of peat, distributing it evenly across the surface using a small shovel. From the corner of his eye, he sees that Yoongi’s back to intently staring at the seedling in their palm, though the slouch to their shoulders gives away their emotions. “A good strange.” He says a little louder, grins when Yoongi looks up, evidently startled by his words – and then smiles back.

He beckons them closer, dusts off his hands while Yoongi crouches back down next to him. Using the handle of the spade to dig into the soil, he shifts it about until almost all of it has disappeared underneath the surface, making a hole deep enough to house the beets that would hopefully harvest within the next few weeks.

“Here, put it inside now.” he directs Yoongi, observes from the side while they follow his instructions. The seedling settles into its refurbished home with ease, though they have to make the hole a little shallower so that all of its leaves stay above ground.

All the while, Yoongi’s completely absorbed in the process when, without much thought, they wipe their cheek with the back of their hand, leaving a smear of fresh dirt across their skin. Taehyung has to clear his throat twice to gain their attention, biting back a laugh as he points towards his own cheek to let them know about it — but Yoongi only continues to stare at him with a befuddled expression even as his gestures become faster and grow more frustrated, until he finally slaps the side of his own face and bursts out, “Your cheek! You’ve got something there!”

Their eyes finally light up with understanding, but then they stray back to Taehyung’s face, focused on somewhere below his nose. They stare at him like that for a few seconds, with a little tilt to their head that does nothing to stop the fluttering feeling in Taehyung’s chest. He’s about to ask if something’s wrong when Yoongi bursts into poorly concealed laughter, trying to hide it to no avail behind long fingers and closed lips.

Because Yoongi’s laughter is rather like the uncorking of a well-shaken bottle of champagne; the low chuckles transforming into throaty little noises that spill past their lips all at once, shaking their shoulders and making them hunch over, arms clutching their sides as they completely give in to the urge to laugh. Perplexed and equally amused by the sight, Taehyung wants to ask what they find so funny when he feels it; the soil coating his face as a result of the frustrated tapping from before. He lets out a loud snort, then another, until the next thing he knows he’s laughing alongside Yoongi as well, tears coming to his eyes and the muscles in his cheeks aching as the warmth in his stomach spreads to every single part of his body, spreading, spreading, like liquid sunshine dancing through his veins.

On a lovely spring day, Taehyung and Yoongi spend the rest of their afternoon thinning out the root crops growing next to the well, while the garden thrums with the sounds of laughter and conversation amidst the songs of bluebells and the breathy rustles of leaves — the season of new beginnings, in more ways than one.

//

“There’s so much… space.” Yoongi observes quietly from his side, face tilted up towards the impressive mural that spreads across the ceiling of the hallway. It’s a sight to behold; the peachy hues of mischievous cherubim softened in the threads of sunlight that weave in through towering windows and catch onto speckles of crushed gold that glimmer brilliantly in the morning light.

Taehyung hums, stares up as well. A gift from a friend of long times past, the painting remains flawless, full of vibrancy despite its maturing age, as it would remain for a long time.

“Does it not get lonely? Living here by yourself?” Yoongi murmurs under their breath, catches themselves as they apologetically continue, “I’m sorry, that was very insensitive of me to say—”

“I didn’t take any offense, it’s alright,” Taehyung laughs, guiding them towards the foyer that would lead them upstairs. The gleaming marble of the staircases curving from opposing sides of the room is mostly hidden underneath intricately woven carpets, extending all the way up to the top where they melt together in an impressive landing. A modest chandelier hangs from the center, beads of teardrop glass descending over their heads and splattering them with iridescence at each gentle sway. “And to answer your question—it does, sometimes. I just try not to dwell on it, I guess.” He turns back when they reach the bottom of the stairs, smiles at the nervous look on Yoongi’s face. “Come here. I wanted to show you something.”

Yoongi continues to stare at the first step hard enough to bore holes into the carpet, and realization strikes Taehyung as he offers his hand with a fond smile. “Here, we can do it together.”

He waits and watches as they bite their lip the way they do whenever they’re contemplating something, evidently coming to a quick decision because they step into his space and slip their hand into his like it belongs there, lacing their fingers together in a firm grip.

“It’s easy, see?” He climbs the first two steps slowly so that Yoongi can closely follow his actions, holding on to their hand as he looks over his shoulder. “Now you try.”

Yoongi’s still staring at the staircase like it’s something untrustworthy and it’s enough to make Taehyung want to burst into giggles, barely holding on to his urge to do so. Almost reluctantly, they lift their foot, bare and surprisingly clean for someone who’d been walking amidst soil for as long as Taehyung had known them. In an exaggerated motion, they place it on the first step, toes curling into the soft wool of the carpet as they look up with a pleased smile.

“It’s soft.” They state quietly, poorly concealed awe in their voice. They climb another watchful step, lips pursed as they look around the staircase in a curious manner, before the grip around Taehyung’s hand tightens and they climb even higher until they’re well above Taehyung, having to look down their chin to meet his eye with a cheeky grin. “You’re slow.”

“Oh?” Taehyung challenges, squeezing Yoongi’s hand as he leaps up, skipping several steps as he lands on the same level as the other. “How about now?”

Yoongi rolls their eyes, but there’s a mischievous spark in them that Taehyung only manages to catch at the very last second before they blurt out, “Race you to the top!”, and the next thing he knows, Yoongi’s hand is ripped out of his grip as they take off at a speed faster than he could have ever expected of them. He lets out a scandalized gasp, grabbing onto the banister and immediately taking off after them, shrieks of laughter bouncing off the walls of the foyer as he shouts mock warnings towards his leaf-haired friend.

He has to move fast once he reaches the landing, stretching out his arm just in time to catch Yoongi’s wrist before they run off towards one of the corridors. “Gotcha!” He cries out breathlessly as he tugs on it, perhaps with a little more force than intended because Yoongi comes tumbling towards him, nose almost crashing into his neck in what would have been a painful collision if Taehyung didn’t manage to catch them by the shoulders, bringing them both to a staggering halt.

