Work Text:
The bells hanging above the door jingled merrily as the door swung open, the September chill sneaking in the gap.
“Be with you in a moment!” Cullen called, voice blandly pleasant as he finished wiping the potting soil off of his fingers with the dirty green apron he wore over his clothes. Its intention was to keep his clothes clean, but it hardly made a difference most days.
The breeze from the slowly-closing door was honestly a relief from the humidity inside the store, but the man waiting impatiently behind the counter looked like he could use the cold air more than even he could.
Cullen’s first impression was that he was a pretentious, arrogant prick.
With slacks pressed and shoes shining he was impeccably put together, but it was the moustache waxed into perfect curls and the barely concealed annoyance on his face that made Cullen shift uncomfortably.
“Sorry about that…” he said awkwardly, rather taken aback at coming face to face with somebody looking so unhappy. They’d never met before, as far as Cullen knew, so what could he have possibly done to offend? He had only taken a moment to arrive, after all. “Can I… help you with something?”
The man staring at him from behind tinted sunglasses (inside, on a cloudy day, of all things!) sounded as arrogant as he looked.
“I do hope so,” he started, sniffing rather disdainfully as he glanced around the little shop. Cullen thought that was rather rude—it was small, but it was teeming with beautiful flowers tiered up the walls by commonality, a beautiful spectacle of vibrant colours and lush leaves settled into clean woven baskets. Hardly any of the old brick walls showed through, but the parts that did only added to the charm.
“I’ve been told that you do custom bouquets here. That you speak ‘the language of the flowers’.” The comment was paired with all the vocal inflections of an eye roll, and Cullen was suddenly very glad that this client was wearing sunglasses indoors. He opened his mouth to respond, feeling uncomfortably self-conscious.
“Yes, I often get requests for symbolism,” he responded evenly, but his thumb scraped at a stray bump of something-or-other that marred the smooth surface of the countertop. “What sort of flowers are you looking for? What’s the messaging you’d like?”
The stranger’s shoulders rose as he took a deep breath, looking like he was preparing to launch an assault. Cullen regretted asking, even though it was his job.
“Something expensive. Extravagant. Beautiful. The best you have,” he began in a clipped tone, “And the message they send—the message—is ‘good riddance’!” The man’s voice rose as he spoke until it was almost manic, and Cullen suddenly felt the habitual need to put something between himself and this man that wasn’t a flimsy, cluttered countertop.
It took him a moment to find his tongue.
“I—of course. Yes, I can do that for you,” he responded finally. The man standing opposite let out a sharp breath through his nose, and some of the rigid tension of his shoulders eased.
“Wonderful, thank you,” he said, his tone now very carefully polite as he flashed a smile.
Picking each flower thoughtfully and meticulously helped settle Cullen’s unnerved edge. That was what this whole job was for, after all—Mia had pushed him to do something with his hands that was nurturing and calming to help him find himself again.
She was smug in the way that only an older sibling could be when it turned out that her advice had been the turning point in his recovery.
This was hardly his most bizarre request, but putting together such a beautiful display with such negativity behind it needled at Cullen while he worked. The client had looked positively squirrely when he’d put in his order, and it was very clear that he was upset, the arrogance he’d displayed a barbed defense pulled on like an expensive mask.
Good riddance.
A divorce, perhaps?
Some bizarre display to quit a job he hated?
Cullen could only guess as he clipped the stems of a few irises to the right length and sliding them into place with a gentleness and care that was still sometimes unfamiliar to his calloused hands.
The finished product was at least something he could be proud of. Carefully constructed to add depth through the different lengths of stems, the bouquet was lush and bright, hiding its barbed insults like a thorny rose.
He’d learned that building a message through flowers was often a combination of values as opposed to a straight interpretation. White chrysanthemums and delicate bittersweet for truth, the irises to celebrate good news. Soft rhododendron flowers for a warning. The vibrant yellow of tansy for hostile thoughts, with the lush green sprigs of bay leaves for glory. The centrepiece of the unconventional display was a series of huge red and yellow roses, together pairing in an expression of sheer joy.
--
When the door chimed to signal that the man had returned to pick up his order, Cullen noticed immediately that he looked far more put together.
