enjoy my presence in the sun 🌞
enjoy my presence in the sun 🌞
i just wanna make out on the rooftop with blankets and a bluetooth speaker playing soft songs as i lay with my lover underneath the stars, then escalate to where he fcks me senseless on the rooftop lol.
Copyright disclaimer: © sonatatine 2021. Please do not repost, copy, or translate any of my works.
Cast | Potter!Renjun, florist female protagonist
Synopsis | Her relationship with Renjun was strictly professional, albeit amicable. He would create beautiful ceramic vases that she’d commission for her display, and she supplied him with a collection of seeds he’d use to grow his own personal garden in his balcony. Renjun always felt like they were walking around a glass vase that would break with a single wrong step, but sometimes he feels like he needs to make that first step into finally knocking it over.
Genre | Romance, some levels of angst, magical realism, soulmates
Word count | 7.4k
Warnings | Slight mentions of familial death
Author’s note | This is a repost and remaster of a work originally posted back in my old blog, @/dhoya, on May 2k21. Inspired by "Flos" by R Sound Design and "I Touched a Vase" by Balloon/Suda Keina.
The place that Renjun feels at ease the most is his studio. The low hums of the pottery wheels reverberated across the vast emptiness of his four white walls as he continued to shape his recent work. A string of sighs escaped his lips as he continued to dirty his fingernails with the smooth batter of clay. He’s shaped a myriad of ceramics, but his fingers can never be satisfied. Did he put too much clay? Was it not enough? Is the shape suitable for the design he thought of painting?
He was always a perfectionist—even more so after meeting her.
Dates were never something he bothered to remember, unless they had to do with his job. He was quite terrible with birthdays, but he always had specific exhibitions and showcases etched on the back of his head. Renjun has always surrounded himself with the earthy smell of clay to the point where he didn’t bother leaving his studio for trivial matters such as restocking his endless cupboard of instant food. He was a man that breathed his craft to a dangerous degree—and if it meant sacrificing some basic necessities, he didn’t mind.
The same went for romantic partners. He wasn’t too big on love like many artists, and he’d go as far as to say pottery was his first love. Ever since feasting his eyes on the pristine porcelain finish of a Ming Dynasty vase, he devoted his life to perfecting his skill as a potter that upheld tradition. He was aware of his appearance and charm, considering how many exhibition patrons lined up to say a word or two to him. Some of them caught his eye, but his innate stoicism took over, often dismissing these encounters with a humble smile.
The date was an event that he had tattooed on his upper forearm. 18.03.23. Ironically, it was his own birthday, but that wasn’t the first thing that came into his mind when he looks upon the Chinese characters on his arm.
How he hasn’t made a major move since two years of meeting her completely baffled him. After all, he was a smart talker. He was quite confident in his stride, and he carried himself well. It was one of the biggest reasons why he had regulars in his little shop—he won them over with each sales pitch, a cup of warm tea, and an inviting grin. Sure, he often disregarded his patrons as mere customers that would pay his rent, but he knew they thought otherwise.
He wasn’t too sure, but a growing part of him began to convince himself that it was the opposite when it came to her.
His first meeting with her was when his doorbell rang three times. It was a moody afternoon, and the clouds were grayer than his current concoction of loose clay. He was in the middle of creating the last batch of ceramics for another showcase he was invited to, so he considered anything outside of his work on this particular day an interruption. In times like these, he tuned everything in his environment out—focusing his entirety on nothing but his craft. It was an automatic process of fishing out wet clay and shaping it with the wheel until he gets a shape that he wants. Sometimes it would take a few spins, but it would often take him the whole day to stop himself from overworking the clay—even then, he never went too far. Clay dried out quite quickly, and he was more than willing to sacrifice artistic integrity for efficiency.
He was a quiet worker, so it was natural for him to ignore the doorbell. The shop was usually closed for long period of time when he was working on a set of exhibition pieces, and today was such a day. However, the doorbell continued to ring until its whiny chimes were replaced with light knocks on the door.
“Hello? I know you’re in there, Mr. Huang. Please let me in or these flowers will die.”
His head jerked up in annoyance. He didn’t mind sociability, but he didn’t like disruption in any form.
Despite the mildly aggressive tone, he didn’t hear any malicious intent in the voice outside of his door. For the loud motors of his electric pottery wheel, the voice was audibly loud and clear.
“Come in, the door’s unlocked.”
Renjun had a bad habit of keeping the doors to both his shop and studio unlocked. It used to be convenient, but ever since making a name for himself, it became a huge problem. He’d often be met with the pushy demeanor of his so-called “fans” that asked him about his private life more than his work.
