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Dandelions and Lilies
A summer job in the florists was great, so long as certain people at school did not find out. Being physically small and unimposing, Steve was already considered an effeminate joke. And yes, Steve knew there was nothing wrong with being traditionally feminine, and he knew being insulted by it meant he was giving credence to the patriarchal assumption that being feminine was inherently inferior to being masculine, but still. It was hard not to take ‘girly’ as an insult when it was intended as one.
So no, there were certain people at school Steve would not be telling about this. Otherwise, the job was great. The old couple that owned and ran the place, Mr and Mrs Flynn, were friends of his mother’s, and had approached Steve to see if he wanted the job for a few months. They knew all about his health problems and were quite happy to let him sit down while he worked, which was more than could be said for every other store Steve had tried to work at. He usually lasted about two days before his traitorous joints locked up so much he couldn’t even get out of bed. They were fine with him using his inhaler, even in front of customers, or stepping out for air if the pollens and the scents got too much. The colour blindness was more of a problem, but they had given him a chance anyway, and Steve had soon got used to identifying flowers and plants by their shape and scent, even if they weren’t the same colour in his eyes as they apparently were in everyone else’s. Steve had gotten pretty good at arranging bouquets, their beauty in the shape and sculpture and arrangement of them. By Steve’s second week, Mr Flynn had looked at one of his bouquets and laughed, saying there was nothing more they could teach him.
It wasn’t true, of course. But it meant that they had been happy to disappear off to ‘summer’ with some relatives out of state and leave Steve in sole charge of the store. And so, he was there on his own when the young man burst in, rushing through the door.
‘I’m so glad you’re open,’ he said, practically crashing into the counter. ‘This is an emergency. A floral emergency. What flowers express deep, deep sorrow?’
Steve blinked at him. It was as if his brain had shorted out when the guy had thrown the door open like a violent gust of wind. You never got high school boys in here, at least, not on their own. Around prom there would be a few reluctant suitors dragged in by their mothers to buy corsages, but that was about it. This guy was alone. He was also, Steve couldn’t help but notice, beautiful. Stunning. Steve’s tongue tied into knots just looking at him. But the exquisitely tailored suit he was wearing was all black, meaning he must be on his way to a funeral, meaning Steve definitely couldn’t attempt to flirt. Not that he was really planning to. His mouth was totally dry, his tongue dead and useless. The beautiful guy was blinking at him now, oh hell, Steve had taken too long to reply, he must look so dumb; and now handsome funeral goer was waving his hands and – wait, was that ASL? It was, but Steve didn’t know it, and anyway he wasn’t deaf and –
‘Lilies!’ He blurted finally, hastily turning to their bucket and plucking out some choice stems, trying to stop his cheeks from burning. He wrapped them up in damp newspaper and then decorative wrapping – a sombre navy blue – and the guy handed him the money, smiled brilliantly as he thanked Steve, and dashed out as quickly as he’d come.
Steve sat down in his chair behind the counter, heavily. The shop suddenly seemed so quiet that he could hear the erratic pounding of his heart. He hoped that didn’t show up on his next cardiogram.
He looked round the shop, the buckets and boxes of cut flowers and bouquets, the trays of seedlings and shelves of houseplants, the ceiling trellis full of heavy wisteria flowers that Mr Flynn had been gradually growing since they opened almost forty years ago, but he didn’t see any of it. He felt completely dazed. Like he’d just skipped over a line between ‘before’ and ‘after’ that was always going to divide his life.
What just happened?
(‘So the love of his life walked through the door,’ Bucky would say, years later, in his best man speech. ‘And Steve knows it, right? He knew. Love at first sight and all that crap. And the only word he could get out, the only thing he could say to his literal soulmate, was “Uuuuuuuuuh, lilies?”.’ The guests would laugh, and so would Tony, and Steve would blush; but Tony would squeeze his hand and Steve would smile.)
The next day, Steve was in the store watering the plants and trying not to think about lily guy, and whether he would come back, and who the funeral was for, when lily guy himself burst in, just as suddenly and dramatically as before.
‘Lilies are for condolences,’ He said, before the door had even shut behind him. ‘Lilies are sorry you’re dead flowers. I needed sorry I took your car apart to make improvements and the improvements turned out to be significantly more flammable than intended flowers. My friend was not impressed that I got her lilies after “almost killing her”. Some people are so dramatic.’
‘Oh,’ Steve said, turning the head on the hose to switch it off and to try and cover his confusion. ‘Well, you should have been more specific.’
