Chapter Text
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A soft breeze rocked the bouquets that sat outside as he placed the last of the buttercup in its vase, a little bit of the water dribbling from the top and onto the black and white tiling. He smiled with contempt as he took one last quick look around to make sure everything was in place before opening the door and letting the cold autumn air swirl the shop.
They weren't busy most weekdays. They weren't busy ever, really. Maybe three or four customers a day. The most they've ever gotten was fifteen, and it was on Valentines.
Wilbur didn't mind that at all, in fact, he loved it. He wasn't so keen on social interaction, the simple act of telling people their total and giving them their change was enough to make his stomach knot up.
It wasn't that he didn't like meeting and talking to new people, cause he enjoyed that. It was just that he was always so anxious and paranoid. His overactive imagination always managed to make him fear the most absurd unrealistic things known to man. But no matter how much he told himself his concerns were ridiculous, he still had that deep-rooted pressure in the bottom of his stomach.
He took a seat on the stool behind the front desk. People usually didn't start coming in until about three, so he took advantage of his seven hours of spare time and pulled out his notebook from his backpack and unzipped the case of his guitar.
High School students wanting to flatter their crush, college kids needing something nice for their mothers, men in their twenties trying to get lucky with their tinder dates, his main customers. People who really didn't have the time to complain about him practicing his musical abilities while on the job. Most of the time, people stuck around just a little bit to hear what he had to offer, sometimes record, make it play as if he were trying to serenade them. Sometimes he was, most times he wasn't.
In all honesty, he did it in hopes that one day someone who owned or worked at some big record label would hear his talent and approach him. Music was a passion for him, and he knew he had something unique, he knew he could make it big. But no one that could truly help him succeed ever really gave him the time of day. He couldn't blame them, sixteen year old boys must've come in every day promising something new and unheard of, only to play the same generic grunge song with chords ripped straight from a Nirvana tune.
He sighed as he strummed the strings of his guitar. He had something special, he really did, he just needed a reputation and some courage. Maybe a gym membership as well.
He was stolen from his thoughts by the presence of another entering the shop. He lifted his head from his notes and gave them a wave, internally panicking as the sleeve fell to reveal his arm, but the boy didn't seem to catch it. He quickly hid it in his lap and pulled the cardigan over his thumb so it could no longer slip.
He wore a white button up and a dark blazer with lace design all over it that Wilbur couldn't quite identify, black skinny jeans and gold chain around his neck. He was absolutely positively fucking gorgeous. Severely overdressed for such an establishment but it only added to the charm.
Big chocolate eyes that could just melt your soul combined with the most kissable pink lips Wilbur had ever seen in his decade and a half of life. Otherworldly beauty, perfection was an understatement.
They had only made eye contact for a second but Wil had already fallen. He was being dramatic and he knew it.
A few too many romance novels and the starvation of touch was just playing his mind and he'd forget him the second he paid and went on his way, but he couldn't shake the feeling away. It was so cliché and so perfect, it just couldn't end there. Could it? He hoped it wouldn't. He was out of his mind, it's not like he'd ever see him again.
His eyes followed him as he stood in front of one of the stands of roses. How someone managed to make such small simple movements seem so elegant was beyond his mortal understanding.
There was no way he was human. Wilbur was watching an angel pick the flowers for the most recent deceased, god taking a quick stroll and deciding last minute to collect the withering poppies on display. Hell, with his perfect lips and the way he carefully swayed his hips so subtly as if unconsciously, perhaps it was Lucifer himself taunting him and his disgraceful desires.
An extraterrestrial being, there was no doubt in his mind.
He chose about ten flowers, an assortment of beautiful natural colours, the way he so delicately held them in his palms and how leaves seeped through his fingers like velvet and lace made his heart flutter. It was an action he saw people do daily but with this man it was different. He was different. In the best way possible.
"Do you have any ribbon I could tie them together with?" He asked as he placed the blossoms on the front counter. His voice was perfect, his accent, the slight nasal, its tone. Wilbur cursed himself for becoming so obsessed so fast.
"It's free." He smiled as he reached down to grab the red silk.
"So, who's the lucky lady?" He tried to hide the distaste and jealousy he held as his words dripped from his lips, keeping his eyes focused on the fabric out of embarrassment of his pettiness.
"Mom's birthday." He could hear his smile, and hated himself for not looking up to see it for himself. Though probably for the better. But the thought was adorable, smiling because of the thought of his mother, Wilburs heart melted.
He watched in disappointment at the realization that he'd finished so quick, he could have sworn that as he looked up to hand the bouquet to the man, he saw the similar solemn expression, and he prayed it wasn't because of his shitty bow work.
"Look, um.. I'm sorry if this is weird or anything, and you don't have to if it makes you uncomfortable because I totally understand but.. um…" His voice was so sheepish and gentle, Wilbur had to fight every instinct in his body not to let out an audible "aw" at his nervousness.
"You seem like.. like a really cool person to like.. hang out with and um.. I was wondering if I could, like, get your number so we could, like, get a coffee or something.."
He could have been a serial killer for all he knew, like Ted Bundy, but that was the last thing he could have thought up. "Yeah! I mean- yeah, sure whatever, that could be pretty cool i guess.. Yeah.."
The sparkle in the boy's eyes was unmistakable as Wilbur quickly scribbled down his number on a loose napkin.