The shaded sunglasses were still there, perched on his aquiline nose, but he was in a suit so sharply cut that for a baffling moment that he must be some sort of celebrity that he, as someone who hardly ever followed the media, simply hadn’t heard about. Lord knows his siblings criticized his lack of pop culture knowledge often enough that it was unfortunately likely.
But his mind left the who he might be as soon as the man turned a beautiful smile on him, the dimples forming at the corners of his mouth framed by the perfect curls of his moustache. For a moment there was no air in his lungs and his face suddenly felt very hot.
“Are those mine? Marvellous!” he said cheerfully, baffling Cullen even more.
“Yes, these are for you. ‘Good riddance’ but as beautiful it gets,” Cullen said, laughing weakly at his own attempted joke. He cleared his throat and held out one of their blank notecards, the shop’s name embossed along the bottom. “This is also for you, if you’d like to write a personal message to send,” he offered, gesturing with his free hand to the pen on the counter with a ratty string tied to one end, attaching it to the desk. He couldn’t count how many pens he’d lost before using florist twine to tie it to the counter in a fit of sheer desperation.
“Delightful!” the man responded enthusiastically, taking the card with sudden relish.
Cullen usually busied himself with the transaction while people wrote their cards to give them some privacy, but today he stayed put, not-so-subtly peering at the card upside-down as the client hunched over the counter.
In a beautiful script, he carefully penned out:
Dearest Mother,
My sincerest condolences for your loss.
The world will truly be a different place without him.
Father will always be in my memories.
All my love,
Dorian
As he finished his signature with a flourish, there was a nearly manic smile on his face. It was the look of a man who knew full well that he was doing something very foolish, and damn the consequences.
Cullen watched in unconcealed horror.
The pen dropped to the countertop with a resolute clatter, and the client scooped the large bouquet up in his arms as he tucked the note in the plastic holder.
“Have a wonderful day, Cullen,” he said cheerfully, waving one ringed hand with the same grace that he seemed to do everything.
The fact that the man had addressed him by name didn’t even register until much later that night. Instead, Cullen watched, flabbergasted, as this man practically floated towards the door with his purchase, the door closing leaving a ringing silence in the shop until Cullen broke it with a desperate, fervent horror.
“He’s going to a funeral?!”
Once the high of insulting his mother in front of a crowd of oblivious people had worn off, Dorian was exhausted. It had been worth it to see the look on Aquinea’s face as she desperately tried to act as if the flowers were a touching gesture—as showing that there was a problem would be admitting that her only child couldn’t even behave himself for his own father’s funeral—but the whole ordeal had left him with an odd, hollow feeling.
Of course, he was thrilled that Halward was beyond disapproving of his every decision and trying to control him, and the fear he’d held most of his life of that look of utter disappointment was no longer a pressure in his chest, but he wasn’t entirely sure what to do without that. They’d been strange bedfellows for so long, he and that fear.
With his suit haphazardly tossed over the edge of the bed and a strong drink in his hand, Dorian idly flipped through his phone to find something good to distract him.
A waiting text from his dearest Vivienne made the corner of his mouth twitch up into a sly grin.
Were the flowers satisfactory for your nefarious plans?
They were absolutely splendid. I thought for a moment that mother might forget herself and tell me what a terrible wretch I am in front of the entire crowd.
Dorian grinned before typing a second message and sending it immediately afterwards.
Your florist was a wonderful distraction from my grief, as well. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me that you bought flowers from a swimwear model.
Vivienne’s response came in proper time as they always did, never rushed but never improperly late.
If I thought you were truly grieving I would have set you up with him instead. The poor boy is such a kicked puppy, I’m sure he’d be happy to assuage your grief.
I’m certain I traumatized him with my order. He looks like the kind of man who’s never had a petty thought in his entire life. I thought he might try and stop me from taking them once he realized what I was doing.
I can assure you that man has had more than petty thoughts in his life, darling. He’s no saint, try as he might to repent. But if you’re feeling so terribly guilty for traumatizing the poor thing, you should go apologize to him.
Vivienne, my dear, are you suggesting I go seduce your florist?
I’m suggesting nothing of the sort. I’ve merely suggested you apologize to him for adding to his guilty conscience, but what happens beyond that is your responsibility.