The ‘click’ of the door was completely drowned by the hums of the pottery wheel as he continued to spin his craft. He didn’t bother to look behind him since his priorities lay in perfecting the shape of a vase he was planning to showcase at the exhibit. While he was known for reviving traditional Chinese porcelain pottery, he decided to fuse the intricacies of its painted finish with a futuristic, angular shape. After all, even he found it boring to stick to the same thing—no matter how beautiful a classic, old-fashioned design can be.
After what felt like hours, he took the weight of his foot off of the wheel’s pedal. The quick gears of the wheel’s motors stopped in a second, engulfing the entire empty studio in sheer silence. A satisfied hum escaped his lips as he admired his new vase. It wasn’t anything special, but visualizing how he’d paint it gave him a burst of energy that recharged him instantly.
“That’s looks like it’s gonna be a nice vase! I’m sure it will look good with these flowers!”
This time, he jerked his head towards the voice, almost dropping what he spent the entire day working on. He couldn’t tell the age of the person in front of him, but there was a unique glow that surrounded her as she held a basket full of flowers tight. At the time, he placed the blame on the marmalade hues of the afternoon skies, but now he begs to differ. Maybe she truly had an innate luster to her.
He held his clay-ridden palm in the air before jogging towards the large glass window of the studio. In front of it was a bundle of flattened newspapers laid out with an assortment of plain, ceramic vases that bathed under the spring sun. He made some space for the vase in his hand, and then gently placed it next to a spherical clay sculpture. Once he was done, he haphazardly took his apron off, throwing it on top of a nearby chair.
“My hands are a bit of a mess right now, but who are you and why are you here?”
He did his best not to touch anything. She placed the basket on a table by the glass window, making sure the sun’s rays hit each petal.
“I’m a florist. A woman named Madame Zhang stopped by and told me to deliver these to you since it was your birthday. She said she would’ve done it herself, but her duties as a so-called “socialite” eventually won her over.”
There was a hint of disdain in her voice as she continued to describe Madame Zhang—which was something he somewhat empathized with. Madame Zhang was someone who was aware of her “old money” privileges amongst the Chinese elite, and she had an air of haughtiness to her—as if she could buy Renjun whole. He felt bad for her status as a widow, and understood to some degree her overbearing attraction towards him, but customers were dealt with professionally. It’s not like he’d go for her if the circumstances allowed it, but he would’ve allowed her to be his friend.
A drawn-out, monotonous hum escaped his lips. He completely forgot about his own birthday. He also forgot that there was a flower shop near his studio. As if she saw right through him, she tried to stifle a laugh.
“Working on your birthday sure seems tough. I usually take day offs on my birthdays, unless funeral-related orders happen to be on the same day as my anniversary on this planet.”
She gave him a warm smile, and he felt his heart race. He couldn’t wrap a finger around it, but there was a strong magnetism in her presence that pulled him towards her. At the time, he attributed it to her face and occupation—she had the features of a person he’d find extremely attractive, and she was in the same field as him.
He cleared his throat, finding ways to make her stay. His eyes scanned through a shelf of vases he’s made for himself.
“It’s my birthday, huh?” He mumbled. He already had a scenario in mind—being the idealist that he is. The only thing that bothered him was the execution. Even if he loathed social gatherings and after parties, he was thankful that it helped him foster his charisma through sheer trial and error.
Her eyes followed where he stared, and admired his craft. A sigh of awe echoed in the studio, bouncing off of all the walls that encased his artistic outlet.
“Do you want me to help you transfer the flowers to one of those vases or something?”
His eyes widened as he snapped his head in her direction. She was now beside him, eyeing each vase with a pensive gaze. There was a telepathic wire that connected her brain to his, and it took some time for him to realize that it has always been there from the start.
Nonetheless, things were going the way he pictured it. In common occurrence, expectations never match up with reality—what unfolded right before his eyes was too good to be true.
“Yeah, if that’s okay with you. Also, can you help me pick a vase? I only make them, so I don’t know what type of flowers can complement the design and whatnot.”
She beamed with an infectious joy that day, which he referred to as the “artist’s pursuit of happiness”. It was every artist’s pride to share their expertise, skill, and knowledge to any audience, no matter how big or small. He was well aware of this, being a victim of the phenomenon himself.
