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It’s possible, Shouto supposes, that this owning a business thing is slightly more complicated than it he originally anticipated. He can’t help but think that semester of a business class he’d been forced to attend in college left him totally unprepared for the realities of selling goods and services to the general public.
This sudden change in career paths was, not surprisingly, the result of his father. After overbearing insistence that Shouto join his company upon graduation, Shouto displayed to his father the equivalent of two middle fingers to the face and stomped off to start his own business in retaliation.
The flower shop part, however? Entirely by fortunate accident.
In the way he’s found most ingenious ideas to materialize, Shouto happened upon the possibility of owning a flower shop in the shower. It’s common knowledge that extraordinary endeavors sometimes have very, very humble beginnings.
Under the onslaught of water upon his heterochromatic hair, he happened upon pure greatness.
Or so he thought.
It’s not so much the money part, or even the talking to customers part that Shouto struggles with, which would be rather expected problems concerning business, or even concerning Shouto himself.
He’s perfectly capable of keeping his business afloat financially, if the millions of dollars in his trust fund that his father forgot to rescind upon Shouto’s proverbial fuck you are any indication.
Additionally, he prides himself on the tremendous growth he’s made when it comes to interactions with others. Contrary to popular belief, it seems, he feels at ease in conversation, with friend or foe. Or customer, in this case, which very well could be both. He rules out no possibility.
Sure, the aftermath of his very articulate and rather blunt style of communication is often a facial expression being a puzzling cross between bewilderment and constipation, but he considers that to not particularly be a problem on his end. He doesn’t express judgement, either way.
The real problem with this flower shop venture is this: Shouto is embarrassingly illiterate in the language of flowers, or in the names of flowers, or anything concerning flowers at all. He’s never bought a bouquet of anything for someone else, familial or romantic, in his entire life. He knows which flowers look pretty, which happens to not be tactical in nature but a matter of opinion. And that’s about the extent of his knowledge.
It is, perhaps, something he should have considered before purchasing a lease for the office space and buying thousands of dollars' worth of floral interior design.
Which, by the way, happens to be the one thing truly going for his little corner of business. Despite Shouto’s rather lacking skills in floral arrangement, the furnishing arrangement of his shop is a tasteful combination of aesthetically pleasing and pragmatic. It’s all pastel color gradients and simple art.
That, and the embroidered apron that his sister stitched for him.
He’s tried everything under the sun to fix this increasingly persisting problem of incompetence, however. Research, memorization, flash cards. Plus, one rather peculiar suggestion by courtesy of Bakugou—repeatedly banging his head on a table. All with hopeless results.
Regardless, Shouto continues on, undeterred by what he considers only a minor setback.
It serves to be a problem on multiple occasions, as it turns out.
A hand slaps onto the beige counter out of nowhere. “Oi! Half ‘n half.”
Shouto looks up from where he's been resolutely staring for the past hour.
It’s Bakugou, looking particularly disgruntled—more so than he normally does, if that’s possible. A prime example of customer toeing the fine line between friend and foe. Shouto considers Bakugou a friend but isn’t particularly sure if Bakugou feels the same way.
However, he finds it doesn’t affect him. They’re clearly best buds, regardless.
“Oh, hey Bakugou,” Shouto says in return. He glances at the walls around them thoughtfully. “Wonderful weather we’re having, don’t you agree?”
They’re indoors. Bakugou realizes this before Shouto does, apparently.
“Alright, stop with the platitudes already,” he says irritably. “I need your help.”
Shouto can't help but feel a little perplexed at the sudden request. “So,” he says, gnawing at his lip. “You want to buy flowers?”
“No,” Bakugou says. “I wanted to exchange pointless conversation with you.”
Shouto nods in understanding. “I can do both,” he assures, in case there’s any doubt.
Bakugou rolls his eyes. “Obviously I want to buy flowers, you idiot. That’s what I’m in your damn shop for. Are you stupid?”
“Well, you just referred to me as an idiot,” Shouto points out helpfully. “So I assume you have the answer to your own question.”
“That was a rhetorical question!” Bakugou snaps. “Now shut up and help me.”