I admire your efficiency in removing all blame should this go poorly.
You should admire my efficiency in all things, my dear.
--
It was a few weeks before Dorian had gotten back into a normal enough place to go back to the tiny little shop tucked away on a busy street. An idea had been forming for the past few days, and he was fairly pleased with his own genius.
Cullen had seemed shy enough that he wasn’t likely to respond well to Dorian’s usual brazen flirting, and not obvious enough about his sexuality to even know if he was interested in men to begin with. But if there was something that anyone knew about Dorian, it was that he was a very cunning man.
Pushing the glass door open and ducking inside, he habitually brushed lint off his shirt where there was none. Dorian had chosen his outfit very carefully, with a pair of expensive jeans hugging his legs and a stylishly cut leather bomber jacket, very obviously more fashionable than functional.
Pretending not to be in a rush to discover where Cullen was and what he was doing, Dorian idly browsed the little shop until the door from the back opened with a soft creak caused by old hinges and soft wood.
“Oh, hello,” Cullen said, visibly surprised to see him. Dorian put on his most winning smile, casually sliding his hands into his pockets as he half turned towards him.
“Good morning,” he said easily, approaching the counter as Cullen slid himself behind it and wiped grimy hands on an equally grimy green apron. He looked awkward behind the counter, like he didn’t know what to expect from this interaction. “I was wondering if you would help me with something,” he said, though when he saw the look of muted panic cross Cullen’s face he hurriedly added: “Not another funeral bouquet, I promise.”
Cullen laughed awkwardly, scratching the scar that cut his upper lip in two. When he moved his hand away, there was a smudge of soil there. It was unfortunately charming.
“Yes, of course. What are you looking for today?” he asked, picking up a pen and a notepad full of scribbled handwriting to record the order.
It was mind boggling that they did nearly everything manually here, and the till was an ancient creature with a shoddy debit machine attached.
“Just something simple today,” Dorian said breezily, “Something charming looking. Something that means ‘I’m sorry’.”
Amber eyes flickered upwards to meet Dorian’s for a moment, something like understanding registering there. He must have assumed that Dorian regretted the flowers he’d bought last time. Oh, he didn’t regret that in the slightest. Second only to the thousands he’d spent on his clingy little Sphinx cat, that was the most worthwhile purchase he’d made in his life.
“Of course,” Cullen said again, softer this time. “That should only take fifteen minutes or so, if you’d like to wait. Or if you’re busy, you can come back this afternoon and they’ll be ready for you.”
“I’m in no hurry, I can wait.” Dorian leaned one hand against the worn wood of the counter, an easy smile on his face.
“I’ll try not to keep you waiting here for too long, then,” Cullen responded, and he turned away just as Dorian could see a secret smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.
Something like butterflies hit his stomach for a moment before Dorian gathered himself, feeling rather silly for having a reaction to such a small gesture from a man he didn’t even know.
He suspected it was the fact that Cullen seemed so private about his own happiness that made small actions seem like so much more—all of his smiles were fueled by professional politeness up to this point, not genuine emotions.
Dorian was far more used to people like Bull, openly flirting and raunchy, but also very open with his genuine affection and delight in those around him. There was something strange and stunted to Cullen’s allowance of reactions like that, as if he was masking everything with indifferent politeness, but he didn’t find himself incredibly turned off by it either.
Dorian always had enjoyed a challenge.
--
“It’s quite a cozy place you have in here,” Dorian remarked idly, looking around as Cullen got to work. It was hard to look at the plants with that distraction though; for someone who stood behind the counter so awkwardly, when given a task, Cullen moved with all the grace that came with confidence and focus.
The smile he was rewarded with for his offhand comment was far fonder than Dorian had expected it to be.
“Thank you. It’s a good place to work—quiet, rewarding... And there’s something about being so surrounded by life that’s very grounding,” Cullen admitted, hand touching the petals of the flower that he’d just set in the beginnings of the bouquet. There was a distant look in his eye as he spoke, but he shook himself slightly and ducked his head in mild embarrassment. “It’s a little warm in here for my tastes, though,” he added with a little laugh, tugging at the collar of his shirt.