Lily guy laughed and shrugged. He was still wearing the black suit, although now that Steve looked again, he noticed the jacket had some kind of insignia on the front pocket. After a second, he placed it. It was on the uniforms for the fancy private school a few blocks away. Maybe they finished later for summer. Either way, it probably wasn’t what you’d wear to a funeral. Oops.
‘So,’ Lily guy said, inspecting his name tag. ‘Steve. I’m Tony. And now we know each other, do you have any flowers that say sorry I took your car apart etcetera etcetera?’
‘I think you’re overestimating the complexity of what you can say with flowers,’ Steve said. He desperately wanted to ask exactly what Tony had done to this car, but it seemed rude to. It was stereotypical of him, but Steve couldn’t visualise Tony working on cars at all. He always imagined mechanics looking like, well, his friend Bucky; who was working in a garage that summer. Tony looked like the sort of guy who should be lazing by the pool, or designing interiors, or something. Still, Steve stored this little nugget of information away like a dragon jealously guarding his hoard. He wanted to know everything about Tony. He just didn’t know how to ask.
Maybe Tony felt it too. Maybe he was here to ask for his number. Steve’s heart started to hammer again.
‘Okay,’ Tony said. ‘What about You are smart, I am dumb? Can they manage that?’
And Steve opened his mouth to say that he didn’t know, he really did. He was going to say that he didn’t know the meanings of flowers, only how to put them together artistically. He was going to advise Tony to just get something beautiful, in the recipient’s favourite colours, and write an apology in the card. But instead he found himself saying, ‘Sure, we can do that.’
(‘And the next time Tony showed up,’ Bucky would say, as the laughter died down. ‘This stupid punk looks into those big brown doe eyes of his and can’t bear to let him down and so lies about what the different flowers symbolise.’ The laughter would start up again, and Steve would hide his face, embarrassed, and Tony would be giggling and trying to pry his hands away just as Pepper would call out ‘To be fair, James, he did ask for flowers to symbolise sorry I blew up your car!’ and Tony would groan theatrically and hide his face too, and later the two of them would agree that they needed better friends, and neither of them would mean it in the slightest.)
The next day, Tony came back again, startling Steve. He’d been sitting at the counter, writing on the back of an old receipt all the lies he had told Tony just in case and now, here Tony was, catching him in the act.
Steve wasn’t a good liar, and he’d been so nervous the day before about being caught, but it had been too late. So he had arranged the best bouquet he could, told Tony ‘Carnations symbolise the self, and peonies symbolise the recipient. Lily of the valley is knowledge, and gladioli can indicate a lack. And you put them clockwise to give the order of the sentence.’
It was absolute nonsense, but Tony had gone away delighted, and Steve had felt guilty ever since. But even so, he hadn’t wanted to forget what he said. So there he was, making a list (Arrange clockwise. Carnations = Self, Peonies = Other/recipient), when Tony turned up. He hastily swept it into his pocket and shot to his feet, trying not to look too guilty.
‘Uh, am I interrupting?’ Tony asked, amused. ‘Were you looking at a dirty magazine, Steve?’ He hopped up to sit on the counter, the same way Bucky did whenever he came by. When Bucky did it, Steve always swatted him to get down, but he found he didn’t mind when Tony did it. Actually, he kind of liked it; and the familiarity it implied.
‘No!’ Steve said, though he was flushing. His traitorous skin felt like it was on fire.
‘Riiiight,’ Tony drawled, raising his eyebrows. ‘Well, excuse me for interrupting your “alone time” but-’
‘I wasn’t-!’
Tony laughed. ‘I know, I know. Take it down a notch, beautiful, or I might start suspecting you really were doing something naughty.’
That didn’t help, at all. Every drop of blood in Steve’s anaemic body seemed to be rushing to his face and neck. Beautiful, his brain repeated. Beautiful. He imagined his brain was like an old record player, jumping and skipping over the same spot again and again. Beautiful.
Tony had also said naughty, with a great deal of suggestion in his eyes, but Steve couldn’t think about that. Not in the workplace. Nope.
But Tony had called him – him! – beautiful. It was just a turn of phrase, Steve knew, a flippant moment, but still. Still.
‘Can, can I help you with something?’ He stammered out. Part of him hoped Tony would say no, that he had just come in to say hi, but no. He was here to buy flowers. Of course he was. Why else would anyone come into a florist? Today, he said, he was buying pre-emptively.
‘I kind of lied to my mom,’ he said, wincing. ‘And I’m pretty sure she’s going to have found out by the time I get home.’