Their eyes meet for an exaggerated pause, breaths running fast, chests heaving for air—before they both simultaneously burst into laughter, Taehyung’s throaty barks mingling with Yoongi’s breathy chuckles as they lean towards each other, ducked heads bumping together ever so often. The foyer becomes a kaleidoscope of the echoes of their spontaneous mirth, and Taehyung feels weightless, like it’s his first time experiencing laughter, true laughter, with no exact cause and no punchline evoking it, just an overflowing feeling of elation that wraps him tight within its embrace.

Sunlight dapples their faces through the east-facing windows, eager to join in on their high spirits, and Yoongi’s shoulders continue to tremble with mirth even as Taehyung slowly straightens up, gradually coming down from his high with loose, spare laughter still tumbling out of his lips.

They slowly wither in his throat as his eyes fall on Yoongi's face.

It feels a little like déjà vu, the way the rounds of their cheeks are tinged with peaches; flushed from both the exertion and the laughter that continues to shake their frame. Their eyes remain shut from the force of it, the signature toothy grin back on display along with the pinks of their gums and together it makes for such an endearing — even the little wrinkles that crease around their eyes and the laugh lines around their mouth that grow deeper, the duck to their head that reveals the softness underneath their chin.

He’s reaching for them before he knows it, trapping their chin between his forefinger and thumb while brushing along its underside in a slow, featherlight caress. A soft exhale leaves his lips — surprise at his own boldness and marvel at how it feels just as he had imagined — but then his eyes wander, his first blunder because Yoongi’s a hairbreadth of a distance away (so close, so close) and their eyes are opening with a flutter of lashes that he could possibly count if he wanted to considering how close they are — but really, there’s no time for that because their mouth is still parted in a half smile and all Taehyung can think about is how jealous he is of the sun for being able to kiss their lips with its rays before the thought could even occur to him, because it is occurring to him now, taking root in whichever part of him that wonders and craves and wants and wishes and wishes and wishes because Yoongi’s so beautiful when their face is bespeckled with the sun. (so close, so close, not close enough)

Maybe it’s obvious, maybe it’s written all over his face because Yoongi’s eyes grow wide as soon as they open, the smile on their lips melting away into something that he can’t really put a finger on because he’s too busy trying to hide his thoughts about newfound feelings that he hadn’t known had existed, too busy shoving them all into a skeleton closet located all the way at the very back of his mind, dusted memories and moth-eaten ghosts for company.

Too busy, to notice that Yoongi’s looking at him the same way he was not moments ago.

He’s not sure who takes the first step back; their movements clumsy and awkward in their haste to restore space between them. He clears his throat, shoving his hands into his pockets while looking around the landing, anywhere, really, except at Yoongi, while the other remains strangely quiet – though perhaps it's not so strange and Taehyung’s just overthinking things, like he’s bound to from time to time.

“It’s, uh, this way,” he shoots them a smile that feels all types of wrong on his lips, gesturing towards the corridor that leads into the north wing. With a lot of effort, he manages to meet Yoongi’s eyes again, the latter’s widening briefly before they nod in comprehension, following after him into the passageway.

It’s a short journey despite the massive size of the manor; a half dozen rooms down from the foyer and a turn to the left that brings them to the right doors, made of thick mahogany and a brass knocker set that really serves no actual purpose. Taehyung throws a furtive glance back at Yoongi, struck with a sudden case of nerves at the prospect of oversharing, or worse, Yoongi refuting this as something without much importance. The quick glance at them is all he needs, however, to be reminded that this is Yoongi; someone that he can trust to be kind no matter what the circumstance, because it doesn’t take a genius to know that if you took Yoongi, if you plucked away each of their petals one after the other down to their stem, stripped them of the bluntness to their words and their occasional preference for solitude, of all the layers above layers that add to their character, you’d be left with something that’s simply good in its core essence.

“Are you ready?” He giggles when Yoongi places their hands over their own eyes, effectively blindfolding themselves as an answer, a playful smile quirking the corners of their mouth. Pushing the doors open, he turns back to lead Yoongi forward with a firm hand to their back, guiding them towards the center of the room with gentle nudges and softly murmured words.

“And a little to the left and… yeah, right here.” He stops Yoongi, moves from their side to stand in front of them as he grasps them by their shoulders to confirm that they’re not looking. The wind blowing through the room causes the leaves in Yoongi's hair to rustle, and he can see a hint of their brows from between their fingers, scrunched down in concentration that makes him smile in spite of himself.

He lets go of them slowly, taking several large steps back before calling out, “Alright, you can open your eyes now.”

Their hands fall away and their eyes open, blinking several times as they adjust to the sudden influx of light. It’s easy to catch the exact moment when they notice their surroundings; the slight widening of eyes followed by the soft slackening to their jaw, the little rise to their chest as they inhale sharply at the sight.

Morning breezes stream in through the multitude of windows that line the east facing wall, curtains of sheer white bellowing inwards, making way for the ample sunlight that spills over the wooden flooring. They’re joined by splatters of shimmery reflections cast by the ornamental chandelier that hangs from the center of the ceiling, housing fully matured wisterias that cascade out of the glass centerpiece and twine around the rest of the carefully cut pieces before dripping towards the ground, in a shower of freshly bloomed florets.

Once an abandoned drawing room, the place has been completely renovated to form his own little sanctuary; a little bit of everything Taehyung so dearly loves from the restricted world that he calls home. There are signs of life in every corner of the room; the shelves lining the entrance wall stripped of their glass panels now supporting row after row of potted plants that thrive in the shade, while dainty tables are scattered around the room supporting dozens of roughly cut bottles, all accommodating trimmed cuttings from the gardens until they grow out their roots. The floors are packed with even larger pots and plants that are too big to fit into the cupboards, and their leaves glisten in the morning light, while dirt and soil litter the floors in a manner that is not at all unpleasing to the eye, but rather adds to the earthy, almost homey atmosphere within the room.