Dorian could tell it wasn’t just the humidity that was making his cheeks pink.
“No? I’d do something impossibly grim to work in such a warm building,” he said, his following laugh sharp but genuine. “Offices are as frigid as the lowest layers of hell.” Cullen’s own laugh was startled out of him, as if unsure what to make of the turn the conversation had taken.
“Really? I would have thought otherwise. I always assumed offices would be stiflingly warm so people don’t freeze while sitting all day,” Cullen mused, collecting flowers and greenery slowly and scrupulously, with his head tilted in thought.
Dorian briefly thought of Vivienne calling Cullen a kicked puppy—that gesture was certainly canine in nature.
“Oh, no. Of course, corporate hellions get to stay plenty warm in their corner offices with priority climate control, but us small fries are left to freeze, I’m afraid. It’s just me and my space heater against the world,” he said forlornly, giving a very put-upon sigh.
Cullen laughed a little more loudly this time, as if surprised out of his own reservedness. “Bit like a sunflower, are you? Always reaching to the sun, craving the warmth,” he commented with amusement, and, absurdly, Dorian found himself being the one blushing.
--
By the time Dorian had his bouquet tucked in his arms and had bid Cullen farewell for now, he was feeling more himself than he had in ages. But now his plan was to be put in action.
Vivienne had been very kind to tell him that the cement steps next to the front door of the shop was where Cullen lived. Well—up the stairs was where he lived, not hunched on the cold cement as a squatter. Dorian could have sighed about the romantic cliche of it—an attractive, reserved man growing flowers and living above his tiny flower shop, waiting to bump into the girl of his dreams in some nauseating meet-cute incident.
That was hardly what Dorian had in mind, though.
Thankfully the steps were just out of view of the front window of the shop (something he had discreetly checked on while they chatted) so Cullen couldn’t see him as he carefully set the flowers on the second step. He didn’t bother with a card this time, thinking there was a certain tease to the false anonymity—they both knew that Dorian had bought the flowers, and yet he was leaving them like a secret admirer.
It wasn’t until he stepped back to admire his handiwork that he noticed the heart of the bouquet: Cullen had arranged the flowers around a radiant sunflower in the centre.
Face suddenly very hot, Dorian plucked the sunflower out of the arrangement and turned on his heel to walk rapidly up the street, already composing an accusatory message to Vivienne in his mind. Something like: This is your fault. I’ve been had. You didn’t send me there to seduce him, you sent me there so HE could seduce ME. I cannot believe that you, my truest friend, have betrayed me like this.
The next time Dorian found himself in Cullen’s shop, he had to wait in line to get the man’s attention. Normally this would have been rather annoying, as he wasn’t exactly known for being good at waiting his turn, but he decided that this was a good time to take in the sights.
Not that he hadn’t done quite a bit of that before now, but with attention on another customer he didn’t even have to worry about making conversation. The only acknowledgement of his presence was a polite smile when they caught each other’s eyes.
Dorian tried very hard not to be annoyed by the lukewarm welcome and the other customer’s existence, but he couldn’t help but be somewhat rankled by it. The view made up for it though, and he took the time to appreciate strong forearms exposed by the sleeves of his henley being pushed up in a hurry, and the shirt clinging to his chest slightly from the lovely humidity in the shop.
When at last the tiny room was left to the two of them, Dorian leaned against the counter with a teasing grin.
“And here I thought it was Madame de Fer keeping your shop in business all on her own,” he said, laughing lightly.
Cullen looked surprised, caught off guard by the implication.
“You know Vivienne?”
“Of course. Do you think I stumbled in here by accident, hoping someone knew flower symbolism without needing three almanacs? But I see that you know her rather well, if you’re given the privilege of her first name.” Dorian raised his eyebrows, his tone just on the edge of teasing accusation to see what kind of reaction he could get.
Predictably, Cullen’s ears went pink.
“Yes, well, she’s been a client of mine for quite a long time. She gave me permission to use her first name last week,” he admitted with a rather embarrassed grin, rubbing the back of his neck.
Dorian laughed, and Cullen’s shoulders hunched a little. “What? She said that it’s a privilege that very few are given,” he said a little defensively, but Dorian shook his head, laughing again.