‘Wouldn’t it be easier to just do whatever it was you said you did?’ Steve asked. ‘It would definitely be cheaper.’
Tony blinked at him. ‘Huh?’
‘I thought you probably lied to your mom about doing some chore,’ Steve said, suddenly wondering why he had assumed that. Possibly because, after forgetting to take the trash out the night before, he had snuck it out this morning but told his ma that no, he didn’t forget, look, the trash is empty, see? He still felt guilty over even this small lie. He prided himself on his honesty, and yet, when the truth would lead to disappointing someone, it was like his brain clicked off. He’d panic and lie and get himself into a much bigger mess. He just couldn’t bear to have let people down, even though he knew, really, the lie was letting them down more.
He realised then that Tony was speaking. Steve’s guilt spiral had momentarily drowned him out, and now he had no idea what Tony had lied about and no idea how to react.
‘Uh, I’m sure she won’t be that mad,’ he offered, lamely, hoping the lie was something suitably minor and not that Tony had hidden a dead body somewhere.
Tony snorted. ‘You don’t know Italians. I need the flowers to distract her, knock her off balance from her rage. Something that says I deeply regret lying and also you’re beautiful.’
Beautiful. There was that word again, and about his mother. Tony obviously just used it as his adjective for everyone. Steve swallowed his disappointment and forced himself to focus, trying to remember which flowers he had already used. Tony would definitely notice if he doubled up on meanings.
‘Okay, well, uh…’ Steve scanned the shop. The bouquet would have to have peonies and carnations, he knew, to mean I and you. He couldn’t remember which was supposed to be which just then, but he would have to cross that bridge when he came to it. He looked round at the selection of cut flowers, trying to put a bouquet together in his head, before working backwards to assign them meanings. At least if he was going to lie, he would make sure Tony’s mom got a beautiful bouquet out of it. He swallowed nervously and started gathering flowers. ‘Peonies and carnations, obviously.’
‘The recipient and the self,’ Tony nodded his understanding. ‘And it’s pink roses for beauty, right?’
‘Yes!’ Steve said, seizing on the idea. It sounded right. He took some blooms out of the rose bucket and placed them with the others on the counter.
‘Oh, is it white roses?’ Tony asked.
‘No, no, you were right. Pink roses for beauty. Red is for love, obviously, and white is for, um... purity?'
'Um, yeah, but...' Tony pointed awkwardly at the roses on the counter. ‘Those are white.’
‘Oh.’ Steve said. The Flynns had kindly labelled all the buckets for him in case of exactly these kinds of situations, and he had selected stems from the one labelled pink roses. Unfortunately, Steve struggled to tell certain shades apart, and he had been the one to refill the containers with fresh blooms that morning. Which was, admittedly, a flaw in the plan. ‘Sorry, I’ll just…’
He put the apparently white roses into the correct bucket, and stared at the others. The reds were deeply saturated and easy to spot, but there was so little difference between pink and white. He squinted at them desperately, wishing he had never mentioned colours at all.
‘Here,’ Tony said, selecting a few flowers. ‘How many do you need? Three? Four?’
‘Six,’ Steve said. ‘If you want to get on her good side.’
‘I really do,’ Tony sighed, and chose a few more flowers, adding them to the counter. ‘So… a colour blind florist, huh? I’d never have guessed, your bouquets are all stunning.’
‘Because maybe colours aren’t as important as shape and structure,’ Steve said. ‘Or, you know. I can see colours. Just… mine don’t look the same as everyone else’s. So I work by saturation levels and figure if it looks good to me, it will to other people too. It’s only a problem when…’ he trailed off, shrugging.
‘When assholes like me come in demanding certain colours,’ Tony finished. ‘Oops, sorry. I don’t suppose there’s a sorry I assumed you weren’t visually impaired that was very ableist of me flower, is there?’
Steve laughed. ‘No, I don’t think so. Let’s just focus on your mom’s flowers for now.’
‘Right,’ Tony said, fingering the sets of flowers one by one. ‘So far we have I, you, beauty. So we still need sorry, lied and are.’ He looked up at Steve. ‘Is there one for are? I mean, that seems like kind of a dumb thing for a flower to symbolise, right?’
‘Uh, right.’ Steve said, despite the fact he had just picked out some dahlias for that exact purpose. ‘Yeah, flower language isn’t, uh, thorough with it’s grammar. But we can get the point across. These are dahlias, they stand for deceit.’