The two of them stayed in his studio until night—before she said goodbye, he offered her a glass or two of Chianti from his vast collection of wine in the kitchen cupboard while she sat on his balcony outside of the large glass windows. She suggested to order cake, but he gently declined, saying that he wouldn’t be able to finish it on his own. He liked that she was careful whenever she opened the glass sliding door that led to the balcony, with each step memorizing the positions of the drying ceramics laid out right beside the window. He also liked that she wished him happy birthday throughout their time together, even when she’s just met him.
Renjun never allowed anyone to touch his unfinished work, but that day he let her assist him in firing up the remaining pots he needed to complete his exhibition pieces. Of course, he didn’t tell her this, but what he did tell her was that she had a good eye with color. There was a humility in her accepting his compliment, but he also admired the layered sense of achievement that slipped out of her as she continued to share how anthology naturally broadened her grasp on color theory.
When she said goodbye at his door, he promised to see her at her flower shop the next day—even if he didn’t have any interest in gardening. He doesn’t regret this though, since he’s learned to appreciate growing his own flowers throughout the two years he’s known her.
Since then, he formed an unbroken routine with her. He’d often visit her flower shop to ask for seeds and fertilizers, while she commissioned vases for him to use as a display for her flowers. When he had the time for it, he’d offer to teach her how to make and paint her own vases, while she would return the favor by showing him the art of flower arrangement. It was an almost daily occurrence for him to walk into her shop, even when he had more than enough tools to expand his newfound hobby.
“Didn’t you buy a kilogram of fertilizer yesterday?” She asked one day with a light chuckle, while spraying a bouquet of roses with water. He did his best to regain his composure, and told her that he forgot. That was the first time she came to his house for the sole purpose of giving him a crash course on gardening. A part of him felt guilty that she offered more than he did when it came to her respective fields, but another part of him took every chance he had to spend time with her. This, in turn, formed a part of his routine with her—where she would visit him to check on the flowers he began growing at the edge of his studio’s balcony.
Some days, she’d come to the studio with a sketchbook, and the two of them would spend their time together in comfortable silence. Ever since she taught him the language of flowers, the two of them began to switch roles in the still-life sessions they shared together. He would pick which flower he wanted to draw that day, and she matched it up by picking a vase from his array of fine works.
Usually he’d end up eating dinner with her with a glass of wine, often dropping her off home. The silent walks under the dim street lamps was the best and worst part of his days with her. While he was able to stay close to her, he would never get the courage to either hold her hand or tell her he loved her.
He’d religiously invite her to every single showcase he attended, even going as far as to offer her a job to help decorate each venue with her floral prowess. Two years had passed since he first tried to persuade her to come with him to an auction, but she still managed to shy away from these events. This was another thing he liked about her.
In fact, there were too many things he liked about her. The way her eyes would shine under the fluorescent lights of his studio; the way her nimble fingers cut the stem off of his flowers; the way her footsteps lightly trudged whenever she drank too much wine—the list would be endless.
Perhaps his status as a renowned potter shaped his personality today, but he’s began to realize that it wasn’t a good thing in regards to his qualms with her. For one, he was too careful. He treated her like fine China, nimbly avoiding hazards that would tip what he currently has with her off and break all that he’s built with her up to now. He was too afraid to ruin the delicate details of everything that made his relationship with her beautiful—so he left it untouched, only walking around the hypothetical vase between them.
Another thing he dreaded was how difficult she was to read. In the same way he treated his patrons with charismatic benevolence, she greeted every single customer with a bright smile. She shared her knowledge on flowers to regulars the same way she taught him how to arrange them in his vases. He knows he’s being selfish, but the idealistic thought of keeping those memories exclusively between each other chipped him away with each passing second. The line between his self-doubt and reality was blurred like a piece of clay spinning in his wheel, and he couldn’t step on the pedal to stop it altogether.
This time, it was going to be different. He knew he couldn’t keep on working on the same vase for too long—the clay would be too dry, and he’d just keep on adding more wet clay to the amalgamation until it was too large to handle. Like all his failed attempts, he needed to tip it off and allow it to break before it was too late. Only then would he be able to create a newer, much better vase.
He woke up earlier than usual today, even though he didn’t have anything to do. It was probably around half a year ago, but he’s been gripped with fever dreams that leaves him with a temporary level of high body heat. It would often die down later in the day, but the severity of these fevers made him routinely check his temperature the moment he woke up.
Today was an all-time record of 38.5 degrees Celsius.
