it’s at the store that he first discovers his talent for arrangements.

in fact, he’d originally been hired to work the counter, three four-hour shifts a week at minimum, more if he could clock in the hours (which he almost always could-and even if he couldn’t he’d make time for it). it wasn’t like he enjoyed interacting with customers, but working with flowers was infinitely preferable to retail or convenience stores, so he wasn’t complaining. yoongi, however, wasn’t the most social of teenagers and this made his job fractionally less enjoyable.

it’s not that there are bad people, after all, it’s a florist’s shop and the customers aren’t an unpleasant sort. yoongi’s never been good with words, however, and after witnessing his stoic demeanor for the third hour in a row, seokjin decides (and the majority of the staff agrees) that he’s better off tending to their shipments. the girl who usually works with the flowers, a bubbly college student who everyone called sunny (the name suited her; she had enough energy to light up a room), trades spots with him and the arrangement works to both of their desires.

he doesn’t mind at all, as long as he has his flowers.

.

he spends what could be minutes or hours in the back of the store, arranging stalks into perfect combinations of colour and sentiment, conveying his clamouring feelings in the only way he knows how. the work might seem solitary to most, but he is contented in remaining in that small room, where the afternoon sun filters through gauzy curtains and the heady scent of blossoms in the peak of their youth lingers. it’s secluded enough that nobody would notice if he took long breaks to stare out the french window that looked out upon the suburbs of his hometown, watching the sun slowly sink below buildings and the red and orange and fuchsia hues of the day fade to grey.

there, his only company are the blossoms, surrounding him like a safety net, shielding him from the outside world. the warmth that gently caressed his cheeks pulls away to the gentle breeze of the evening, and the sound of crickets heralding the night reminds him that there is a world outside of his safe haven that he must return to in the end.

his footsteps echo as he leaves the building, waving a faint goodbye to his ever cheerful coworker. she looks up briefly from her phone to flash a blinding smile at him, before rushing to type another message.

the streets are empty at this time of day, the working class having returned to the comforts of their homes and students studying hard for the coming exams. he prefers it like this, when the city is quiet and  the strangers on the streets keep to themselves. it makes him feel like he is one with the world when he always feels misplaced. he doesn’t return home, wandering the streets until the stars have hung themselves on the inky fabric of the night sky.