Chapter Text
Keith is hiding behind one of the larger floral arrangements in the window when the bell above the door rattles. The sound startles him so much that he yelps and takes a sudden step back. Shiro—who walked into the shop carrying a tray of their morning coffee—freezes at the unexpected noise. They stare at one another, wide-eyed, before Keith straightens and attempts to look as inconspicuous as possible.
Shiro blinks.
"Good morning," Keith says, aiming for nonchalant and missing by miles.
"Hey," Shiro responds. "What are you—?"
"Just checking out the hydrangea arrangement," Keith responds. The words come out of his mouth so quickly that the syllables slur together into an incomprehensible soup. Keith winces internally and thinks, So much for subtle, even as he repeats himself at a slower pace.
"Riiiiight," Shiro drawls skeptically. His expression is doubtful but he accepts the obvious lie without further prodding. "Anyway, I have your latte and your cherry danish. Do you want me to put it in the back or are you going to eat it right away?"
"I was just about to strip the roses," Keith answers.
Shiro nods and sets Keith's breakfast on the large work table in the center of the room. Keith wants to walk over and devour the pastry—he hasn't eaten since late afternoon yesterday, when he microwaved some leftovers in his tiny apartment kitchen—but he forces himself to actually check the arrangements in the window display. He doesn't know why. His cover is already weak and he checked them last night before closing.
"Oh, and Keith?" Shiro says.
Keith uselessly adjusts a delicate sprig of tree fern and grunts, "Yeah?"
"If you're going to spy on the guy across the street, you might want to find a new hiding spot."
.
Several hours later, after the newly arrived roses have been stripped of all their thorns and some of their leaves, Lance swaggers into the shop. He is dressed in a deep blue button-down, pale gray slacks, and polished shoes. It is his typical attire when he has to deliver for special occasions.
"Hey, mullet man," Lance greets as he pulls his wayfarer sunglasses off and perches them atop his head. "Shiro in the back?"
Keith barely spares Lance a glance, focused on transferring some wrapped boutonnieres into a small box. Each one is a unique blend of succulents, flower buds, and filler. It was Keith's first time trying to wrangle such a combo into such a small arrangement, and despite his experience, he pricked himself more times than he is willing to admit.
"Careful there," Lance comments airly. "Don't want to ruin all your hard work."
Without taking his eyes off the arrangements, Keith hisses, "I will murder you."
Lance smirks. Shiro hired Lance about three years ago as a part-time delivery boy—as Keith preferred to stay at the store and Shiro could only carry so much with one arm—and in that time they have developed a small rivalry. At least, that's what Shiro calls it. Keith calls it Lance being as annoying as possible.
"Hey, Lance," Shiro calls as he exits the backroom. He is dressed similarly to Lance, though his shirt is white and his slacks are olive-brown. "Is the van ready?"
"Yep!" Lance pops the p and jerks a thumb at Keith. "Just waiting for Slow Poke McGee over here to finish."
Keith refrains from rising to Lance's taunt. If there's one thing he's learned over the years, it's to ignore Lance as much as possible. He also says nothing because Lance is right; Keith won't admit it to Lance, but he should have spent less time daydreaming about the hot tattoo artist across the street and more time focusing on his work.
"We can start with the arrangements and the bouquets, then," Shiro says, gesturing Lance over. There are ten table-toppers carefully placed in three carrying trays, one bridal and five bridesmaid bouquets in a repurposed dishwashing rack, two enormous arrangements in heavy vases for decoration, one flower crown, and a bag of pale green rose petals. Lance immediately picks up one of the heavier trays. By the time they have everything loaded, Keith is finished with the boutonnieres.
"We'll be back in a couple hours," Shiro tells Keith. "You'll be okay?"
"I'm sure I can handle a few walk-ins," Keith assures him. Keith is polite to customers, if not a little awkward. As long as no one tries to make a lot of small talk or asks too many stupid questions, he's fine. "Besides, it's Tuesday. We're dead on Tuesdays."
"Alright, alright." Shiro smiles. "See you soon."
Then, with a two-fingered salute from Lance, they're out the door, and Keith is alone in the shop.