The haze that came with the heat left his reverie blurry, but her face was always unforgettable. Most of his dreams left him breathless with all the sensations in his mind and body activating all at once, and all of them gave him an indescribable feeling in a vast spectrum of positive emotions. Each dream was also different than the last, but he never seemed to remember exact details other than her sheer presence. All he would remember when he woke up was the afterimage of his silhouette and hers seemingly pacing a vase in the middle, as well as a haunting melody that was distorted by an aging record player. He didn’t know what the song was called, but at this point he could perfectly hum its tune—which he unconsciously did throughout the day.
This time, he remembered every single detail. It was almost too picturesque, and the entire scene made him wish he could just dive back into his covers and relive his reverie—but alas, he couldn’t live like that. Idealistic trances that came with an eerily deep slumber left him in a state of euphoria, but he wouldn’t trade it off for the exhilaration of meeting her face to face. After all, he always prided himself in having an affinity for authenticity.
He quickly got out of bed and darted to his shower room, allowing the ice cold water to ripple on his skin. He was never one to take a bath in the morning, but ever since his episodes of fever-inducing dreams got worse, he felt that it was a necessary step in regulating his body temperature. Once he was finished, he wiped himself with a large towel and wrapped it around his waist, before visiting his balcony to bask in the morning winds. The season didn’t matter to him—in fact, winters work best with his current condition. Despite being somewhat naked in broad daylight, he never seemed to succumb to a cold. No matter how harsh the winds were, he managed to pull through the teeth-clattering chills. Although behavior like this seemed counter-intuitive, what worked for him worked.
Ever since he began growing his own flowers, he would always be greeted with the floral nodes of his seasonal home garden. While he initially started the hobby as an excuse to see her more often, he began to steadily see the beauty in its meticulous intricacies. Unlike clay, flowers had life in them; a single shard of porcelain can be revived into a postmodern piece for the rich, but a stem stepped in half was practically dead. In the same way dry clay can be fixed by adding water, flowers had a tiny margin of error when it came to feeding them their necessities.
The marmalade rays of the sun were perfectly aligned with the semi-large pots of flowers that began to bloom with the seasons. She initially picked out a starter set for him, which included marigolds, pansies, and daffodils. After he got tired of their vibrant, yellow hues, he opted for a batch of tulips, carnations, and azaleas.
“Do you know what these flowers mean?” She asked, elegantly cocking her eyebrow at him. She was wearing her shop’s apron, which complemented her figure in his eyes.
Of course, he knew what they meant—but he was used to pretending when it came to her. Feigning ignorance was a relatively easy and safe way for him to go around his feelings for her in repeated circles, but it was getting harder and harder for him to continue when the thought of her subjected him to a blissful vertigo.
“No,” He answered, maintaining his cool exterior.
“I just wanted to get them since they looked really nice.”
After that, she helped him sow the flower seeds into a bed of soil by his studio’s moderately sized balcony. She gave him a run through of each flower and their meaning; tulips when they were red meant deep love; carnations when they were dark red signified love and affection; azaleas represented a gentle kind of love. She teased him about it by referencing several people she’s seen at the exhibitions he’d invite her to, and he did his best to restrain himself from proudly dedicating each batch of flowers to her.
It was currently the middle of spring. Being an artist, he had an appreciation for all four seasons of the year. His sensitivity to the weather and changes in his surroundings were often reflected in the painted finish of his ceramics—for spring, he’d use finer brushes to bring life to the blue hues of the petals that adorned each vase he made; for summer, he would draw faded clouds that captured the iridescence of the light blue skies; for autumn, he’d experiment with colors and use a warm, gentle palette to accentuate the dead leaves that he often saw strewn around the roads; for winter, he created delicately designed plates that were adorned with snowbells.
He closed his eyes and felt a flurry of cherry blossom petals stick to the moisture of his freshly washed skin. Unlike the maple leaves of fall, he enjoyed the satin finish of each petal as they lightly caressed his exposed body.
As he tightened the towel on his waist, he was met with her figure sitting down on one of the studio’s stools. He did give her the keys to his house, but he didn’t expect her to come this early.
“Good morning! Aren’t you cold?”
Renjun greeted her with a gentle smile like he always did. He chalked it up to the orange tint of the rising sun’s rays, but there was an inkling of hope in him that blossomed as soon as her cheeks turned pink. She offered him a steaming cup of coffee, but he politely refused. After all, he had already gotten rid of the heat in his body—he didn’t need another source to add fuel to the fire.
“I do this every morning, it feels nice.”
Her eyes wandered around the blooming pink hues of the potted flowers she helped him tend, which were now covered by a small flurry of cherry blossom petals. Carefully obscuring his barely covered form, she occupied herself with marveling at the care he’s given them.