‘Really?’ Tony said. ‘You’d think they’re a bit, you know, too pretty for that.’
‘Maybe,’ Steve said. ‘But people don’t tend to want, I don’t know, Venus fly traps, in their bouquets.’
Tony’s eyes lit up. ‘For future reference, I would absolutely want that!’
As he grinned, Steve knew his own face was mirroring it right back. He loved that he could make Tony laugh. He loved that for future reference implied that Tony intended to keep this acquaintance going. It was nothing, less than a scrap, a bread crumb of affection – but Steve treasured it anyway. He couldn’t help it.
(On the morning of the wedding, Steve would add Venus fly traps as an accent to Tony’s buttonhole and bouquet, as a last minute surprise. He would imagine Tony’s face when he saw them, and smile.)
The rest of that month, Tony spent a fortune on bouquets. Steve found himself watching the clock, waiting for 4PM to roll around, knowing – hoping – that it would bring Tony soon after. He spent longer and longer in the shop every day, talking and laughing with Steve, telling him about some invention or experiment, because science was basically his hobby, and trying to learn the basics of putting together a flower arrangement. It did not go well.
‘Why do mine never look any good?’ Tony complained. Steve was barely listening. Tony had told him this was his last day of school before summer break. Tomorrow morning, he would be flying out to spend the vacation with his mother at some European resort and wouldn’t be back until school restarted. Which meant Steve needed to get his number, today. Except every time he tried to ask, he lost his nerve. Besides, Tony hadn’t asked for his either, so maybe he didn’t want it. It couldn’t be shyness; Tony usually oozed confidence. Except when he was holding a handful of mismatched flowers that were already wilting because he’d forgotten to keep the ends wet.
‘You’re too scattered,’ Steve tried to explain. ‘Some flowers just don’t look good together. You should start with your favourites and then build up from there with complementary kinds.’
Tony wrinkled his nose. He’d taken off his school jacket – a blazer, he called it – and his sleeves were rolled up, his tie loose. He looked relaxed and Steve loved it. ‘I don’t know if I have a favourite, I only heard of most of these once I started hanging out here.’
‘I only learnt for the job,’ Steve admitted. ‘Still, you can choose a favourite now.’
‘Yeah?’ Tony half smiled, thought for a moment, and then said decisively, ‘Dandelions. They’re my favourite.’
Steve huffed a laugh. ‘They’re weeds.’
Tony shrugged. ‘I don’t think a flower should get called a weed just because it’s better at being a plant than other plants.’
‘But they’re so invasive.’
‘Maybe they’re just sociable.’
‘Sociable? Seriously?’
‘Yeah. Maybe a little socially awkward.’
‘They’re stubborn, you can’t get rid of them.’
‘Resilient. Strong.’
‘Kind of ugly.’
‘Beautiful.’
‘Uncontrollable.’
‘They kind of remind me of you.’
At that, Steve’s brain completely short circuited. As they’d debated, they must have been getting closer and closer together because now Steve could practically feel Tony’s small smile against his skin, could almost feel his breath on his cheek. Which was more than could be said for Steve’s own breath, which seemed to have stopped completely. Judging by the burning in his cheeks, nowhere else was getting a blood supply. He might suffocate because of that smile. He might faint. And if what Steve thought might happen happened, if they kissed right now, he might actually pass out. Which would be super embarrassing. He inched forward all the same, just a little. Tony inched forward too.
‘Well, hello there, dandelion,’ he murmured, his hand coming up to rest against Steve’s chest. Even through his shirt, the touch burned. Steve wanted to lift his arms to touch Tony back, but they weren’t working. The scent of flowers was overwhelming, suddenly, and he couldn’t breathe. His heart was beating erratically. His vision was blurring, going dark. He tried to say – to say – something, anyway, but all that came out was a slurred mess.
Oh no.
(Bucky would not mention this part, in his speech.)
Tony’s lips brushed his gently. At least, Steve thought they did. He was blind and everything felt very far away.
(He’d been warned not to, but Steve hadn’t been sure he would listen.)
For a moment Steve thought the kiss had been just to the corner of his mouth, but then, no. Half of it had gone numb. It was probably sagging, ugly.
‘Steve? Oh – oh no.’
(Then again, whenever Bucky teased him about this moment, Tony would tense up, and his smile wouldn’t meet his eyes.)
‘Okay, okay,’ Steve could hear the barely concealed panic in Tony’s voice. ‘Steve, Steve? Can you lift your arms for me, beautiful?’