“Oh, no. I’m not laughing at you, I’m laughing at the sheer intimidation that woman exudes,” he assured him, still shaking his head, but now in mild amazement. “The biggest, most intimidating man I know called her ‘Viv’ once, three years ago, and she cut him down in ten words or less. He’s been calling her ‘ma’am’ ever since.”
Cullen couldn’t hide his surprised laughter, though he covered his grin with a fist.
“She truly is a marvel,” he agreed, but he glanced back and forth in his shop surreptitiously, as if Vivienne was going to emerge from the foliage. “Last year she decided she was going to pay me extra for my deliveries to her home because she didn’t want to see my ugly truck outside, and she wanted me to go buy a better one,” Cullen said in low tones, and it was very clear from his expression that this was a story he’d wanted desperately to share with somebody who truly knew the experience that was Vivienne de Fer.
Dorian laughed loudly and unapologetically, his head tilted back.
“She is one of the kindest people I’ve ever met,” he said when he had finished, “And yet nobody holds the same tenacity that she does. I do love her so.”
Cullen’s grin, previously conspiratory, softened into something fonder.
“She has been a good friend to me. I’m not so sure I deserve it,” he admitted, and Dorian blinked in surprise.
“Well now, I’m not so sure about that,” he said awkwardly, and Cullen laughed with the same awkwardness, shaking his head.
“Never mind that. Is there something I could help you with?”
“Yes! I did come back for more of your beautiful arrangements, not just your wonderful company. Perhaps this time something that implies ‘new attraction’, or something of the like?” Dorian hummed in mock thought, trying to be coy, as if the object of his attraction wasn’t right there in front of him.
Cullen nodded, a furrow appearing between his brows.
“I can do that for you. Simple? Elegant? Extravagant?” He picked up his battered notepad, starting to scribble even as he spoke. Dorian looked him up and down, smiling slightly.
“Something sweet.”
This earned him a nod and nothing more, the focus on his face pointing towards his attention being drawn elsewhere.
This Cullen was less chatty than the last time, and he seemed far more distracted by his task than such a simple request should have warranted. A “thank you” bouquet was easy, yes, but one hinting at attraction should have been even easier. Wasn’t that half the purpose of flower arrangements anyways? But the look on Cullen’s face made it seem like this was a complex puzzle, and he took far longer considering each bloom than he had before.
Dorian wasn’t entirely sure what to expect, but he gave up his attempts at conversation after the first several failed attempts, settling for comfortable silence instead.
When the arrangement was completed, Cullen’s expression was cautiously hopeful as he handed them over.
“I hope these suffice,” he said earnestly, that crease still pulling his brows together.
“They’re beautiful,” Dorian assured him, gathering the flowers into his arms once he’d paid for his order and giving Cullen his most charming, dimpled smile. “Thank you. Until next time,” he said, waving one ringed hand before pushing the door open and stepping out into the chill afternoon air.
The flowers were left in the same place as last time, and Dorian left feeling rather proud of himself, that hopeful expression on Cullen’s face staying with him all the way home.
--
Cullen wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing wrong.
He took the abandoned bouquet up to his apartment at the end of the day, dutifully putting them in water with fertilizer after he’d carefully trimmed the stems as he tried to ignore the sting of his carefully cultivated arrangement being left behind for a second time. Dorian was charming and witty, enigmatic and mercurial, and far more gorgeous a man than Cullen could even really comprehend, but no matter how carefully he selected the best flowers and painstakingly placed them, he didn’t seem satisfied with the results.
After last time, the apology bouquet left carelessly on the cold concrete steps, he’d tried so hard to make sure that this one would blow him away. Now the two of them sat in old jars on his battered kitchen table, the striking arrangements only making the space seem dingier in comparison. He couldn’t throw them out without feeling bad about it, but seeing the reminder of Dorian’s lack of satisfaction with his work wasn’t much better.
Part of him was having a hard time reconciling the charming, flirtatious man with the one who didn’t even care enough to get rid of the flowers at home if he disliked them so much, but instead left them right where Cullen would see them.
It hurt more than he wanted to admit it did.
Cullen fell asleep that night feeling embarrassed and anxious, hoping he wouldn’t have to see Dorian again to avoid whatever strange anxiety his presence was sure to bring.