There was a look of concern etched on her face at his remark, and he hastily excused himself to his bedroom. Before he was able to leave, she took his hand and pulled him towards her.
She turned him around, picking the stray pieces of light pink petals that stuck to his back. A single touch of her fingertip managed to electrify him, which prompted him to exhale in jagged breaths.
“I don’t know if you’re doing this on purpose or not, but wouldn’t it be uncomfortable if you dressed yourself with petals stuck to your body?”
Through his peripheral vision, he saw a pile of cherry blossom petals increasing in size beside him.
“I thought it’d be nice body art.” He replied with a chuckle. It’s been two years now, and yet his heart always leaped whenever she laughed with him.
“Well you should’ve told me! It would’ve been a nice source of inspiration for your spring-themed collection, and I could’ve helped you pick out which flower petals worked with your skin tone!”
She tapped his shoulder, and he automatically faced her. He noticed the gradual agility in her fingers as she continued to pluck the stray petals off of his chest and neck.
“You know, maybe you’re right about the whole body art thing. This looks gorgeous! They look like scales or some half-human hybrid off of a fantasy novel.”
The palms that firmly held his shoulders were warmer than he was used to. He hummed in response, staring at her focused demeanor. It was the same one he’d see whenever she arranged flowers back at her shop, or when she’d immerse herself in painting a vase in one of his free lessons for her.
“Love, flattery won’t get you anywhere.”
He reserved pet names for her, despite telling her he had a nickname for each of his friends. The last petal was formally removed from the left side of his collarbone, and she gave his shoulders a soft squeeze.
“Darling, I mean it. Now go get changed before you catch a cold!”
She gave him a light push towards the hallway that led to his bedroom, careful not to exert too much force. He hoisted the towel up one more time, and waved her a quick goodbye. He never had the courage to ask if her reserved pet names exclusively for him.
“So why are you here so early? Don’t you have a shift today?”
Renjun was now dressed in his usual garb, and he slowly leaned his body on the elongated table of his studio. He always delved into the smart casual style, and sported a loose cream turtleneck with a checkered suit jacket.
“I took the day off. I thought it’d be nice for you to have a companion since every call we’ve had this month always ends up with me being busy.”
Oh, the things she did to him. He’s perfected the air of nonchalance that surrounded him, but it didn’t mean the beatings of his heart eased by any means.
“I mean, it’s funeral season. I’m pretty sure your services are needed to provide the appropriate flowers for the ceremony.”
Ironically, there were many deaths that occurred in spring. Most of his commissioned urns were requested right before the vernal equinox, and seeing her running around in a sleek, black suit was a sign that spring was here. Today though, she was wearing what she usually wore, albeit a little more fashionable.
“Well, today there were no funerals scheduled, so I had some liberties in taking the entire day to ourselves. I do have someone I want you to meet though, if that’s okay with you.”
A smile wasn’t appropriate for the conversation topic, but she managed to muster a small one towards her companion. She took the cold cup of coffee she brewed for them and slowly sipped its contents. Renjun left his own cup untouched—caffeine was unnecessary when she was in his line of sight.
She placed the mug down as she fidgeted with her seat. She then tapped her finger on her lips and gave him a cheeky wink.
“It’s a surprise!”
Although her playful attitude was refreshing to him, his curiosity won him over. Each plea from him to reveal the mystery guest he was going to see was only met with her doubling down on her secrecy. He eventually gave up, huffing to the side as he crossed his leg on one of the stools.
Timid patterns of her fingernails tapping onto the surface of the ceramic mug filled the air. The ticking of the clock continued to echo across the entire room. She whistled a tune that sounded familiar and unknown at the same time, which made Renjun ponder its origin. He wanted to believe that it was the same tune he’s heard in his dream, but such a twist of fate seemed too farfetched. Silence was usually something he didn’t mind when he was with her. Being next to her and feeling her presence was enough for him, and there was a part of him that found earthly comfort in her.
She heaved a sigh. He didn’t know what it meant, but what he knew at the moment was how rare it was for him to see her distressed in the slightest. False hope was a deep kick in the brain, and he raveled in the myriads of possibilities that started with the word “I” from her.
On cue, she stood up to occupy the empty stool next to him. Taking a neatly wrapped cloth out of her tote bag, she untied it to reveal shards of porcelain that was all too familiar to him. There were clusters of rich soil and plant roots that stuck on the sharp corners of each shard. His entire body contradicted himself. One moment he yearned for a close proximity with her, and in a second sudden tremors overwhelm his nerves—leaving him gasping for air.
