Work Text:
Chrollo admits he can’t remember the last time he spent so long in a grocery store. He’s been standing here for a good ten minutes, staring at the display case while the other customers mill around him, cognizant of nothing but the endless rows of color before him.
Whenever the troupe needs supplies, he usually sends out Shal, Franklin, or Shizuku—the ones who enjoy it the most—and they don’t exactly shop around. Between jobs, when Chrollo is out on his own, grocery stores aren’t usually his first choice. He sticks to curbside convenience stores mainly—easier to dip in and out of, and easier to find ready-made meals instead of a confusing array of ingredients. It may be trash, but it’s much more straightforward than cooking meals himself. Chrollo doesn’t often bother with cooking.
Hisoka, on the other hand, seems to love it. Cooking is a full-blown hobby for him, one of his many. Chrollo has known him to spend hours on a single dish—whole days, even. He loves watching him, loves seeing him so engrossed and at peace, but while he reaps the benefits of Hisoka’s efforts, he shares none of the joy of the labor itself.
Hence why he’s here, at the grocery store: not buying food—of course not—but buying flowers. Chrollo may have no interest in cooking, but he at least wants to pay Hisoka back for everything he does for him, and he decided the best way to do that was to get him a gift. It’s a strange, unfamiliar need—the need to pay someone back, the feeling of owing someone. Chrollo isn’t well-acquainted with it, as the child of a graveyard, but when it comes to Hisoka, he’s gotten used to experiencing many strange, new, and unfamiliar sentiments, so this is just another to add to the growing stack. Pretty soon he’ll have a whole library full of new emotions.
Right. Flowers. That’s what he’s here for. Sometimes he gets so lost in his head the entire world falls away. He makes an effort to return to it now, staring hard at the refrigerated display case. Neat little rows of bouquets basking under fluorescent light, perfectly white, to allow their true colors to shine. Chrollo thinks the lighting makes the arrangements look a bit clinical and sad, more than anything, as if subconsciously reminding shoppers that many of them will be given to people in hospital beds. Skimming over the rows, he sighs. He’s already looked over the selection at least a dozen times, but he just can’t make up his mind.
What kind of flowers does one buy someone as a gift? He knows about roses for Valentine’s Day, lilies for Easter and spring, poinsettias for Christmas—but what about a simple surprise, devoid of occasion? What kind of flowers does Hisoka even like? Does he even like flowers?
Sighing again, he rubs his temples. He’s overthinking this. Of course Hisoka likes flowers. Look at him. His entire manner of presentation is an open love letter to all things colorful and pretty, really. When it comes to enjoying things simply for their superficial beauty, the man excels—to the point of making people uncomfortable, even. Never Chrollo though. That quality had always drawn him in to the strange man, even before he realized the true depths of his affections.
He’s pretty sure he’s seen Hisoka decorate the kitchen table with a bouquet or two before—he’s just blanking on what kind at the moment, because of course he is. What’s the point of having a near perfect memory if it doesn’t fail on him when he needs it most, when he’s trying to do something nice for his partner for a change?
He checks his phone for the time. It’s getting late. Hisoka is probably home already, working on dinner. He better hurry along if he doesn’t want to miss it. Purely for non-selfish reasons, of course.
Getting desperate, he glances away from the cut flowers display case to the rest of the floral department, stacked with knick knacks, gift boxes, potted plants, garden gnomes—who the hell even buys garden gnomes—candles. Maybe he could get Hisoka a little potted succulent instead. Those are cute.
In a state of near-panic, Chrollo spots a young shopper with cropped dark hair and a black coat, hovering over the succulent shelf. He walks over, not really knowing what his strategy is, and steps carefully into their line of sight to draw their attention. There don’t seem to be any employees around, so a fellow customer will have to do.
“Excuse me, but I was wondering if you could help me with something?” he asks, positive he looks just as lost right now as he feels. Hopefully that elicits some sympathy.
The stranger glances up, startled. Up close, they look even younger, maybe even a teenager. “Um, sure,” they reply haltingly. “What do you need help with?”
“Well, I want to get flowers for someone, but I don’t know what kind,” Chrollo explains. Saying it out loud makes him feel even more helpless and useless then he already did.
“Is it for anything special?” the shopper asks. Their tone suggests an effort to be polite while still remaining guarded. Wise.
“Not really. Just felt like doing something nice for him after all he’s done for me.”
“Hmm, let’s see,” the stranger says, walking over to the cut flowers case. “What kind of flowers does he like?”
There it is. The dreaded question.