Shouto shrugs. “What are you looking for? I didn’t know you were the type to want to get flowers for somebody,” he says, slightly confused. It is uncharacteristic, after all, for someone like Bakugou. “What’s the occasion?”
He takes a moment to examine Bakugou. His face is flushing a brighter and brighter shade of red with every passing second, whether from anger or impatience or embarrassment or something else, Shouto can’t discern.
“None of your fucking business!” he snarls.
Shouto disagrees—he happens to think it’s very much his business. Because it is quite literally his business . However, he refrains from saying so.
Instead, he nods in understanding. “Alright. I can work with that,” he says. “Let’s see what I can do.”
Bakugou watches silently, eyes narrow and shrewd as Shouto fumbles in a drawer and pulls out a quaintly embroidered scrapbook full of prearranged flower bouquets. “There’s bound to be some floral arrangement in here that strikes your fancy. Even for someone as thuggish as you, I suppose.”
Bakugou suddenly reaches over the counter and yanks Shouto by the collar of his pastel pink uniform, glaring at him heatedly. “What was that, asshole?”
Shouto just stares back at him silently. He glances at Bakugou’s fisted hand in his shirt, and then back at his bright red eyes, expression almost comically deadpan.
In an instant, he’s released. He adjusts his collar and continues as if nothing had happened. After all, Shouto is nothing if not intrepid, especially when it comes to all things Bakugou.
He opens the book to the first page. There are four photos of flower arrangements on it, unlabeled, as Shouto’s better at visually identifying them then remembering names.
The second one’s rather pretty. Shouto’s about to recommend that one to Bakugou after he’s finished grumbling to himself about something or another.
“Okay,” Bakugou says. “I need some way to say fuck you in flower. As in, fuck you I hate you so much, but also we’re not really enemies anymore, we’re actually friends, so I can’t really say that anymore. But lately you’ve been making me feel feelings and I’d really not like to feel that way. You’re super fucking annoying in the way you constantly mumble about random shit all the time and the way you always get flustered and it makes me want to either punch you or kiss you on your stupidly attractive face. Plus the fact that you’d probably never like me any more than just a friend because you’re too fucking friendly to every single person for your own good. Which just annoys me even more so I just really want you to leave me alone. But also I can’t not be around you so I don’t know what to fucking do, so yeah.”
At the end of Bakugou’s speech, Shouto’s left speech less . That was all in one breath. He’s not entirely sure even someone fluent in the language of flowers could help Bakugou at this point. Bakugou’s miraculously turned into Midoriya.
But, alas, he’s paying Shouto for a reason. And so, he shall deliver.
Once he eventually regathers his wits about him, Shouto says slowly, “Well, that’s oddly specific. Anybody you have in mind to gift these to?”
Just to stir the proverbial pot. He might as well try to have his own fun if he can’t stick it as an actual florist.
“No,” Bakugou growls.
This is obviously a lie, as he can certainly think of the specific person that Bakugou is describing, but he doesn’t share this aloud. He’s rather proud of Bakugou for crushing his pride enough to share this with Shouto. He doesn’t share this aloud either. His decorations are too aesthetically arranged for it to be ruined in a scuffle.
Shouto peers at the book again. Thoughtfully, he turns the page. Once, twice. He points to a random flower arrangement of red and white. “This one’s pretty.”
Bakugou scoffs. “And what is called, exactly?”
Shouto pauses. “Uh,” he says.
He chews his lip and narrows his eyebrows in concentration. He can’t for the life of him remember.
After a long, thoughtful second, he shrugs earnestly. “I don’t know.”
Bakugou looks like he wants to punch the wall directly next to Shouto’s face, or maybe even in Shouto’s face. He’s not exactly certain which. “You still don’t know any fucking flower names? Are you kidding me?”
“Of course I know flower names,” Shouto says. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Yeah?” Bakugou challenges. “Then humor me.”
“Well,” Shouto begins. He surveys the decorations around his shop, looking for a flower he knows. He points at two bright red baskets bunched together in the far corner. “Those are roses.”
Bakugou rolls his eyes a little violently. “I swear, a three-year-old knows that those are roses, stupid.”