“Please don’t get mad at me, and please believe me when I tell you this, but the first vase we made together accidentally got knocked on the floor while we were cleaning the flower shop in my dreams. It means a lot to me since it’s the first vase we made together, and I was wondering if we could maybe spend time today gluing it back?”
Her breath was audibly jaded. His eyes widened, and his mouth went agape. A sudden sensation froze him, preventing him from moving a single muscle no matter how hard he tried. Shock would be the closest phenomenon he’d describe it, and the layers of self-doubt that he’s built throughout the duration of knowing her began to peel off one by one.
“In your dreams?” He couldn’t hide the astonishment in his voice.
She gave him a slow nod after gulping. He leaned closer to her, lips forming a thin line. There was a visible plea in her gaze, which he returned with curt reassurance. She allowed her body to rest on the table’s surface, using her elbows to support her weight.
“It might seem unbelievable at first, but it’s true. In my dream, we were together in the shop, dancing to some old hit while cleaning. It think it was around night, since the skies were dark and the shop had the “closed” sign displayed outside.”
She closed her eyes and began humming the tune whilst dangling her feet to a moderate rhythm. Renjun’s eyes began to grow wider, his body stiffening with every second that passed.
“Were we dancing with brooms while that vase was right in the middle?”
It was her turn to exhibit a state of bewilderment. She neatly piled the shards of ceramic back into the cloth, wrapping it in a different knot from when she first brought it in. While doing so, her shaky hands pricked itself on one of the shards—but the pain didn’t seem to faze her one bit. Her entire body was undergoing stupefaction, and she was solidly upright like a marble statue. She tried to continue talking about her dream, but a mere croak was the only thing that escaped the invisible clasps of her throat. It took all of Renjun’s current strength to prevent himself from breaking contact with her dilated eyes.
“Was I the person that knocked the vase over?”
She gave him a firm nod. Placing a hand on her heart, she subjected herself to a few rounds of deep breaths. He hesitantly took her free hand in his, and gave it a firm squeeze.
“You knocked the vase over with the tip of your broom, causing all the soil and flowers to come out. And then, I woke up to the sound of clatter downstairs at the shop. The vase was broken, the flowers we planted together were also on the floor, and I immediately thought of coming here to fix it together. Maybe harvest the flowers in your balcony to regrow them in the repaired vase.”
He felt her fingers curl on the back of his palm, and he returned the gesture with a beaming grin. Her feet were now sporadically dangling on the height between the stool and the studio’s floor.
“Listen, in the end it’s just a vase, and we’ve made a lot of that together.”
He uses his eyes to point at the shelf behind them. She follow his gaze, keeping her hand on his. Sure enough, the collection of ceramics he’s made with her were triumphantly displayed on a glass case right next to an endless shelf of failed pottery. Each vase and plate were arranged in chronological order, and a wave of nostalgia washed over him as he continued to stare at her rather quick progress. While she had an eye for color, she didn’t have agile enough fingers to operate a pottery wheel—the same could be said for him. While he was great at drawing flowers on his sketchbook or painting them on the ceramics he’s crafted, he was initially terrible at soil cultivation and maintaining flower beds. It was the parallel yet extremely complementary nature of their respective skill sets that allowed for such a relationship to blossom in the first place.
He took her hand and led her to the glass case. As her eyes hovered over her earlier works with him, a certain embarrassment began to surface in the form of tinted, rosy cheeks. On the other hand, he did his best to hide the ever-growing pride that consumed him. She averted her gaze from the entire glass case, and he used his thumb to soothe the shakiness of her hand.
“See? I don’t think we should dwell on a single vase for too long. If we glue that vase back together, the crackles are just gonna ruin the glazed finish it once had. There’s also a high chance that water might leak out of the vase since glue doesn’t specifically fix cracks in fragile things.”
The two of them were still in front of the glass case. He felt a strong aura of energy around each vase that was displayed under its glass casing. He took a deep breath as he tried to control the tremors in his body. Taking her other hand in his, he interlocked her fingers with his, feeling a perfect fit. He’s always wanted to do this.
“So, we should make another one by scratch?”
Her voice wavered, as if she was in a hurry. He tried his best to hide his looming dejection. Of course, events like this were too good to be true.
“Well, we already have a fired glazed model from last week. All we need to do now is to paint it.”
Taking his word, a grin lit up her eyes. Her picked out a cylindrical shape from the batch of dried pots she shaped with him, and he added a mental tally to the chances he’s missed.