And between them, dispersed through the furnishings, hung up on the walls on nails that remain invisible to the eye are an abundance of canvases and scrolls and spreads of drawing sheets, paintings of brilliant blues and striking yellows and bold strokes of bottle green that mimic and mirror the thriving life around them.

Yoongi doesn’t speak, instead slowly approaches the closest easel, their face an indiscernible mask that’s impossible to read. They come to a stop inches away from it and lifts their hand up to the painting on display, the tips of their fingers brushing along the strokes of watercolor in a feathery touch.

“Did you make all of these?”

The question is asked in a neutral tone that makes Taehyung want to hide behind the covers of forced nonchalance, tuck into himself in preparation for a let-down that doesn’t seem too far away from becoming reality.

“Yeah. It’s not much, I realize but—”

“They’re beautiful.”

Taehyung’s breath hitches.

Yoongi looks over their shoulder, then slowly turns towards him, a funny expression settling over their face as they meet Taehyung’s eyes. Their hand falls away from the canvas to hang limply by their side, but Taehyung’s eyes drawn to their face, to the way their mouth opens, then closes, a rare show of hesitance before they speak again in a softer voice. “They’re beautiful, Taehyung. Really.”

That would be you, Taehyung thinks but doesn’t say, embarrassed by the sudden thought as he ducks his head to hide his flustered smile.

There’s not much to say beyond that, not much to explain, and he eventually leaves Yoongi alone to explore the room by themselves while he busies himself with checking on the plants on the shelves. He turns over their words in his mind while he does so, liking how they sound even in his head. They’re simple, sincere. He likes that a lot about Yoongi, he finds; how they don’t always have a lot of words to offer, but manages to speak them from the heart nevertheless.

Taehyung is quickly learning that there is a lot to Yoongi that is there to like.

. 

. 

. 

.

A handful of steps further into the room,  the person in question walks through a clutter of potted plants and canvases, leafing through incomplete sketches and half-finished portraits of old projects that appear to have fallen short of expectation. They still manage to look full of life – a testament to Taehyung’s colorful, vibrant mind, though Yoongi could have just as easily concluded that from their initial meeting.

They’re about to head back when they see it; a rolled up paper placed on the edge of a shelf, the only one amidst the succulents that are stacked in neat little rows throughout the rest of the compartments. They have to stretch onto the tips of their toes to retrieve it, untying the ribbon that holds it together and letting the paper unroll over their arms.

Dewy honeysuckles bloom in their hair as they stand at the corner of the sun-drenched room, soft gaze solely focused on the painting of a sprig of honeysuckles in their hands, and remaining there, for a very long time.

//

“Yoongi?” He’s calling out for a second time, turning around in search of his friend.

“Over here!” The answer comes from close by and he turns towards the direction of the voice, a tray of chilled lemonade and biscuits balanced in his arms as he starts walking alongside a light river stream. Cool water splashes onto his feet, wetting his soles and caking them with soil along with other debri that press into his skin with each step, bringing little winces out of him despite his attempts to not pay much attention to it. A low hanging branch eventually blocks his path and he has to free one hand to carefully push it away, crouching a little to fit himself underneath the heavy arc of branches that lead towards the rose gardens.

It’s a lovely day, warm enough but not overly so, with enough breezes to combat the slight humidity in the air. The garden is thriving, rapidly come back to life after a long winter, and it’s reflected in Taehyung’s high spirits as he hums an old melody under his breath, the sort that tinkles and chimes and feels a little like happiness. A butterfly darts past his legs and he swerves to a side, upsetting the glasses on his tray as the sugary liquid splashes against the sides and spills over, forming shimmery little pools at the base.

A few more steps take him to the clearing, the sky a perfect blue streaked with wisps of barely-there whites.

“There you are,” he breathes as Yoongi finally comes into view, perched next to a shrub and bent over as they peer closely at something that Taehyung cannot see just yet. “What, is something wrong?”

Yoongi’s head lifts up, a look of slight relief crossing their face as soon as they see him. “Can you come here?” They gesture towards him in a hurried manner, and Taehyung makes haste to place his tray on the top steps of the pavilion before returning to Yoongi’s side. He crouches down onto his knees, comprehension dawning on him as soon as he sees what the problem is.

A small bee lies on the grass, belly side up and wings fluttering weakly as it struggles in a rather pitiful manner. Thinly spun vines linger around the insect’s body, barely making contact – Yoongi’s honeysuckles all at a loss for what to do about the situation.

“Is it dying?” Yoongi asks quietly, eyes still on the bee. Something melts in Taehyung’s chest, brings about a wave of affection so strong that it threatens to burst through invisible seams.

He smothers it down and ducks a little further, taking a closer look at the small insect before arriving at a swift conclusion. “It’s alright, she’s alright,” he declares as he lifts his elbows from where they were resting on the ground, struggling to get up on his feet. “She’s just a little thirsty, I think. Wait, here, I’ll show you.”

He has them scattered through the garden grounds; broken eggshells that he’s been testing as fertilizers. It’s not very hard to find one with most of the shell still intact, and he brings it back to the clearing, dipping it into the small stream that trickles between the pebbles to catch a few drops of water within. Next, he walks over to the tray that he’d so carefully brought out to the gardens, ignoring the drinks as he glides his fingers along the tray to catch stray granules of sugar that had landed there earlier, finally transferring them to the little liquid trapped within the shell.

He walks back to Yoongi’s side, hunkers down to place the eggshell next to the bee while taking care not to accidentally brush his fingers against its body. Not much time passes after he positions the shell that the bee begins to move feebly, crossing the little distance between it and the egg to dip its tongue inside and start suckling the drink.

Yoongi lets out a surprised noise, and Taehyung smiles kindly in their direction. “It happens from time to time. Bees get a little tired, like you and I. They just need a little help to get their strength back, is all.”