Shouto shrugs, entirely blithe. “You’re the one who asked.”
Bakugou starts to splutter, throwing his hands up in aggravation, but Shouto smoothly ignores him and continues to page through the scrapbook. He finds a picture of vividly colored blossoms bunched together upon a single stem, in bright oranges and pinks and reds.
In an effort to figure out the identity of these mysterious flowers, Shouto consults the all-knowing source, the internet. He tries his level best to describe the flowers in such a way that his search engine can recognize them immediately.
After he does so, it informs him that the flowers happen to be geraniums.
“Huh,” Shouto says. He pokes Bakugou’s arm hard to get his attention. “Look. These are geraniums.”
Bakugou stares at him, deadpan. Shouto assumes he’s trying his level best to contain his anger. “You only know that because you searched it up, dumbass.”
“Sure,” he agrees absentmindedly. He scrolls a little bit more on his phone, reading. “Huh.” He pokes Bakugou again. “Did you know that according to the old Victorian London meaning, geraniums symbolize stupidity and foolishness?”
“Yeah, so basically you if you were a fucking flower,” Bakugou retorts.
Shouto stares at the picture on his phone of the flowers. This one happens to be a combination of red and white, in shades that match his own hair almost exactly. He picks up the phone and shows this to Bakugou. “Hm. I suppose you’re right.”
Bakugou visibly grits his teeth in irritation, but Shouto easily ignores it.
Suddenly, the door to his shop opens, and the telltale bell that sounds lets him know it.
Shouto brightens. He’s never had two customers at once before. This is a rare phenomenon not to be taken lightly or for granted.
“Hello, Todoroki-kun! I hope you’re not busy!” A voice says enthusiastically.
It just so happens that the voice’s owner belongs to Midoriya. He’s craning his head and staring at Shouto’s marvelous decorations in awe. Shouto nods in silent approval.
“I wanted to buy some fl—” Midoriya stops dead in his tracks once he realizes that Bakugou happens to be here too. He stares at his muscled back in shock for a rather comical length of time.
“Eeeep!” he yelps. Midoriya attempts to flee the shop, presumably before Bakugou has a chance to notice he’s there. This is futile, as Bakugou had noticed his presence the second his voice sounded through the shop.
“Deku?” he calls. He too is staring, but Shouto wouldn’t describe it as shock. It's more like he’s horrified.
Shouto can do nothing but look between them.
Midoriya makes his attempt to flee, but on the way, he bumps his forehead into the closed door and falls to the floor, knocking down one of Shouto’s precious flower baskets in the process.
“Oof!” he says as he lands on his back.
Both Bakugou and Shouto rush to where he fell to make sure he wasn’t hurt.
“Why are you so damn clumsy?” Bakugou admonishes under his breath, shaking his head in disbelief. He holds out a hand to Midoriya to help him up, but Midoriya’s too busy staring at his face. Now, he looks absolutely mortified on top of in shock.
Midoriya laughs nervously, scratching his neck from where he’s still on the floor. “Uhm,” he says, instead of providing an answer. “Hi, uh…Hi, Kacchan.”
“Take my hand, idiot,” Bakugou says in lieu of a hello in return.
Midoriya has no choice but to comply. However, his eyes do not leave their joined hands as Bakugou helps him up off the floor.
Interesting. Very interesting.
“So, uh, are you here to buy flowers?” Midoriya asks. “Trying to impress someone?”
The anxiety between those words is terribly obvious.
“No, of course not, idiot,” Bakugou grits out. “They’re for, uh, my mom.”
There’s a pause. “Oh,” Midoriya says quizzically. He doesn’t sound particularly relieved at the clarification.
Shouto notes that this is incorrect. The way Bakugou described the message he wanted to convey through means of flower could in no reasonable way be applied to his mother, and both Shouto and Bakugou know this.
“Why are you here?” Bakugou says suspiciously.
“Um. Getting flowers for my mom?” Midoriya offers, and it sounds more like a question than it probably should.
Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it—Shouto has concluded that both Midoriya and Bakugou are profoundly stupid. Neither of them notices the obvious. They continue to stare at each other with a paradoxical mixture of suspicion and hopeless longing while Shouto is caught in between.
