"Lee Hippie" || minsung || ENG

1. The radiant daisy of you

innocence blooms
daisy blushes
like the sun in the day

✿❀✿

Ten o'clock struck the huge clock at the train station, from which hurriedly late people ran out. Mothers with children, employees of large corporations, kids rushing to school, and among them an unfulfilled watercolorist in a studded leather jacket. He rushed through crowds of people with a canvas secured under his arm. In his right hand he held a cold plastic cup with his name on it, trying not to spill a drop of the delicious nectar of the gods. He glanced fleetingly at the shiny watch on his wrist, noting that he was only five minutes away from being late for the much-awaited meeting.

He sped up his stride, running through the street lanes and turned left, where a huge building was already piled proudly behind the bus stop. He had to make it in time. This was his only chance to make it in the world of painting, and an artist doesn't get many of them in his life.

He walked through the streets with "Angels With Dirty Faces" by Shazm 69 in his ears, not minding about anything around him. His quick trot resembled a run, which only ended with his feet braking when he saw a truly unusual sight in front of him.

A young man wearing sandals and loose pants that were the color of coffee with milk, a white shirt and a brown jacket with tassels, lay at the sign of the cross, like Jesus, on the cobblestones. On his feet were dark sandals, and sunglasses rested on his nose. Perhaps he would have been concerned about the sight, as it could have been someone in need of help. The temperature, for the beginning of September, was very close to that of summer and the man could simply get drowsy, in addition, this jacket certainly kept warm. However, he noticed how the man casually moved his glasses over the wings of his nose with his hand, so he decided to pass him by.

He approached closer, but his plans were thwarted by two elderly women who were standing by the legs of the madman, for that is what the stranger looked like to him, and quietly whispered comments among themselves about such strange behavior. After all, no normal person would be unlikely to lie down on a busy sidewalk in the heart of the city. On the other side was a bus stop, he also reluctantly approached the man and gracefully jumped over him, seeing no other solution.

His feet touched back to the ground and advanced in more steps, when a sudden pressure on his right ankle stopped him in his tracks and, moreover, pulled him downward. Surprised boy dropped the painting and flew forward, falling on his hands. He rubbed his brown eyes in shock, then heard a disgruntled snort. He looked behind him, where a strange man in a white shirt was lying there. Soiled from the ice-americano shirt.

He blinked, analyzing what had happened. Some freak lying on the street wearing fashionable glasses, grabbed him by the leg and knocked him to the sidewalk, spilling the coffee he was carrying on top of him. Of course, in the process of falling, he released the cup from his hand, having earlier swung it backwards. He pulled the headphones out of his ears, shook off the momentary shock, and with his hand brought the dropped painting to himself.

"Fuck! My painting!" he screamed out kneeling in front of a perforated canvas.

A ship passing through the oil sea was punctured through and through with a rod protruding from the sidewalk. He didn't even want to imagine the scene of how it wasn't his handiwork, and he himself was scooped up by the rod, thus ending up with an untreatable wound in the hospital. He clenched his fists with all his might, feeling the all-consuming rage televise him like jelly.

"Calm down. You are accumulating negative emotions instead of allowing them to be released" the hitherto silent man raised his hands high above his head, forming them into a circle.

A circle of liberation and peace.

"Oh! I would love to release them!"

He rose from his knees, clenching his teeth in anger. His many hours of work, a pass to the world of great painters was literally punctured on the way out!

"What a radiant daisy you are!" he blushed, clearly delighted by the boy's flawless complexion "You can't let negative emotions take control of you! Better ask yourself; was it me who destroyed this image? Or was it God who decided so, sending cruel gravity on Our House?" he gesticulated fiercely.

"What the fuck are you talking about? You're the one who pulled my ankle!"

"You've predicted" he shrugged his shoulders.

Just like the boy in the leather jacket, he rose to his feet, surpassing him minimally. He adjusted the belt of his pants and stammered displeased at the sight of the coffee-stained fabric of his shirt.

"I guess you'll have to pay for the laundry, daisy" he smiled gently, pulling at the edge of the fabric.

"Are you fucked up? You're the reason I fell! And you should still pay for my coffee!" he pointed his finger angrily at the bruised coffee mug, which he didn't even have time to taste.

"Is it an americano? I haven't drunk it in a long time" he said under his breath, looking down at the empty coffee mug right at his feet, as if he had not heard the words of the lower man at all.

And the painter was getting closer and closer to an outburst of anger, and no texts about 'calm' and 'releasing emotions' could change that. Although if he had grabbed the freak by those stretched rags and rubbed his skin solidly, he might have released all his negative emotions.

"I simply don't believe it!" he shouted again, grabbing at the slightly curled ends of his purple hair.

The two grandmothers gossiping with each other quickly fled the scene, noticing the veritable piss and desire for murder on the shorter boy's face.

"What's your name?" the stranger spoke up, picking up a cup from the sidewalk, which after a moment was in the trash.

"Han and why the fuck do you care Jisung" he growled, looking at the damaged work.

"Lee the flower child Minho, nice to meet you" he replied, walking closer to Jisung.

Although an evil aura emanated from him, which would probably be able to clamp its black hands around Minho's neck and clench its fingers until his entire face turned the color of jisung hair, he wanted to assess his artistic skills.

And damn it, the boy had a lot of talent. Each brushstroke was carefully crafted, which impressed him, as he himself enjoyed art and appreciated the effort put into each work of others' hands.

"Fuck off" he cursed one last time.

He threw a hateful glance at Minho's figure some more and walked swiftly toward his original destination, clutching with all his might in his hands the work over which he had poured so much sweat and tears of discontent.