Chapter Text
An unassuming shop sat on Fourth Street, a white wood building, with large windows all around, save for in the back, where a greenhouse was attached. Rain batters the yellow awnings, which protect boxes of primroses and violets from the violent drops. Above the awnings sat a deteriorating sign, the paper peeling up, that read All In Bloom, and a phone number so faded no one could read it. The buildings around it were all red brick and the alleys were painted with graffiti, all shades of the rainbow. They were apartments and office buildings, all decorated the same. Everyone knew it was a Tuesday, so tomorrow, the graffiti would be washed off. And Wednesday night, more would go up.
The endless cycle of Fourth Street.
This unassuming shop was quiet inside, rhythmic electronic music playing from a phone speaker, in the far back. Though it is crowded and cramped, each section of the floor not necessary for walking covered in some form of foliage, the shop is rather comfortable. A dead daffodil bush is being attended to by the cashier, while she listens to music. Underlying the sound was a small, square TV, the wire antenna picking up only a few stations. Nothing was on around this time, save for soap operas, talk shows, and the start of the news cycle. Through the fuzzy image, the weather scrolls across the bottom of the screen, and a female anchor turns as the camera focuses on her.
“Up next; losing your children is every parent’s worst nightmare, and for the past decade, it’s been Ionus Hresvelg’s reality. The investment mogul’s eleven children have been missing for over thirteen years, after being kidnapped while he was on a business trip. Today, a pit of bones has been found in the woods near the Hresvelg estate, thanks to a search funded by the children’s uncle.” The reporter tuts her tongue, “Efforts to identify the bones have already begun.”
“May this finally bring some peace to the family.” A male reporter chimes in, “In better news, stock in Agarthan INC. has skyrocketed today—“
The cashier turns off the tv, rather violently clicking the power button, before wiping her hands on her ripped denim overalls. Her blue shirt is too big, yellow letters emblazoned with Garreg Mach University and established 1926. The sleeves have been cut off, making the arm holes scoop downwards, showing off a slightly dirty sports bra. Hair an argent tangle tied into a bun, and with big, square-framed, grey glasses, she practically screams college student. Her face is round, freckled and pale. Yet, there are very strange scars on her arm, and between the burns and the surgical cuts, there is a tattoo of a poppy flower on her left forearm. The cashier is lackadaisical today, singing along with her phone.
everything is sex, ‘cept sex, which is power. y’know power is just sex, so ask yourself who’s screwing you.
“Let’s get screwed,” she sings, rather loudly, “I don’t care.” It quickly turns to mumbles and humming, as she forgets the words and stumbles the lyrics. It seems she can’t be bothered, continuing her assignment. A crimson bouquet, one of six ordered by… oh, she’d have to check, the cashier couldn’t remember. Someone at the university. That was the only business the little shop got.
The door swings open with the jingle of a bell. He leaves his umbrella by the door, the droplets hitting the floor loudly. Rather handsome, the customer who approaches wears a green, ribbed turtleneck, grey plaid pants, and black loafers. One could guess he’d had a presentation that day, especially given the trifold tucked under his arms. He has brown curls, which catch the light and coil all the right ways; his skin is a warm brown too, and blemishless, save for one pimple, starting on his cheek. Despite his good looks, he’s in a foul mood, eyebrows knitted. Lips twisted downwards, he almost demands to the cashier, “How do I say fuck you with flowers?”
To which the cashier responds quite literally, “Well, you’d need at least ten flowers per letter, and some floral arrangement foam-” She lets a goofy smile sit on her lips.
“What?-“
“Well, you asked me how to spell fuck you with flowers-“ She giggles at her own joke, and then, through her laughter, “Sorry, I thought it was funny.”
He chuckles, sour apple eyes brightening as the joke lands. “No, no, it was,” His grin is strange; the cashier feels like he’s hiding something. Then again, so is everyone, herself included. “But I need to be a bit more subtle than that. Y’know, make a bouquet with flower meanings, except they all mean that I hate him.”
The cashier nods, “Well, it’d certainly be easier to buy and carry a bouquet, huh? Wait just a moment, please” She ducks under the counter, and though the customer tries to peer over, all that’s heard is the shuffling of papers and a loud thud, which is followed by, “Aw, shit.”
“You okay under there…?” the customer calls.
“Just peachy!” the cashier responds, and holds a thumbs up over her head for him to see.
Her voice was anything but peachy. With a grunt, she stands up, hefting a large book from under the counter onto it. It’s weathered, old leather smelling a bit too musty for either of their tastes. “My boss said to use this for flower meanings, apparently he made it himself.”
“When, back during the Crest War?”