Steve couldn’t. He wasn’t even sure he had arms any more. They might have been gone somewhere, in the dark and the scents. But he tried anyway.
(Bucky had noticed too, recently, and never mentioned it anymore.)
‘Steve, say something.’ Tony commanded, still sounding terrified. Steve wished he could calm him down. Explain this happened all the time. Well, not all the time, but enough. Pretty routine.
(Steve had to be careful not to slur his speech when he was sleepy or ill, or if he did, to make sure he moved his arms. Just to reassure Tony everything was fine.)
‘Steve?’ Tony said again, and hadn’t Steve wanted to ask him something? This was probably their last afternoon together in the shop.
‘I need your number,’ he said, or tried to. What came out was a mess of strange, slobbery, guttering sounds, as if his tongue had melted away with his vision.
(Tony hadn’t been used to this kind of thing, then.)
‘I’m calling 911,’ Tony said. ‘Hang tight, beautiful.’
(It had probably traumatised him.)
Beautiful, again. Steve tried to smile, and quietly succumbed to unconsciousness.
(It had definitely traumatised him.)
(The embarrassment had traumatised Steve.)
(Even though it hadn’t happened because of Tony’s touch.)
(TIAs were not caused by touch, however attracted to someone you were.)
(No matter what Bucky said.)
(It was a good thing too, or Steve would have had a million strokes by now. Or worse, given that they had gotten up to a lot more than touching over the years.)
(Possibly not what he should be thinking about at their wedding breakfast.)
(It was a suitable topic for their wedding night, though.)
(Definitely suitable for tonight.)
When Steve woke up at the hospital, Tony wasn’t there. Of course he wasn’t. He was in Europe, somewhere. He had called 911, ridden with Steve in the ambulance, seen him admitted; then had somehow managed to track down the phone number for Mr and Mrs Flynn, who had contacted Steve’s mom and made arrangements for the shop to be closed up. Tony had sat with Steve and his mom for hours and hours, until his driver turned up and gently told him it was time to leave. And he’d left.
As his mom and the doctors explained what had happened - a transient ischaemic attack, TIA, or mini-stroke caused by his heart conditions, blah blah blah, as if Steve hadn’t been through this at least three times before – Steve’s mind was already racing ahead. Tony hadn’t left a number and his mom hadn’t thought to ask, but Steve knew where Tony would be in September. He would just have to cut his last class of the day, or maybe skip the whole first day of school, and get the bus over to Tony’s school and wait by the gates until Tony appeared and then, and then - everything.
Bucky arrived then, still in his grease-stained jeans and shirt from his job. ‘We really must stop meeting like this, Steve,’ he deadpanned, and settled into the seat beside Steve’s mom. ‘Especially when you missed movie night.’ Steve had been out for almost twenty four hours.
The next day, Tony still wasn’t there. Steve missed him.
(Switzerland was a long way away.)
The day after that, Steve got out of hospital and missed Tony even more. He kept checking his contacts as if the name and number could magically appear there, or as if he could have somehow have forgotten Tony giving it to him.
(‘Tony was abroad with his parents,’ Bucky would say. ‘The two of them tragically separated before they could even admit how horny they were for each other.’)
The next day, Steve wanted to go back to the shop, even though he knew Tony wouldn’t be there. His mom said no and headed to work.
(‘Bucky!’)
The doorbell rang. Steve hauled himself off the couch and slowly dragged his disobedient body to answer the door.
(‘But, you know what they say – love finds a way. In this case, a courier with his arms full of flowers.’)
The bouquet was so large that Steve could scarcely get it through the door. It would be too big for a single vase, he knew, but it was exquisitely arranged and he did not want to break it up; at least not yet. He managed to stand it in the sink, then settled himself on a chair to look it over properly.
It was beautiful, much better than anything Steve could have achieved. Nestled in amongst the wrapping and a decorative layer of fern strands were carnations, lilies of the valley, peonies, dahlias and – yes, Steve reached forward and ran his fingers over it just to be sure – what was definitely a single dandelion, right in the middle. He was already smiling when he reached for the card that had been attached:
Dear Dandelion,
Carnation = I
Lily of the Valley = Know
Peony = You
(are)
Dahlia = Lying
Call me.
Love, your secret admirer
At the bottom of the card was the pressed head of a red rose – for love, Steve remembered, definitely love – and on each of the petals, in delicate ink, was the digit of a phone number.
(‘And the rest,’ Bucky would say, ‘We all know.’ And he would raise his glass to toast the happy couple.)