Except for the traitorous part of him that wanted to see him more often, of course. But he didn’t want to think about that.
In the two weeks that passed before he saw Dorian again, the flowers slowly wilted and were thrown out, he made his bi-weekly delivery to the de Fer home—neither of them saying anything about having a mutual friend—and moved on with his life.
Setting aside bad feelings that no longer affected his day-to-day was something his therapist encouraged him to work on routinely. Let go of the things that could be let go, and learn to live with the remnants.
Cullen was restocking the front when Dorian came in next. View impeded by the fern foliage that sprouted from the bucket he was carrying, he wasn’t aware of who the client was at first. He could navigate his shop blind if he needed to, but the sound of the bell made him pause halfway through the room. He could navigate the room with ease, but he couldn’t navigate around a person if he didn’t know where they were.
“I’m so sorry, I’ll just be a moment—I don’t want to walk into you,” he called out, hoping the client would understand the meaning without him having to say ‘get out of my way’.
Footsteps approached on the worn parquet floors, and Cullen closed his eyes for a moment to sigh. So much for that, then.
His eyes snapped open again when there was a rustle of the ferns, and suddenly the leaves parted to show Dorian’s amused face only a foot from his own, like the sun from behind parting clouds.
“Do you need a second pair of hands?” Dorian asked, grinning at him.
Cullen flushed slighting and shifted his feet, clearing his throat before responding.
“No, I’ve got it. I just don’t want to step on anyone by accident.”
The face disappeared, and Cullen heard the footsteps retreat to a safe distance.
“Of course. Don’t let me stop you from showing off those glorious arms,” his disembodied voice said slyly, and Cullen nearly stumbled as he started towards the place where the fern fronds belonged.
Quickly nestling the bucket into the mounted basket on the wall that they belonged in, Cullen took a moment to compose himself before turning to look at Dorian’s smirking face. The man had his arms crossed and his hip propped against the counter, a lazily confident pose that was starting to feel familiar to him.
“Surely lifting plants can’t be what made you that strong,” he mused, tilting his head to give him an appraising look.
Cullen looked down at himself briefly, as if needing confirmation that he was, in fact, strong.
“I grew up on a farm,” he responded, as if it needed justifying. “And then I joined the army as soon as I was old enough. It was—I retired two years ago.” Cullen’s speech was slightly stilted, but he wasn’t sure why he was saying it at all. Dorian hadn’t asked about it, hadn’t pried. And it certainly wasn’t any sort of defense or threat, he simply… felt that it should be shared.
To Dorian’s credit, he didn’t even blink.
“Ah, yes, that would do it,” he agreed with a sage nod, and Cullen felt some tension in his shoulders ease. “Protein for breakfast, push-ups for dessert. It’s certainly eff—” Dorian’s voice was cut off by a shrill ringing that made Cullen nearly jump out of his skin, heart racing unpleasantly.
Swearing up a colourful storm, Dorian fished his phone out of a tight pocket and answered with a snappy “What?”
Brows furrowed, listening intently, Dorian was different than he’d ever seen him here. It was a good look on him, even if Cullen’s nerves were still trying to recover from the jolt of adrenaline.
Dorian snapped a few more words into the phone before hanging up, clearly annoyed as he took one slow breath, likely mentally counting to a million.
“I work… with idiots,” he said crisply after a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m going to have to run without buying anything today, I’m afraid. But I’ll come by again soon,” he promised, the smile a little less brilliant but no less genuine as he turned on his heel to leave.
Only once he was alone did Cullen let himself consider how nice it was to spend time talking to Dorian without the underlying nauseous anxiety about whether or not he’d enjoy the bouquet or if he’d leave it lying around like trash. Someone like that wasn’t worth being stressed about, and yet more than anything, Cullen just wanted him to appreciate one of his creations. It was a point of pride, even if proving himself to someone with so little disregard for his feelings was a useless endeavour.
His therapist would tell him to try and stop trying to prove something to Dorian, and distance himself from the concern. But it was difficult for him to navigate such charm and flirting paired with such blatant disrespect without feeling like he was repeatedly extending an olive branch only to have it snatched up and thrown down on the cold hard concrete.