“I thought of blooming them some flowers, but I don’t think bees like honeysuckles very much.” And there it is again, the slight grumble to their voice, the downward curl to their lips that makes its appearance whenever they’re mildly upset. It makes their cheeks look fuller, softer, and Taehyung acts on impulse this time, reaches over to press his thumb to a corner of their mouth to pull it up in a half smile.

“Maybe I’ll just have to like them enough to make up for it, then.” It’s embarrassing, his words, but he finds that he doesn’t mind nearly as much as he used to — not when Yoongi’s smiling of their own now, slight as it is; not when the stare they’re returning is just as equally fond.

(Not when Yoongi huffs as they drop their gaze, a ghost of their smile remaining on their lips for a brief moment of silence before they mutter a barely audible “maybe I’d like that” into the space between them.)

It’s lovely, this feeling, he thinks. A little weightless, like he’s been spinning around for days to no end. It’s a lovely, foreign feeling, and he has a little hunch, a slight inkling that he knows what it means.

The bee eventually gains enough strength to move on its own as it flies away and disappears into the bushes. They’re left with each other as company, though perhaps they’re not as alone as Taehyung thinks; as a little way down the stream, the forget-me-nots titter amongst themselves, while swaying branches of old oaks nearby lean towards each other as if they’re passing whispered secrets.

Taehyung, wonderfully naive human that he is, remains oblivious to the good-natured teasings of the garden, while the honeysuckles in Yoongi’s hair develop into a lovely shade of pink.

He makes his way over to the pavilion to retrieve the forgotten lemonade, with Yoongi following right behind him until they suddenly come to a stop, face tilted up towards the sky.

“Is something the matter?”

They slowly lift a hand to the air, blinking in rapid succession. “It’s raining.”

“Oh?”

Sure enough, a fat drop of water splashes onto Taehyung’s nose, splattering over his face. He wipes it away with his sleeve, looks up at the sky to find that where there had been mere wisps of its presence before, a thin coating of clouds now covers the expanse of the sky.

It's a sudden transition, at first with only a few drops of rain splattering over his arms and into his hair – and then all at once, the heavens open up and the rain comes down in a heavy downpour. Taehyung raises his hands over his head as he runs to seek cover underneath the pavilion, turning around as soon as he’s underneath its safety, expecting Yoongi to be right behind him.

It’s funny, it occurs to him as his eyes land on them in the distance, that even after all this time, seeing Yoongi like this doesn’t fail to leave him a touch short of breath.

They haven’t moved from where they stood, in the middle of the downpour, head tipped back towards the sky while the rain soaks through their hair and drenches their clothes. The mint green of their hair has turned a dark teal where fresh honeysuckles bloom amidst; a spatter of brilliant yellow against the darker hue which is mirrored by the explosion of flowers that stretch around their feet as thickly spun vines snake through the grass, unfurling as they go.

Yoongi’s eyes are closed, the look on their face serene as the droplets strike against their brow and slide over their cheeks, forming little rivulets that trickle down the exposed curve of their neck. Taehyung finds it hard to swallow, doubly as hard to tear his eyes away from the sight despite how intimate the moment feels.

An intruder in his own garden, stealing glances from afar; the irony of the moment is not lost on him.

“Taehyung,” Yoongi’s voice comes muffled underneath the sound of heavy rain. “Taehyung, Tae, come here,” they call out again, louder this time, and nervous laughter bubbles through his lips as Taehyung waves them away, shaking his head.

“I like where I am!” He yells back, laughing, wrappipng his arms around himself at an attempt for warmth.

“Are you sure? The water’s really refreshing!”

“I’m not a plant, Yoongi!”

Yoongi makes a face, which quickly changes to one that they make when they’re trying to coerce something out of him. “So you’ll leave me alone here?” And there it is, the challenging little tilt to their head. “All by myself?”

He groans inwardly as he feels his resolve melt down to nothing. Pulling up the collars of his shirt, he takes a deep breath, then runs outside with his head hung low between his shoulders, wincing at the startling sensation of being showered with the equivalent of a thousand ice-cold bullets.

Even so, it’s easy, like this, to lose himself to the moment. Drenched to the bone and shivering like a leaf, and yet still managing to laugh breathlessly as Yoongi reaches over and catches his hand, tugging him forward until he’s hurtling, leaping through the remaining distance between them.

Yoongi makes it, this, feel like the easiest thing in the world.

And he’s had many thoughts over it now, racked his brains while trying to figure out whether it’s too early to be giving a name to it, to what he’s feeling, to what he thinks he sees in their eyes when they look at him in moments where they think he won’t notice — because he notices, he always does; though he tends to forget that a glimpsed stare is something that goes both ways.

It would be easy, right now, with the little space between their chests, with the downpour of rain drowning out all noise and suspending them in a false sense of isolation. Easy, to pull away one of his hands from their hold, tilt their chin a little higher, a little closer. A step forward; a tightened grip. Eyes closed.

It would be easy.

“You’re beautiful.”

It’s funny, he thinks in a daze, that despite the words lying at the tip of his tongue, it’s the person in front of him that gives voice to them; a little hoarse, cracking briefly towards the end.

Around them, the downpour has slowed down to a drizzle, the transition as abrupt as its beginning. The raindrops no longer pelt against his skin and yet the sudden absence of sensation leaves him feeling strangely exposed, like a raw nerve ending in the face of an oncoming onslaught.

He doesn’t know what to say.

Not when Yoongi’s eyes are darting back and forth between his, a silent question there, a search for an answer that they must find because their eyes flash with understanding—of what, he doesn’t want to admit just yet. Wants to savor this a little longer, this little flutter-inducing bubble of in-between moments where they just; know.

He swallows hard, lifts a hand to their face. Slowly pulls away a honeysuckle that falls over their brow, brushing his fingers accidentally along their skin.

“They sing back to you, you know.”

Yoongi’s voice is lowered to a whisper, a little rough, a little husky; the texture of clay walls against skin, of sandpaper and old bark roughened after decades of weathering the times. It chafes at some part of him, leaves him sensitive, a little raw, a little wanting.

And oh, how he wants.