“I… don’t know,” Chrollo admits, following after them. He feels ridiculous, reminded once again of just how little he knows about the man he’s been living with for the past few months. Hisoka has never been one to open up about his past, but Chrollo should have at least made more of an effort to ask him questions. He isn’t even sure what his favorite color is. Probably red.
He feels bad for asking a complete stranger for help, as if they’d know any better, but sometimes it makes sense to apply illogical solutions to illogical problems—and Hisoka is an illogical problem if he ever met one.
The stranger laughs, tucking a strand of hair behind their ear. “That’s an issue. I’m not sure how much help I can be if we don’t have some kind of starting point.”
“What kind of flowers would you pick?” Chrollo asks, because he’s really reaching now. It’s getting close to dinner. Hisoka might be wondering what’s keeping him. It’s not that their lives are all that routine, but over the past few months, they’ve developed a kind of loose pattern—a rhythm, maybe—of knowing when to expect each other. And Hisoka almost always expected Chrollo home for dinner.
The stranger smiles, clearly still nervous about talking to Chrollo, but amused all the same. “I love sunflowers,” they reply, stepping away and grabbing a large bouquet of bright, simple blooms from the open air stand on the other side of the aisle. “They make me happy, especially on a gloomy day like today.”
Chrollo looks from the flowers to the window at the edge of the floral department. The parking lot outside is bathed in rainy grey, the sky overtaken by a thick quilt of clouds, threatening rain. Gloomy indeed.
“They’re like little suns,” the stranger laughs, still with that nervous edge, but there’s genuine feeling behind it. “I know it’s dumb but… that’s why I like them. You can carry the sun with you wherever you go, even when it’s overcast.”
They offer him the bouquet, and Chrollo takes it, sticking his face in the flowers to see if they have any scent. Not really—apart from the light, springy smell of fresh that seems inherent in all cut flowers.
“I hope the person you’re giving them to appreciates them just as much,” the shopper says, noting Chrollo’s enthusiasm. With a quick smile, they hurry off to another part of the store, leaving him alone with his flowers. They were nice. Strange, but nice—and that’s all Chrollo asks of anyone he meets, really.
He decides not to steal the flowers. It’s too much of a hassle, now that several other shoppers and cameras caught plenty of looks at him—and besides, the dumb, illogical part of his brain tells him the gift wouldn’t count as much if he stole them. He isn’t sure why. He has more money than he knows what to do with—enough to buy a thousand fields of sunflowers—so it’s not like one little bouquet would be putting him back any. But reluctantly, he takes out his card, paying at the self-checkout lane to avoid embarrassing himself in front of any more shopgoers.
During the train ride home, he catches several people staring. He supposes he must be quite a sight—dressed head-to-toe in black, not his usual fur-lined coat, but something dark and dramatic all the same, clutching a large bouquet of bright yellow flowers—did it really have to be so large?—riding the grim, late afternoon metro. He definitely stands out from the muted hues of steel and concrete, at any rate. The world really does look a little more forlorn on a day like today. It makes him grateful to have the flowers with him.
By the time he reaches the surface again, it’s started raining, the overcast clouds finally releasing their burden and letting it pour out over the city. Between the raindrops and streaking headlights from passing cars, the world looks like a wet newspaper, blurry and unreadable.
Chrollo doesn’t have an umbrella. He tries to hurry along on the sidewalk, ducking under overpasses and storefront awnings when he can, but the crowd makes it hard. He managed to time this little outing just perfectly, didn’t he? Right at rush hour. Chrollo may not have a job he’s returning home from, but he still has somewhere he needs to be, someone he wants to come home to, and this city is in his way.
He catches a few more stares as he weaves through the sea of shoulders and elbows, eyes still drawn to the bouquet. The sunflowers are a beacon, a memorial candle drifting down a raging river. Chrollo holds them tightly, half worried someone might try and snatch them, mistake them for gold, or something even more valueable. He supposes even sunlight can become a type of currency on rainy days.
His feet land in puddles, splashing dirty water onto his calves, and he tries not to feel too upset over how wet his boots and pants are getting. With this many people, it’s impossible to dodge them all, and he’ll be home soon enough. For the moment, he retreats into himself and tries to enjoy it: the present. The sound of car horns, distant enough not to be grating, the oily smell of street food, familiar and warm, the sensation of the rain hitting his face and shoulders, collecting on the petals of his closely guarded bouquet. Even as the storm picks up, bringing on a downpour that makes it hard to see, Chrollo still catches a few curious stares drawn his way, pulled to the yellow flowers like they’re some kind of sanctuary.