Having been pulled away from his chat with Cullen before he could set up his next stage of the plan had put a damper on Dorian’s mood for quite some time. By the time he managed to find the time to stop by again, it was an evening three days later.
Checking and double-checking on the note card he’d carefully slipped into the breast pocket of his blazer, Dorian let himself into the softly lit store. Cullen, slouching behind the counter, looked exhausted. Dorian hadn’t even considered before now—Cullen didn’t seem to have any employees besides himself. He must be running himself ragged. But he gave a polite smile regardless, trying his best to straighten up.
“We were cut short last time,” Dorian said by way of greeting, stepping around a rack of flowers prepared for tomorrow’s deliveries.
“Ah, yes. I believe it was due to working with idiots?” Cullen responded, a shadow of a tired smile pulling at the scar on his face.
Dorian laughed, nodding his agreement.
“You are correct, yes. But I won’t keep you tonight, you look like you’ve got one foot in the grave. But I would like an arrangement that speaks to strength and beauty. Should be easy enough, I’m sure there are endless ways to say “beautiful and strong” in flowers.”
Cullen was already moving from behind the counter, clearly not needing any more instruction than that. His movements were less confident and more reluctant tonight, but the arrangement he pieced together was as beautiful as always when it was finished.
Dorian thanked him with a rather fond smile, advising that he get some sleep before he left, not wanting to overstay his welcome when Cullen was clearly overworked at the end of a long day.
Shivering as he stepped out of the warmth of the flower shop and into the chill night air, Dorian tucked the card into the flowers and set them in their usual place, making sure the message was clear before he left, feeling a little giddy and nervous about such a simple message. One word and his phone number, finally leaving the ball in Cullen’s court:
Dinner?
--
The first few hours brought nerves and anticipation. The shop closed in a few hours, so it wasn’t as if he expected Cullen to find the flowers just yet, but as time ticked by, Dorian found himself checking his phone every thirty seconds.
The next morning, he woke feeling disappointment sinking in his stomach when he received no message from Cullen still.
Some people played hard to get, taking a few days to respond so as to not appear too desperate, and it was something Dorian was familiar with—hell, he’d done it himself many times—but Cullen didn’t seem the type. Besides—the flirtation had already gone on for well over a month at this point.
He didn’t seem the type to leave someone hanging, either. Surely if he wasn’t interested he would have sent a polite text to decline?
Within two days, disappointment had curdled into something a little more potent, along with a growing embarrassment that he’d been doing something so ridiculous and romantic for so long and then been ghosted at the end of it.
A big part of him wanted to hide away in his apartment with only his cat for company, and never go near Cullen’s shop again. But pride eventually won out. He would make one last visit.
Cullen had been surly and resentful all week. The last bouquet had been the last straw. What could he possibly be doing so poorly? And for Dorian to come in each time acting so charming and cheerful as if he wasn’t throwing away his money knowingly. Was he pitying him, and buying from him to support a depressing veteran even though he hated the results? Was it some kind of mind game? His therapist had told him many times that what he experienced was paranoia, but he argued that he wasn’t paranoid if things were truly happening. He had had too many things happen to him to discount them.
After snapping at his sister on the phone and receiving a lecture for it, Cullen was sure his mood couldn’t sour further.
Then the bell on the door jingled cheerfully, and Dorian walked in.
Well beyond gracious or overly polite, Cullen waited in stony silence as he approached the counter. Dorian looked uncomfortable, picking up on the atmosphere immediately and looking a bit like a cornered rabbit trying to pretend it wasn’t afraid.
“Listen, I—” he started, but Cullen interrupted immediately.
“What?” His tone was as hard and flat as granite and nearly as cold, and he was sure he saw Dorian flinch.
He took a breath and seemed to gather himself, squaring his shoulders and meeting his eyes for the first time since entering.
“I’d like another arrangement. How do I say ‘I’m sorry, I thought you were gay’ in flowers?” Dorian’s voice was steady and so was his gaze, but the embarrassment and discomfort were clear in his posture.
Cullen, blinded by his simmering resentment and hurt, didn’t take the time to account for any meaning behind his words.