“Who?” He eventually whispers back, and there’s a slight quiver to his voice, hidden tremors that run through his bones from the ice-cold outpour and yet he doesn’t feel so cold, not right now, not at this moment underneath their gaze.

“The flowers,”

Brown is such a warm color, after all.

“You can’t hear them,” they tear their eyes away from him to look around the garden, the rose bushes towards the pavilion, the forget-me-nots by the river. “but when you sing to them, they like to sing along.”

Time seems suspended, drawn out; droplets of water gliding over Yoongi’s skin, their paths unhindered, dipping into the hollows of their collarbones to form little pools in its depths. It’s mesmerizing, Taehyung thinks through the daze. Everything about Yoongi is mesmerizing.

“...do you? Sing with them?” He finally manages to say, moves the hand that he’d forgotten to retrieve to tuck away another lock of wet hair behind their ear.

A brush of hand, skin on skin.

“With me?”

Thinks he feels Yoongi shiver underneath his touch before they briefly shake their head, though he cannot be sure.

“My voice,” their eyes come back to land on his, their adam’s apple bobbing as they swallow—Taehyung following the action in a trance. “It’s not as— not as sweet.”

Taehyung’s shaking his head before they even finish their sentence, cupping their cheek a little more firmly. It’s preposterous, that Yoongi doesn’t—that they don’t know.

“You are. You are, ” he repeats himself louder when Yoongi breaks their gaze again with a light shrug, their demeanor suddenly sheepish. “I just—.”

He reaches for their hand, intertwining their fingers together as he brings them up between their chests. An array of expressions cross Yoongi’s face, but Taehyung only has eyes for the one he wants to find; trust.

“There’s nothing I’d love to hear more, Yoongi.” he speaks slowly, putting weight behind every word that comes out of his mouth.

Yoongi reluctantly smiles, and it feels a little like euphoria.

. 

. 

. 

A little away, two glasses of lemonade stand tall on their tray, glinting with the condensation that’s formed around its surface. The river continues to flow past the pavilion and the forget-me-nots have fallen silent in the hopes of overhearing the conversation; whilst up above, the oaks share discrete looks as they try not to smile so much as to give themselves away.

He’s a good one, they whisper amongst themselves as they watch over the two. The roses murmur in agreement, while the carrots in the vegetable patch complain in a muffled voice about being stuck underneath the soil and missing out on the grand story that is unfurling up above.

//

There’s a slight shift in their dynamic after that.

The shared glances prevail, though they are now followed by knowing smiles as they avert their eyes in synchronized unison. The conversation flows smoother, easier, and yet the silences in between no longer feel like something they need to constantly fill – instead settling between the two of them with a comfortable grace.

They gravitate towards each other naturally, a touch of hand here, a brush of fingers on another occasion. Yoongi shares stories about the kindness of azaleas and the youthful antics of the buttercups upfront, folklore about nature sprites and brownies that they’d hoped to witness one day—admitting, in between light-hearted laughter, that they had thought Taehyung to be one of such upon their very first meeting.

Taehyung, in return, offers tales about late-night dreams and far-away memories that lie on the peripheries of remembrance; of old Gods and curses, of creation, loss, of happiness and grief. It takes a load off of him, he later realizes; a heaviness that he hadn’t known to have weighed down on his shoulders to be finally lifted, freeing him of its burden. That must contribute to it, the lightness in his chest that he feels whenever he’s in the other’s presence, the smiles that come easier and more sporadic.

It’s so artless, the way he falls for Yoongi.

Spring showers become more frequent, and they build more shelters for the freshly planted seedlings, create temporary hothouses out of leftover timber and polyester sheets down from the shed. Taehyung feels Yoongi’s eyes on him when he stakes the sticks to the ground underneath the hot afternoon sun; is granted his own turn to be at a loss for words when he sees them stretch after a long day; oversized robes sliding off one shoulder, showing off broad shoulders, the slight definition to their arms that they’ve developed over weeks of hard labor.

Yoongi’s an attractive person, Taehyung is more than aware of that, though this feels different; a lot warmer, gathering pools of heat in his gut. It would embarrass him if not for how he’s caught them looking at him the same way, how he’s felt their gaze bore holes into the back of his neck as they work together in close proximity. It’s a new feeling, desiring and being desired, though in no way unwelcome.

And yet he doesn’t know how to cross that little remaining distance between them, has stalled for so long that even the thought of taking the first step, that little leap of courage is enough to stir up butterflies that have long taken up permanent residence within his lungs. It’s not for a lack of trying; he’s given it his own fair share of attempts, or so he would like to believe. Planned scene after scene in his mind about the perfect way to build up to the moment, only to be thwarted by things entirely out of control; a misplaced word, an unexpected turn of cheek. A countdown of seconds of gathering up the courage only to have the moment slip away from between his fingers.

They’re closing in on their game of push and pull; Taehyung just wonders who’ll be the first to give in.

// 

“...ou falling asleep?”

“mm, no, f’course not,”

It’s a lazy afternoon and they’re both inside the pavilion, Yoongi sitting up with their back against the wall, Taehyung on the ground with his head cushioned by the other’s lap. Fingers card through his hair, untangling stubborn knots with gentle tugs. He’s not quite sure where the conversation had died after they’d both stopped putting much effort into keeping it alive; something about vineyards, or their plans for the next day, perhaps. They seem irrelevant right now, lying on Yoongi’s lap as he is.

His eyes are closed, warm colors dancing over the back of his lids. There’s a charm of finches chirping from somewhere close-by, the sounds intermingling with the light trickle from the stream that runs behind the old ruins. Together, they slowly lull him towards the welcoming arms of slumber.

He thinks he hears Yoongi say something, but the words separate into ambiguous syllables that get lost on the way to comprehension. He feels like he could float, feels like he is floating, the only thing anchoring him the hand that combs through the hairs at the nape of his neck. Something feels pleasantly warm and he mumbles drowsily as he shifts his head, pressing his cheek further into the softness, seeking the comfort that it provides.