Turning a corner, he finally reaches a quieter street, freeing himself from the tangled mess of bodies and finding enough space to properly walk. He realizes how drenched he is, now that he has room to properly assess. He shivers and unleashed a string of mental complaints, but he’s going through the motions more than anything. Truthfully, he’s thrilled. Something about the rain and the flowers and the fact that he’ll be home soon with a warm meal and someone he loves has him borderline euphoric. Maybe it really is the magic of these steadfast flowers. He enjoys the feeling as much as he’s puzzled by it.
The rest of the walk passes swiftly after that. The rain dies down, allowing a few of the alley cats who roam around their apartment to poke their heads out, meowing softly as they nose through the discarded boxes their neighbors left curbside. Chrollo nods to them politely, promising to bring them leftovers once he and Hisoka are finished with dinner.
“I’m back,” he calls out tentatively in the apartment entryway, slipping off his boots as the door closes behind him. It still feels strange to announce his presence at his own house, even if it is the courteous thing to do. He hasn’t entirely adjusted to sharing his space with another, as much as he loves it.
From down the hall, he can hear the faint sounds of something sizzling over the stove, mixed with Hisoka’s slipper-muted footsteps and quiet humming as he pads around the kitchen fixing dinner. It already smells divine.
Chrollo shakes off his wet coat as best he can, trying to be mindful of the puddle he’s leaving on the tiled entry floor. He’ll have to grab a towel or something to mop it up later, but first thing’s first.
Just as he’s fumbling through the closet for coat hanger, the hall light flicks on.
“Welcome home,” a warm, achingly familiar voice says, almost like a song.
Chrollo glances up, and there he is: leaning sly and patient in the kitchen doorframe, arms crossed over a cooking apron, smiling like he just finished laughing at some private joke. It’s not an alienating expression though—it’s the kind of smile that makes Chrollo feel like he’s in on it.
“Must you always insist on undressing in the dark like that?” Hisoka chides, gesturing at the shadowy closet.
“Well, not all of us are shameless exhibitionists,” Chrollo tosses back with a grin.
“A pity,” Hisoka replies, walking over to pull Chrollo into a hug, pressing a kiss to the top of his rain-drenched hair. “You’d make an exquisite exhibitionist.”
Chrollo smirks, as taken as he is embarrassed by the man’s unapologetic flattery.
“You’re soaking wet,” Hisoka notes, pulling away from the embrace to look Chrollo over, dragging a hand to clear away the strands of hair clinging to his forehead. “How did that happen? Did you forget your umbrella again?”
“Do I ever bring an umbrella?” Chrollo asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Fair enough,” Hisoka says, pulling a towel seemingly from thin air and bundling Chrollo up in it, gently patting at his head and shoulders to banish what’s left of the rain. “But that only raises the more pressing point of your general disregard for taking care of yourself.”
“You sound like a scolding parent,” Chrollo complains, voice muffled by the towel, which Hisoka has now all but buried him in.
“Well, sometimes that’s what I feel like with you, my love,” Hisoka says, retracting the towel enough to get a good look at Chrollo’s face. When their eyes meet, Hisoka beams. Sometimes the adoration evident in the magician’s face is so blinding it’s almost painful.
Chrollo looks away. “I got you something.”
The towel disappears with a flourish. “Really? For me? You shouldn’t have, Lolo.”
Biting back a giddy smile at the childish nickname, Chrollo reaches into the closet for where he stuffed the sunflowers—he wanted to achieve some sort of grand reveal, even if it was nowhere near the production level of Hisoka’s usual spectacles—and thrusts the bouquet into the grinning face of his lover.
Hisoka’a eyes go wide—the only thing Chrollo can see over the mound of giant flowers—but after a second they break into another smile, their golden color perfectly matched by the sunny blooms. Hisoka gathers the bouquet into his arms and buries his face inside, much like Chrollo did when the grocery store stranger first showed them to him, but with more of his characteristic gusto. Hisoka never felt the need to hold back on his emotions. He believes feelings should be felt—and as loudly as possible. All the better if it ever makes him an inconvenience for someone.
“Oh Chrollo, they’re lovely,” he says through the flowers. Nothing but the top of his bright red hair is visible, a beautiful, vivid contrast against the yellows and deep browns and fresh greens of the bouquet. He pulls Chrollo into another hug, molding him into the explosion of color. The greys of the rainy city day are wiped from Chrollo’s mind by the sight. “How’d you know I like sunflowers?”
Chrollo smiles knowingly. “Lucky guess.”