By the time the pot was ready, the sunrise that Renjun had woke up to retained its same hues, save for the presence of a violet trail in the sky. While he added final touches to the intricate designs of the cylindrical pot, she trimmed some flowers from his home garden and arranged them in a lovely, pink bouquet. Each bud wasn’t overcrowded, and she balanced the vibrance of the petals with a fair share of leaves. She placed some fallen cherry blossom petals to the bouquet as an added touch, giving it a youthful yet transient glow. While waiting for the paint on the pot to dry, he continued to pry her on with the guest's identity.
“You’ll meet him soon,” She’d often reply, with a gentle smile on her face. He knew he was overthinking, but a part of him insisted that she would introduce him to a new significant other. The thought alone to him was extremely ridiculous and downright impossible. Still, nonetheless, a wave of apprehension continued to float above his head as he waited to finally have his guest revealed.
She brought the tote bag with her was large enough to fit the newly crafted vase, so she carefully wrapped its entire body with excess newspaper before gently placing it in her bag. As for the bouquet, her hand carried it with her.
“What should I bring?” He asked, while turning off the lights to his studio. He gave the flowers in his balcony one last spritz of water before locking the glass sliding door to his balcony.
“You don’t have to bring anything, really.” She patted the side of his shoulder as she said this, whilst securing the ceramic in her tote bag.
He opened the door for her, before leaving himself. Usually, she would say a snarky comment or two about him being a “gentleman” and whatnot, but that youthful manner was replaced with a gentle smile of pure gratitude. He didn’t mind this side of her—in fact, it gave him more reasons to yearn for her. The endless dimensions to her character were as multi-faceted as the endless spirals of his pottery wheel, and he never wanted to lift his foot off of the pedal that unraveled each and every layer of her soul.
The pavement outside the city was lined with fading cherry blossom trees. The spring winds blew eastward, and a flurry of light pink petals would caress their faces with a touch of tenderness. A small river beside the pavement had a stone bridge perched right in the middle of it all. Renjun himself has visited the park countless times. However, he limited himself to the bench near the entrance—where he’d have his sketchbook opened to paint still life watercolor illustrations of the fleeting people that ebbed and flowed with the flows of the river.
She hoisted her tote bag tighter, gripping its strap as she continued to walk. She was approaching a slight inclination that led to a miniature stone bridge that separated the river. He continued to follow her.
The entire walk from his studio to the park was in sheer silence. Many questions plagued his head, but at the same time, he took note of her secrecy. He couldn’t feel any malice to her slight stoicism and withdrawal, but at the same time, the curiosity that continued to consume him persisted.
Before walking away from the bridge, he took a mental note of the location. It was constructed in a typical ancient Chinese fashion, which gave him several ideas for his next exhibition. Most of his works centered around floral themes ever since he'd met her, and he realized the redundancy in his craft. Maybe adding a body of water amidst the flowers, he’d often paint would accentuate his vases and pots.
“You know,” She began, keeping her eyes in front of the road. Tall marble slabs began to appear in his line of sight.
“I don’t know if I told you this, but you’re always in my dreams.”
He stuffed his hands in his pockets. Rows of black and grey marble headstones bore Chinese characters. There were greyscale photos of faces in the corner of each headstone that each told a different story. She was an amazing florist to everyone else, but to him, she was a professional at subjecting his vitals to rigorous gymnastic routines.
“What do you mean?” There was no point in asking this. He predicted the answer to bear an uncanny similarity with his own nightly experiences. There was also a part of him that didn’t feel the need to tell her his side of things—there was always a telepathic connection between them, and some parts of him believed that she already knew he experienced the same phenomenon.
The two of them were approaching a colorful gateway that smelled like paint thinner. The primary colors were flashy, which was almost ironic given the monotony that existed past the gateway. The golden sign shone with the setting sun, and the watchful eyes of the two guardian lions on each side of the gate stalked their every move as the two of them walked inside. While it was his first time entering such a place, her automatic strides juxtaposed his wandering eyes.
“When Madame Zhang called me to arrange your birthday bouquet, I began seeing a face that looked exactly like yours. That time we didn’t know each other, so I did my best to memorize your facial features in case I’d forget them when I woke up.”
She stopped in front of a little wooden stall by the entrance. Taking her wallet out, she temporarily handed the bouquet to Renjun. She thanked the monk, receiving three thin incense sticks and a candle with a matchbox in return. He offered to continue holding the bouquet, which she apologetically agreed to. She slipped a single incense stick on the breast pocket of Renjun’s suit jacket, patting it in place before resuming her stride.
“Anyway, I’d get these crazy fevers whenever I dreamt about you, and I never really remember what I saw in my dreams aside from you and a vase between us. I still don’t know what it means, but maybe he might have the answers.”