It’s how he knows he’s falling asleep; the assemblage of imagery that flashes through his mind, one after the other, at a dizzyingly fast pace. All at once, only barely discernible. A memory from earlier, a thought he’d saved for later. A scent, a touch. A feeling.

He dreams of colors.

They’re light, shimmering; pastel pinks and gleaming blues mixed in with the faintest touch of violet in a display of iridescence, rippling in waves that entirely surround his vision. He’s submerged in them, in an ocean of color that only grows more vast as he watches from within its depths. Time does not pass. He does not care to fathom if it exists.

The place is vast, unending. A beautiful desolation.

And then it appears, a twinkle that grows into a blinding golden light that ripples upon the tides, on a surface far beyond reach. It lights up the ocean within seconds, causes its colors to combust in an explosion of intricacy; pinks expanding into fuschia and rose, blues into azure and teal. It’s a new world of color, limitless infinities at the tip of his fingertips for him to discover.

The ocean is warm. He breathes in, waits for his lungs to fill with cool air.

Closes his eyes, spreads out his arms.

The ocean is singing.

He wakes up to the golden hour.

Sunlight streams in through one of the eroded walls, falling over his face in a way that makes him close his eyes again, not wishing to part with the lingering touches of a dream that is still fresh in his mind. It’s like trying to hold on to water; the more desperately he claws at it, the more it splashes about and slips through his fingers to an unattainable place. The languid feeling of it remains, however, the peace of an empty mind as he stares into the dancing reds on the back of his lids.

Small things register as he slowly comes back to consciousness; the hand that plays with his hair, the tickling sensation against his cheek. The soft warmth underneath his head that shifts every now and then. Songbirds in the distance, trickles from the streams.

Yoongi’s voice, as they sing.

It’s a song he’s sung frequently to the gardens; a nonsensical euphony to rouse those still in slumber, a perfect fit for early springtime. The words are meant to be silly and light-hearted as it would be when speaking with a child, and Taehyung takes special delight in singing it during the first hours of the morning as he tends to newly budding blooms.

Yoongi sings the words like a confession.

Their voice is low, a little rough, a little shaky, as if they’re unsure of what they’re doing. They hesitate at the ends of some notes, voice cracking at some points, and Taehyung can easily picture the furrowing crease between their brows as they struggle to pronounce the words with perfect ease.

It’s a conversation dipped in a melody, their voice. Taehyung feels it’s the loveliest thing he’ll ever hear.

He lies there for a long time before opening his eyes. The sun has moved across the sky enough for its light to now fall on Yoongi’s face instead, molten gold illuminating their features, casting deep set shadows around where they sit. Their eyes are closed as they lean back against a post in a peaceful manner, but what draws Taehyung’s attention is the way their lashes fall against their cheeks, tinted a mossy green and dotted with blossoms that curl outwards with each rise of their chest.

Inhale, exhale.

He’s fallen, he knows that now. Perhaps he already had since a long time back.

~Oh honey, won’t you open your eyes?

The fingers carding through Taehyung’s hair slows and Yoongi’s eyes flutter open, their gaze falling over him. A faint dusting of pink colors their cheeks as they find themselves the subject of his stare, and the flowers in their hair retract, hiding into the covers of the curled locks.

“You’re awake?” their hand twitches as if to pull away and Taehyung acts on instinct, catching it with his own and holding it to his hair as he tries to think. It startles Yoongi, but they quickly relax to a more comfortable stance as they resume playing with the strands, though the flush on their cheeks persists.

“You were the colors.” Taehyung says after a long pause, then shakes his head. That wasn’t quite right. “You were the colors, but you were also the light.”

Yoongi’s looking down at him with a bemused expression, the sort that wrinkles their brows and purses their lips into a natural pout. They don’t pry, however, instead patiently waits for him to explain.

“I dreamt…” he mumbles, voice still rough and heavy with sleep. “…I could hear you, even in my dream.” The hand glides out of his hair as he slowly sits up, leaning on his palms as he turns around to face Yoongi.

Yoongi’s eyes widen briefly, though they try to hide their surprise by ducking their head and smiling wryly into their lap. “Was my voice so terrible that it woke you up?”

He’s already shaking his head as he reaches forward, tilting Yoongi’s face up by their chin, forcing them to meet his eye.

“Liar.” He whispers, smiles at the confusion he sees flashing across their face. “Before, I mean. Your voice is beautiful.”

Yoongi opens their mouth to protest, but he interjects.

“Yoongi?”

They must hear it in his voice, Taehyung muses as he lets his fingers trail up Yoongi’s cheek, brushing a few honeysuckles away with his thumb. The recognition in their eyes, the sudden change in posture.

He knows, right then, that they both recognize this moment for what it is. The air doesn’t need to dramatically change between them — it, this, was simply there all along.

“Can I kiss you?” He finally asks, and immediately worries, worries even when there’s no need to do so with how Yoongi’s already leaning towards him, cheeks flushed, the fabric of their robes twisted in their fists.

It’s somewhat of a relief that he’s not alone in his nerves, and yet he can’t help the rush of protectiveness that curdles in his gut, that tells him to be patient.

“…kiss?” Yoongi’s voice lilts and then it dawns on Taehyung — they’ve never been kissed before.

Shame courses through him at the thought that he might have taken advantage of Yoongi’s oblivity, but he doesn’t get more time to dwell on it as a hand cups his cheek, urging him to meet the other’s eye. “What is a… kiss?” Yoongi asks with a slight tilt to their head, and Taehyung feels himself redden underneath their stare.

“It’s—,” he breaks off, swallows against the lump in his throat that he thinks might just be his heart threatening to jump out. “It’s something you do to show affection for someone that you care for.”

Yoongi still looks confused, but that soon shifts into a look of determination as they inch closer till they’re but a hairbreadth of a distance away. “Show me.”

“You have to tell me if you don’t like it, okay?”

They let out an impatient noise, and Taehyung almost jumps when he feels Yoongi’s hand slipping into his, lacing their fingers together as they fix him with a level gaze.