.
Keith works in silence for the next half hour, trimming stems and cutting filler. He and Shiro have another wedding to cater for at the end of the week, but there's only so much he can do before his shipment of white anemone, grape hyacinth, and tallow berry arrives. So instead, he focuses on an enormous centerpiece for one of the shop's regulars.
The bell tinkles as Keith contemplates throwing in some succulents he had left from the wedding party. He calls out a greeting absently.
"Hi," a deep voice responds.
Keith's mental visualization of the echeveria among the dusty miller and pale pink hydrangea is instantly interrupted by curiosity. Very few men visit Once and Flor-All, and those that do are usually either teenage boys buying their first corsage or awkward husbands looking for anniversary presents. When Keith looks up, however, he is met with neither.
When Keith looks up, it's the tattoo artist from across the street.
"Hi," Keith squeaks. Heat immediately washes over his entire face. He hopes he isn't as red as the celosia bundled on the table, despite knowing from experience that he probably is. "I mean—uh—welcome? Hi. How can I—shit."
His hand accidentally knocks over a plastic vase filled with the roses he stripped earlier. The roses stay intact but water gets all over his workspace. Keith curses again as he grabs the vase and sets it upright.
"You okay?" the guy asks, stepping closer to the square table that takes up the central space of the shop.
"Yeah," Keith murmurs, keeping his eyes down as he snags a roll of paper towels and cleans up the worst of it. The prep table is almost always slightly damp when in use, and spilling a little water isn't the end of the world. Keith is just flustered.
"Sorry," the guy continues, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. "I didn't mean to scare you. I just wanted—sorry." There is a small cough. "Ugh, I'm really sorry. Do you want me to go?"
Keith dares a glance at the man he's been spying on since the tattoo shop opened two months ago. He's big and tall, with hair in thick waves down to his bare shoulders. Nearly every inch of his exposed skin—his throat and collarbones, his biceps, forearms, and wrists—is covered in geometric lines and angles of varying thickness. Keith had not been able to tell from a distance, but up close, the detail in his tattoo design is extraordinary.
"No," Keith says slowly.
"Okay." The other man smiles and reaches out with his free hand. His huge palm makes Keith's look tiny in comparison. "I'm Hunk Tuaolo. I work across the street.”
Keith means to reply with his own name, but instead he responds with, "I know." He realizes how creepy that sounds right after he says it and immediately tries to backtrack. "I mean—I didn't know your name before but I know you because I've seen you go into the shop a couple times? Not because I've been spying on you or anything but—okay, I mean, I was curious when the new strip opened, but it wasn't just you! I spied on all the shops and—god, that sounds so creepy, I swear I'm not a stalker, I just—I just really need to shut up, god."
Stilling his tongue and closing his mouth takes a lot of willpower. Keith rarely rambles—he is more a man of action than a man of words—but he tends to word vomit when he's nervous.
Great, Keith thinks sarcastically as he bites down on the inside of his cheek with his molars. Now the hot guy across the street thinks you're a fucking weirdo. Way to go.
Hunk, however, does not give Keith an odd look. His wide smile remains as he says, "It's not that creepy. You were just curious. Also, like, it wouldn't have been cool if another flower shop invaded your turf."
Some of Keith's nerves settle at the understanding in Hunk's tone. Keith knows he can be awkward. The only people he interacts with regularly are Shiro, Lance, and Allura, as well as the other members of his dojang. Shiro doesn't count as practice for social interaction since he’s Keith's cousin; Allura is more of a boss than a friend; and the other men at the dojang are ten to fifteen years Keith's senior. The only person Keith communicates with that is actually his own age is Lance, and Lance likes to verbally despair of Keith every chance he gets.
"Anyways," Hunk says after a small, stilted pause. "I actually came over to ask a huge favor of you."
"Yeah?" Keith prompts.
"Well, I have this client who wants a floral sleeve done," Hunk explains as he pulls a large, spiral-bound sketchbook out from under his arm, its corners dog-eared from use. "She has a couple of flowers that she wants incorporated—king protea and roses, actually—but otherwise gave me a lot of free rein. And I'll be honest with you, I'm an angles and lines kinda guy. Flowers are a little outside of my comfort zone."