“So,” Shouto says conversationally, helpfully breaking the silence. “Have you by chance decided what flowers you’d like to get?”
“No,” Bakugou grits out in frustration. “Just forget it.”
And with that, he storms out of the shop, apparently having lost the courage to buy Midoriya flowers.
Midoriya blinks, stunned by the incredibly awkward interaction. He stares at the spot where Bakugou stormed out.
Shouto can only gift him a smile of pity in return.
“Ah,” Midoriya says after a few minutes, “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to make him mad.”
“I doubt it’s you he’s mad at,” Shouto responds and means it. He’s clearly angry at himself for being a coward, but Shouto isn’t about to tell Midoriya that. And he can take that how he will.
His friend looks at his shoes, obviously not believing the sentiment. “I guess I’ll go then...”
Shouto can only stare at Midoriya’s retreating back as he leaves the shop. He doesn’t think the mood is quite appropriate for him to say, “I’ll seed you later.” Instead, he saves that one for later.
He sighs, slumping back into his chair behind the counter. He started the day with zero customers and ended the day with zero customers. It’s a shame, really.
With no method of solving the problem of his shop’s pitiful lack of foot traffic, Shouto decides to ponder the other clear issue—his friends are in desperate need of a helping hand. A nudge in the right direction, if you will.
It doesn’t take long before he's devised the perfect solution.
Unfortunately, it requires a little research on his part. However, Shouto is nothing if not a devoted friend. Sacrifices made in the name of friendship are indeed not sacrifices at all.
Shouto casts a glance at the emptiness of his shop and sighs, again. With nothing better to commit himself to, he begins to tackle the root of the problem.
Thistle work out. Definitely.
The next morning, Shouto returns and opens up shop after a long night of floral arrangement. It was much more time consuming than he expected, which shouldn’t come as a surprise to anybody other than Shouto. He’s supposed to be a florist. It’s in the job description.
He settles in his chair behind the counter. Now, all there is to do is wait.
As it turns out, Shouto doesn’t have to wait very long. He spots the ghastly shadow of Bakugou cast onto the floor before he notices Bakugou himself.
He storms into the shop with all the grace of a bull in a China shop, and Shouto would find it funny if Bakugou wasn’t glaring at him with an intensity he hasn’t seen directed at him since their high school days. Smoke might as well be coming out of his ears.
He’s holding a bouquet of flowers in his hand—blossoms of pink and white camellias. Shouto’s finest work, if he does say so himself. Or perhaps more accurately, his only work.
Sadly, Shouto’s hard work is practically stomped on and thrown in the garbage with the way Bakugou slams it down on the counter table.
“You’re dead, you half ‘n half bastard!”
Shouto feigns a confused expression, as if he isn’t directly responsible. Both him and Bakugou know this, and he pulls Shouto threateningly by the collar once again.
“What the hell were you thinking? Sending these flowers to Deku pretending to be me?”
Shouto cocks his head. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Bullshit!” Bakugou sticks his hand in his pocket and pulls out a notecard with a personalized message on it, the ones Shouto sells with his arrangements. “You’re telling me you didn’t write this? I think you’re iris-sistible. ”
“What in carnation ,” he says under his breath.
Bakugou's face twists violently and Shouto resists the urge to laugh. “You’re proving my point exactly!”
He shrugs. What can he say? He’s facetious at heart. “Somebody sure is thorny today.”
Shouto braces for a sudden attack to the face when the door opens again, interrupting them.
“Kacchan!” Midoriya bursts into the shop.
Shouto waves at his friend innocently, as if Bakugou isn’t still gripping him by the collar and about to punch him in the face. “Oh, hello, Midoriya. It’s nice to seed you again.”
“I swear, I’m gonna kill you one of these days, you Icy-Hot bastard!”
Shouto exhales in relief. At least that day isn’t today, because he still has something very important to ask these two.
“So?” he says, addressing Bakugou. "I hope you had the forethought to tell Midoriya you were the one who sent the flowers, or did I just do all of that for nothing.”