“I trust you.”

It’s the three soft-spoken words that calm his nerves, gives him the courage needed to lean towards them again, heart racing, the tremor in his hands somewhat reduced by their reassuring grip. It only occurs to him that he’s not at all prepared to see Yoongi in such close proximity when he’s near enough to count the lashes on their lower lids, when the small beauty mark on their cheek becomes glaringly evident, but it’s too late to back out now, not with Yoongi staring at him while holding their breath, full of expectation.

It’s hard to put into words, what he’s feeling right now. He fears that he might change his mind if he examines it too closely, so he thinks of all the things Yoongi makes him feel instead.

The smiles that come to him easier, the weightless feeling in his chest whenever he’s around them. The giddiness that bubbles through him during their conversations, the selfish urge to know them more, to get closer.

Yoongi makes him feel unburdened. Cared for.

Loved.

“You just…” he breathes out and their lips brush together. He hears a breath hitch, hopes it’s not his own.

It’s a sequence of feathery not-kisses, seconds of breathing into each other’s lips before Taehyung gathers his wits and presses forward, ever so gently, so, so afraid of scaring them away.

His cheeks blaze hot and something flutters near his ears. He doesn’t dare move to pull it away.

Yoongi’s lips against his are achingly soft.

He hesitates, then purses his lips, presses in just a little closer while his thumb moves over the back of Yoongi’s hand in light strokes, and he hears it again, a hitch of breath, this time definitely not of his own. A rush of fondness has him smiling into the kiss and he shifts forward just a little more, lets his lips linger for just a little while longer before forcing himself to pull back.

Yoongi’s eyes are closed, lips parted expectantly, as if they’re waiting for him to return. The high flush on their cheeks looks brighter in the sunlight, the light peach fuzz at the tip of their nose growing highlighted as it twitches, once, twice, and then Yoongi’s opening their eyes, blinking slowly as they stare up at Taehyung without words.

And then:

“…More,” there’s a light tug on his sleeve, and Yoongi still looks a little dazed, their voice a little breathless as they shuffle forward until they’re almost entirely in Taehyung’s lap. “I want to kiss more.”

“Okay,” he croaks out, nodding fervently, pulling them all the way towards him. “’kay, we can do that—” and they’re kissing again, his hands moving to cup Yoongi’s cheeks like they’re the most delicate of things as he tips their head back and slots their lips together. Yoongi sighs happily and Taehyung swears he can feel his heart beating against his ribcage as he changes the angle of the kiss, catching their lower lip between his before tugging on it ever so gently, the resulting hitch of breath musical to his ears. He presses a soft peck against it, then reconsiders, pressing several more before drawing Yoongi into another long kiss.

Yoongi’s heavy in his lap but it's hard to care as he pulls his closer, craving the contact while Yoongi eagerly kisses him back, hands fisted into his shirt. Lost in the moment, his eyes flutter open, sunlight catching onto his lashes and throwing iridescence into his vision, and Yoongi’s kissing him back so sweetly and their cheeks are the color of peaches and there are honeysuckles tickling his ears and Taehyung realizes that it was never about giving in, not at all, but about just letting things— be.

His hand grows slack, sliding onto their shoulder as he transitions into pressing several kisses along their jawline, giggling when a flower blocks his path. He presses a kiss onto its petals, fondly nudging it out of the way with his nose to press several more kisses onto the corner of Yoongi’s lips — finally giving in to the little noises Yoongi makes as he goes back to kissing them fully, melting into their touch.

Yoongi’s hands loosen from his shirt, one of them gliding up to the nape of his neck and pressing down firmly, and Taehyung whines into the kiss, the sound instantly getting swallowed up by their lips. His heart is pounding in his ears now, an insistent ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump, and Yoongi tastes so, so sweet, and he knows he’s utterly, devastatingly gone, ruined forever.

When he finally tries to draw back for air, Yoongi lets out a distressed noise and chases after his lips. He obliges them with a breathless giggle; they’re acting so sweet, the initial hesitancy replaced with a newly found confidence as they experiment with their kisses, mimicking Taehyung’s actions from earlier as they try to find out what they like — and Taehyung’s more than glad to let them.

The next time they part, they’re both panting lightly, eyes fluttering open to gauge each other’s expressions before leaning close, foreheads brushing. Yoongi's eyes travel upwards and they snort, and Taehyung lets out a questioning hum.

“There’s–” a smile slips free of their lips, the sort that spreads all the way to the corners of their eyes and brings out the pinks of their gums, “There’s pollen all over your hair.”

“Oh?” he yelps as he scrambles to pat it out, and Yoongi’s shoulders quake with laughter as they look at him through crinkled eyes.

“I’m sorry.” they don’t sound like they mean it one bit. And then, in a more confident voice: “I like kissing you.”

“Oh?” His hands slow, and he knows he’s blushing furiously right now.

“Mhm.” Yoongi nods conversationally. “And I like you too.”

“You do?” He croaks, then straightens up. “I mean. I like you too.”

“And I like kissing you.”

“So you’ve mentioned.”

“Can we—”

Taehyung shuts them up with a kiss.

//

Several wooden beams are slung over his shoulder while a toolbox swings back and forth in his hand as Taehyung makes his way through the garden, walking past a sea of dahlias, alongside the little stream that runs behind the old ruins of the pavilion. The stark white of the newly painted fence slowly enters his vision while just a little further down, a figure sits crouched on the ground, thoroughly focused on their work as they pull weeds out of the soil, disposing of them into the small wheelbarrow that rests next to them.

They look up as they hear his approaching footsteps, shooting him a distracted smile as they push back the hair falling over their eyes. The resulting smear of soil across their forehead feels a little like déjà vu, and he lowers his equipment to the ground before squatting down next to them, ignoring the questioning look they give him as he wipes away the dirt with the sleeve of his own shirt.

“Working hard?” he asks while swabbing away the last of the smudge, smiling when a vine crawls over his hand, twines with his pinkie.