Her footsteps came to a halt. The two of them were now in front of a wide, obsidian headstone. Unraveling the cylindrical vase from its newspaper wrapping, she positioned it right next to the headstone. Then, she gently placed the bouquet of flowers inside the vase, using a bucket filled with water nearby to add its contents inside the vase. There was a photo of a man that looked like he was in his late fifties. He had a gentle smile on his face, and he bore a certain resemblance to her.
She took the matchbox and lit the incense sticks. Renjun hastily pulled his own stick out of his pocket and used the heat of her two sticks to light his own. The floral notes of the sticks wafted into the air, followed by a spicy undertone that gave her nostrils a light kick. She clasped her hands in prayer, closing her eyes shut. He followed suit, bowing at a slightly steeper angle than her.
A few minutes of silence filled the vastness of the cemetery. A soft clap signaled the end of her prayer, and the two of them lifted their heads up in unison.
“Dad, meet Huang Renjun, the man in my dreams.”
All at once, the suspicion that Renjun bore dissipated into thin air. It was now replaced by a tinge of guilt that bore holes in his heart. On cue, he gave the headstone a long, steep bow.
“Dad, you told me that I’d know who my soulmate is if I get a high fever after dreaming of them. Here he is, and I hope you’ll watch us from above.”
Renjun continued to keep his head down. The sudden shock of it all was hard to contain. She tapped his shoulder, telling him it was okay to raise his head up now. She waved a quick goodbye to the headstone, before walking back to the gate of the cemetery.
The winds continued to blow eastward, with distant petals of cherry blossoms caressing her cheeks as the two of them walked on.
“I originally wanted to use the vase we first made together, since I’d imagine that held more longevity between us.”
Instead of looking forward, her eyes were now towards him. He kept his hands in his pocket, but he returned eye contact nonetheless. Even if he was delighted with the outcome, he still didn’t know how to go about it.
“I guess you were right about the vase. It had to break for us to make this new one.”
He nodded in agreement. The two of them shared a smile as they walked past the colorful gates of the cemetery. There was no need for physical contact anymore, as they felt their hearts spin into one intricate vase.
210727 TEN IG Update
"@ wineemoskorea 🙏 thx"
lmao ??!?!? 😭😭😭💀
Rb or like if you use ❤️
• Mood board + icon layout like or reblog if you save
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ% 𝗧𝗘𝗡 𝗠𝗢𝗢𝗗𝗕𝗢𝗔𝗥𝗗 ! 🗯
ㅤ─ㅤ🩹ㅤ❪ 𝖢𝖧!𝖳𝖳𝖠𝖯𝖧𝖮𝖭...最好的男孩 ❫
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ│ ★% 𝗡𝗘𝗢𝗭𝗢𝗡𝗘 ！🥢
When three fire signs get together
𝘭𝘲 𝘫𝘢𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘯 𝘱𝘢𝘤𝘬 2
⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀Na Jaemin Users 🌟🥦
like or reblog 🦑
 Taeil IG story
Ten wallpapers 🖤 boyfriend material ✨
210727 TAEIL IG Story
sneaky you. you want a peek at what i'm working on, huh? okay then. don't tell anyone else. shhhh.
please note that this list is subject to change at any time and items on the list may be removed/left unwritten at my discretion.
-> yoent, the girl counterparts [idolverse!au, suggestive(?), fluff, female ocs]
haechan - untitled; that one sexy edit the girls exposed (suggestive, fluff)
jeno - heartbreak girl; her ex-crush is annoying (fluff)
-> jaemin - untitled; psychiatric hospital!au, patient!jaemin x caregiver!reader [slightly dark themes, mentions of murder and trauma, attempted murder]
-> mark - the bitch in black; college!au, good boy!mark x outcast!reader [fluff, suggestive(?), slight angst, mentions of break-up]
-> yuta - untitled; gang leader/yandere!yuta x naive/lonely!female oc [dark themes, fluff, angst, mentions of murder, kidnapping, explosives]
-> jisung - i always loved you; high school!au, trainee/idol!jisung x female oc [fluff, angst, slow burn, pining]
-> haechan - untitled; medical resident!haechan x head surgeon!reader [little fluff, suggestive, maybe smut(?)]
-> jaemin - untitled; sugar daddy!jaemin x college kid!reader, childhood friends [fluff, suggestive]
i know i'm keeping you waiting... but you could always check out what's already been added to the library!
by @jisungs-hotsauce, 2021. please do not copy or reproduce in any form without permission.