“What, so you can throw those ones out too?” he snapped, brows furrowing in thunderous anger as he lay both hands flat on the counter. “Did you think I wouldn’t see them? I live there! That isn’t just some nearby alley that’s convenient for trashing flowers that you hate, that’s my home!”
Dorian blanched, distantly murmuring “Throw them out…?” before Cullen was speaking over him again.
“I’m tired of putting so much work into something only to have it thrown away like it’s worthless to you! I don’t know what I could possibly be doing wrong, but if you hate them so much, just get out of my shop and don’t come back!” His voice rose to a shout, and when he was finished he was breathing heavily, staring Dorian down with furious amber eyes.
Through the short rant, Dorian’s face had gone from horror to mortification. The colour returned to his cheeks and then some, and in the ringing silence following Cullen’s outburst, he covered his face with both hands.
“Oh my god,” he said hoarsely, “Oh my god. You thought I was just throwing them out. I might as well bury myself alive. I’m never going to recover from this.”
Cullen opened his mouth to retort out of sheer reflex, but his brain caught up to what he was hearing a moment later. Confusion blocked his throat, his anger receding briefly.
“What?”
“I was leaving them for you. It was—I thought it was clever. I was trying to woo you,” Dorian said from behind his hands.
Bewildered and still spoiling for a fight, Cullen floundered for a moment.
“But you– I– How did you know where I lived?” he settled on the accusation, narrowing his eyes like he’d caught him in a lie.
“Vivienne told me,” Dorian said plaintively. “She thought it was very sweet. I didn’t realize how dense it was to assume you would know they were gifts.”
Cullen was silent for a long moment, dumbfounded. They stood facing one another, Cullen still braced on the counter, Dorian covering his face, the only sound being the faint din of traffic going by outside.
He struggled to find some other argument, but they all dried up on his tongue.
An apology for alarming him with the funeral flowers, new attraction, strength and beauty, and the note in the last one… he’d assumed that Dorian had been courting someone, but had hated each set and considered them not good enough for whoever he was seeing.
Dorian was courting someone, but it was him. God, he was blind.
“Oh my god,” Cullen said quietly, echoing Dorian’s earlier desperate embarrassment, his own face glowing like a flare. “I’m so sorry, I just thought—I’m not— This isn’t something I’m very good at.” He struggled to explain himself, the mortification strong enough to make him consider for one absurd moment bringing his apron up over his head to shield himself from his own stupidity.
But Dorian had lowered his own hands and was now staring at him, expression complicated.
There was a long, awkward pause.
“We’ve made quite a mess out of this, haven’t we?” Dorian finally said, his tone sardonic and self-deprecating.
Cullen laughed awkwardly, trying to stifle it before finding that he couldn’t stop, covering his mouth with one hand as he crumpled into ceaseless, embarrassed laughter. Dorian’s expression broke as he joined him a moment later, his elbows on the counter as he put his face back in his hands, giggling helplessly.
What a sight they must make, both embarrassed and giggling in his shop like idiot children. Cullen was just grateful that nobody had walked in on this entire scene. Losing his temper in his shop like that was beyond unprofessional, but now that didn’t seem to matter too much.
“God, I’m so sorry I assumed the worst of you,” Cullen said once he’d regained the ability to speak.
“I can’t blame you, really. My first impression must have been unhinged and utterly sociopathic,” Dorian responded, grinning ruefully. This only made Cullen devolve into another bout, his cheeks starting to hurt from the foreign experience.
When an odd, uncertain silence finally settled between them, seemingly emboldened, Dorian straightened up and cleared his throat.
“Well, now that my master plan has fallen apart, what do you say we try this again?” he asked, a slightly mischievous grin on his face.
Cullen knew his face was still vibrantly red, but he couldn’t help but feel rather shy as he ducked his head, looking up through his lashes.
“I’d like that.”
Dorian’s grin turned into a beatific smile, and Cullen felt his stomach flip, suddenly giddy enough that he was nearly high on it in the wake of his misplaced anger.
“Dinner, then? My treat, to make up for my overly-complicated attempts at flirtation.”
“I’d like that,” Cullen said again, the warmth in his chest growing and soothing away hurt and misunderstandings, leaving quiet hope in its wake.