“He’s not that old. Maybe before the Enbarr Wall was torn down.” She flips a few pages, coughing as dust flies into her face. As she peruses the pages, she asks, “So, what did your intended bouquet victim do?”
The customer takes a deep breath in, “So,” he begins, “I’m at Blad U - y’know, across town? Part of it is in that old monastery too.” She nods, he goes on, “It started back in the debate tema, when yours truly was elected president, this guy threw a fit. A full on tantrum, saying it wasn’t fair, that his brother and his father were debate team presidents, that I was a transfer anyways and didn’t deserve it, while he had history. Whatever, right, it’s a democracy, that’s what you get for trying to argue that reverse racism is real,” at the cashier’s mm-hm, he continues, “Outside of the debate team, I also work for the Student Government Association–– Do you go to school?”
“Hm–” The cashier snaps her head up, before pointing to her shirt, “Yeah, GMU. Wait- where did you transfer from?”
“The Nejem Institute for Science and Communications.”
“The what-”
“It’s a four year in Almyra, but my grandad got put on hospice, so I transferred to Blad U, and my mom and I are staying with him until he passes.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” the cashier tells him, though her tone is awkward, as if she doesn’t know what to say, “That… must be really hard.”
“He was an asshole before the lung cancer, but now he’s an asshole who I have to be nice to.”
“Oh.”
The customer continues on, either not noticing her awkwardness or ignoring it, “Blad U does reelections every semester, so that way, in theory, everyone has a chance.”
“In theory,” she parroted, taking a pen from her overall pocket and writing something down. Smooth recovery indeed.
“Nothing done by the Blaiddyds’ has ever worked in praxis.” The customer’s snark gets a good, sort of silly sounding chuckle out of the cashier. “Anyways– Working on my campaign, and my manager busts in to tell me that, surprise, Tantrum Baby and his daddy’s money are running too.”
“Can you buy school elections?” Her nose wrinkles, and the cashier begins to think aloud, “Aside from buying individual votes, I suppose, but it seems like a lot of work to rig what is already a popularity contest. Just give away free food, you’d win my vote.”
The customer quirks an eyebrow, “Now, define free food - like ramen packets and veggies or hot food in like, tupperware?”
“The latter is preferred; the stove in my flat can barely cook anything, much less actual veggies.” She responds in time, “But, the former definitely wins you points.” Then, she puts a finger up, and asks, “So far, this doesn’t seem fuck you flowers worthy.”
“We’re getting there, princess.” The nickname gained the customer a dirty glance, and he shrugged, “Yeah, it doesn’t work for you, does it? Anyways, Tantrum Boy and I get the two Sophomore Class reps, whatever. The plan was to have it be me and my good friend Petra, but I guess Tantrum Boy’s bowl cut and daddy’s money won.”
“You know Petra?” Is what the cashier responds with, putting her pen down, “Sweet girl, astronomy prodigy, graduated early so now she’s a 17 year old sophomore?”
The customer laughed, and nodded, “Yeah! How d’you know her?”
“Oh, she’s friends with my coworker, Bernadetta, and when I first moved and started working here, Bernie introduced me to her friends.” The cashier looks away, “Since I didn’t know anyone, y’know.”
“Ah.” The customer moves his hands forwards, saying, “Okay, focus. So: threw a fit about me winning debate prez, decided to run against me but only managed to get elected with me, and finally, auditions for The One Thousand and One Almyran Nights begins, and like, I’ve been looking forward to this play all year. I mean, those are my fairy tales! My dad told me those when I went to bed!”
The cashier nods her head, “I’ve read the book, t-the translation done by Celik Shirazi, circa…. 1200, I think? But, go on-”
“Tantrum Baby not only auditions, he gets the role of King Sharyar, and I didn’t even get a part. In the One Thousand and One Almyran Nights. Me.” He points to his face, and the cashier nods. “So, I ask the director what’s up. Y’know what she says to me?”
When the cashier shakes her head, the customer raises his voice a bit, “She says ‘Well, Lorenz raised the point that we at Blad U don’t have the ability to do a full, correct casting, and to cast only one Almyran would draw attention to that.’ We don’t have enough people of the right race, so let’s not cast any people of color at all, how about that?”
“Oh, fuck him!” Comes the cashier, jaw set square.
“Fuck him!” the customer responds, “You get it!”
“C’mon,” The cashier picks up her notepad, with different flowers scribbled onto it, “Let’s go into the greenhouse and see what we’ve got.”
“Hell yeah,” The customer leans over to read her nametag, only to find that it’s upside down. “W-wait, what’s your name?”
“El. Just El.”
“Okay, Just El. My name’s Claude Mirza, but, uh, you can just call me Claude.”
“Alright, Just Claude, follow me.”