“Of course I didn't, idiot,” Bakugou says. “If I was gonna confess something to that nerd I’d do it with my own merits. Not use you as a fucking middleman.”
Midoriya’s eyes widen. “What?” He pauses, mouth parted in surprise. “So, you did send them, Todoroki-kun...”
Shouto bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from answering. All he needs to do is wait.
“But, Kacchan, you just...” Midoriya trails off. “So you weren’t buying flowers for your mom? Or...”
Shouto can’t help but find it a little ironic how at times his friend can form sentences upon sentences while mumbling, but other times he can never finish them. Perhaps if he simply paid attention, he’d have every single one of his questions answered.
Bakugou releases Shouto’s shirt and approaches Midoriya instead.
“Those flowers I wanted to buy weren’t for my mom, I’d never buy that old hag anything in a million years. They were supposed to be for you, stupid nerd. Because I fucking like you, okay?”
Midoriya stares at Bakugou in shock. “Huh?”
Shouto can’t help but agree with Midoriya on that sentiment. This is probably the most aggressive confession he’s ever witnessed. It’s also the only confession he’s ever witnessed, but that’s beside the point.
Additionally, this whole exchange has made Shouto realize that ‘idiot, dumbass, stupid, and nerd’ may potentially be the extent of Bakugou’s entire vocabulary.
“Did you even fucking hear me?”
“Uh,” Midoriya says. “Yes? I just don’t understand.” His stare fixates on the floor instead of Bakugou, and he starts to murmur to himself. “I could have been sure that there was no way you liked me back. You never showed any clear interest, and I always thought that maybe you still just hated me, but I guess I just wasn’t able to see what was right in front of me, and I can’t believe—”
“God, Deku, just shut up every once in a while, will you?” Bakugou exclaims.
Midoriya takes in a sharp breath. “Oh, sorry, I—”
Even Shouto is mildly confused. Everything’s happening so fast that he can’t figure out whether he’d made the right decision or not, if he’s transformed their relationship or ruined it beyond repair.
Bakugou, however, doesn’t miss a beat. He slides a hand behind Midoriya’s neck to bring him closer, and kisses him hard, effectively shutting him up.
It’s finished as quick as it started. Both of their faces are flushed all over, and Bakugou stares at Midoriya with a straight face as if to say now do you get it?
Midoriya’s mouth opens. Then it closes. Oh , he seems to realize.
Shouto can’t help but burst out, “Now do you be-leaf him?”
A long beat of silence.
Midoriya bursts out laughing, and then immediately stifles it into his hand when Bakugou glares at him.
Shouto nods in self-approval. That one was well timed, indeed.
But before Bakugou can finally unleash his wrath upon Shouto, Midoriya grabs Bakugou’s hand to stop him. “Um,” he says nervously. “How about we go, then?”
Bakugou’s gaze drops down to where their hands are linked together. He closes his eyes and exhales. “Fine,” he says. He points a finger at Shouto. “But I’m totally gonna get you for that tomorrow, you little shit. Just you wait!”
“Kacchan!” Midoriya admonishes lowly as he drags Bakugou away. “Bye, Todoroki-kun! Thanks for the flowers!”
And with that, once the doors close, peace once again returns to Shouto’s humble flower shop, leaving nothing left but the sun casting warmth through the windows and a comforting silence drifting between light wafts of fragrance.
He glances at the counter, which now has two bouquets of nearly flattened bushels of flowers. He sighs. It’s a shame.
Shouto ponders what he should do next.
Perhaps he’ll buy some flowers from himself to send to his sister. The apron she’d sent was quite useful, and he wouldn’t want her to go un-thanked. He can already think of the clever message he could send on the notecard along with the gift: Thanks a bunch.
Plus, at least he’ll finally have some cash to put into the currently empty register.
He could possibly keep some geraniums for himself as well. His apartment could use some color, as well as a reminder of their true meaning.
Well. Shouto dusts his hands together in self-satisfaction. All in a daisy ’s work.
Shouto may not have actually earned any tangible sales in the venture of bringing his two precious friends together, and perhaps it’s time for him to hang up the proverbial apron for real.
But it’s like they say—a peony saved is a peony earned.