“’s hot,” Yoongi mumbles, tipping their head back for a kiss, to which Taehyung happily obliges.

The honeysuckles tickle against his sideburns and he laughs as he backs away, giving them a fond nudge. “Welcome to summer. Do you want some water?”

Yoongi eagerly nods, bends their head over while Taehyung retrieves the can from the barrow and sprinkles some water over their hair. The honeysuckles come to life, fluttering excitedly as they rapidly bloom in wild abandon, until Yoongi’s green locks can but barely be seen from amidst them.

When he’s done, Yoongi roughly shakes their hair from side to side and little water droplets come flying out in every direction, spraying Taehyung’s face and drawing a mock shout of outrage from him. Yoongi bursts into laughter, looking stupidly pleased with themselves as they duck to avoid Taehyung’s lunge at him, minuscule petals flying into the air as they roll onto the ground, still laughing.

“You did that on purpose!” Taehyung complains loudly as he turns around to pick up the beams, heaving himself off the ground and towards the beams that are already set up near the fence.

“I do everything on purpose.” Yoongi happily agrees as they join him by his side, not waiting for instructions as they lift up the opposite end of the beam in his hands. Together, they lug it on top of the sticks already fastened to the ground, Taehyung holding it in place while Yoongi stretches up onto the very tip of his toes while standing on top of the toolbox to nail it into place.

“Not a word,” they deadpan before Taehyung can even say anything.

The makeshift arc’s coming along nicely; some of the honeysuckle vines have already started growing over it, snaking over the roughly joined ends before curling down in cascades, making themselves at home. He knows Yoongi was secretly very touched when he’d come up with the idea, though they hide their gratitude in between kisses and soft-eyed stares when they think he’s not looking.

The sun is near setting by the time they finish their work and head back, with Yoongi accompanying him back to the entrance of the garden like they always do at the end of each day. Their hands are entwined, and there’s pollen all over Taehyung’s shirt from the 'five-minute nap' that Yoongi had taken that quickly became an afternoon nap that stretched all the way to the evening.

They stop at the end of the maze, turning around to face each other. Yoongi smiles, and Taehyung beams. This is their routine, his and theirs. He knows the answer to his next question, has heard it countless of times, but that never stops him from asking.

“Won’t you come with me?” he says, like he does at every dusk.

And Yoongi will reply the same way they always do, with a shake of head and an apologetic smile.

“The garden is my home.”

Taehyung doesn't mind. It’s one of the many things he adores so dearly about Yoongi, their loyalty to the garden, to the plants they call as friends.

“Goodnight then, Yoongi.” he ducks down to kiss Yoongi one last time for the day, smiling when he hears the quietly mumbled response whispered into his lips.

Pressing a fleeting kiss to the corner of their mouth, he straightens up and gives them a small salute that evokes an eye roll and a push towards the manor. “Okay, okay, I’m going!” he laughs as he backs away, arms raised in defense and Yoongi's laughter rings through the maze, and Taehyung realizes all over again just how gone he is for this person that he’s categorized every sound of their laughter; this one being when they don’t actually want to show their mirth, but can’t help letting it spill it over when there’s so much fondness inside of them.

Yoongi is remarkably easy to read, he's found. Taehyung absolutely adores that about them.

The hardest part of the day is always this; turning around and walking back to the silence of an empty manor. He’s no longer alone, but it still serves as a reminder of all the years that he’d spent as such, and though he’d never dare pressure Yoongi to leave the garden, he can’t help but sometimes wish for their companionship within the confines of the manor's walls as well.

He’s only taken a few steps when he feels it, a light tug on the sleeve of his arm, only barely perceptible. He looks down, sees a single vine gently twining around the elbow of his sleeve.

“Yoongi?” he throws a questioning look over his shoulder, finds them staring in his direction from the entrance to the maze, one hand resting on the wall. They startle at the call, looks around and sees the vines that protrude from his feet up to Taehyung’s arm and flinches violently, eyes widening with alarm. The vine around his elbow falls slack and immediately retreats, but Yoongi’s still looking at him like a deer caught in the headlights.

“Did you want something?” he prods, and the speed with which Yoongi shakes their head is an answer of itself. He turns back, follows the vines left discarded on the stone pathway back to its frozen owner.

They don’t meet his eye, does everything to avoid it, really, and that’s when it finally clicks.

“Yoongi?” “Hmm?” “Do you want me to stay?”

Their head whips up, eyes even wider if that were even possible. “What?”

“Do you want me to stay instead?” Taehyung persists, and his hand moves of its own to brush away a honeysuckle that falls over the side of their face; a weak excuse, really, to touch their cheek.

“Here? With you?” He asks again, in a softer voice this time, watches as an array of conflicted emotions flit over Yoongi’s face; stubbornness, hesitation, vulnerability.

A glimmer of hope.

“Do you want to?” they finally ask.

And Taehyung, he knows what this is too. Knows that sometimes, Yoongi struggles with asking for exactly what they want, harbors a fear of rejection so tightly wound that they need the extra push, an extra dose of encouragement in order to admit to their own needs — even if that extra dose comes as a slightly twisted untruth that they aren’t the ones that want what has been asked for the most.

It's never occurred to him that during all those nights that he’d wished for Yoongi’s company, Yoongi might have been wishing for his, down here, in the gardens as well.

“Yeah.” he confesses, smiles sheepishly. Ducks his head, shrugs the hair out of his eyes as he looks back at them. “Can I? Stay?”

Yoongi’s eyes light up, and the flowers in their hair timidly peek out from amidst the mop of green, hopeful.

.

.

.

.

.

The first stars of the night sky are out and twinkling bright, free from the burden of moonlight as they watch the two lovers disappear into the covers of canopies, laughter and lilted conversation trailing behind them. The roses beside the pavilion titter discreetly amongst themselves, while the stream running beneath it flows a little louder, hoping to give the two a little more privacy.

The forest thrums with life on the first night of summer, the firsts of many things to come.