Keith's eyes dart back to the precise lines inked across Hunk's skin. Briefly, he wonders if the design is Hunk's own or if it is another artist's vision.
"I mean, I could google bouquets, but I don't like doing that," continues Hunk. "It feels like I'm being disingenuous. Which is stupid, I know. Everyone gets tattoo ideas from the internet nowadays. But, like, it's my job to make it authentic."
"I understand," Keith says. A lot of people come into the store with pictures on their phones, which is fine to start; it's the people that insist on an exact replication that frustrate Keith. His job is to create, not copy. "So you need help constructing a bouquet?"
"Yes," Hunk says emphatically.
"Okay," Keith answers. "Well, I can tell you right now that I don't have any king protea on hand. That's a rarer flower that needs to be special ordered. I do, however, have a lot of other foliage that will work with it. Did your client say what kind of roses she wanted?"
"No." Hunk shakes his head. "Just roses."
Keith nods once before he walks over to the cooler against the back wall. After opening the door, he confidently grabs blue thistle and white wax flower, seeded and silver dollar eucalyptus, laurel-leafed cocculus, peonies, and pale cabbage roses. He only picks a stem or two of each, then brings them over to Shiro's side of the prep table.
"There," Keith says after he's gently arranged them on the uncluttered space. "In a bouquet, the king protea is generally in the center or bottom right." Then he continues, pointing to the respective plants as he talks, "The cabbage roses and peonies are also going to be centered or adjacent to the the king protea. The blue thistle and wax flowers are filler for any gaps, and the rest would be used to frame the flowers. Be careful with the seeded eucalyptus, though; it's pretty drapey."
"Wow," Hunk says when Keith has finished his explanation. That one syllable makes Keith realize that he probably went overboard, something he knows he tends to do.
"Sorry," Keith mumbles, crossing his arms over his chest. "Those are just what I would use if I were making an arrangement. I can use something else if you don't like it, or—"
"No!" interrupts Hunk. "No, Keith, no—this is super awesome, thank you. I'm really impressed. Like, I know you work here, but like, you didn't even have to think about what I needed. Are—are all the arrangements in the shop yours?"
"Most of them." Keith can feel his cheeks heat up for the third time in less than ten minutes and curses his fair skin. "Shiro—my cousin, he owns the shop—he isn't great at it."
That is an understatement. Shiro is okay at re-creating bouquets from photographs, which is what he did before he hired Keith, but he's terrible at making something from scratch. Now Shiro only puts the simple stuff together, such as the ever popular dozen roses.
"That is really cool," Hunk gushes as he steps closer to the prep table. "These textures are amazing."
Keith has a hard time looking at the bright sincerity of Hunk's smile, so when he mutters, "Thank you," he says it to Hunk's massive shoulder. Not that it helps. The muscle in Hunk's arm tightens beneath his skin and Keith's mouth instantly goes dry.
"Mind if I sit here?" Hunk asks. He gestures to the side of the table Keith carefully laid the flowers down upon. "To sketch them? I mean, I can just take some pictures if you don't want me taking up your space. I know some people work better with privacy."
"No," Keith says as he tears his eyes away from Hunk's enormous biceps. "I'm good." He clears his throat as he becomes aware of how strained his voice sounds. "You can stay."
"Dude, you're a freaking lifesaver," Hunk praises as his smile grows impossibly wider. "Seriously. I know it sounds weird, but it's so much easier to get a feel for something in real life than from a picture. And all I know about flowers is that they're pretty. So thanks, man. Thank you. You're really saving my butt."
Keith's embarrassed blush deepens. It is not an attractive look for him—his blushes are stark and they fill in splotchy over his flat cheeks—but it feels as though that's all he’s been capable of doing since Hunk walked through the door.
"Yeah, man," Keith mutter, ducking his head in a futile attempt to hide the redness from Hunk's eyes. At this point, the other man probably already thinks he has some sort of skin condition, or is part tomato. "No problem."
.