Chapter Text
The smell of fresh flowers hits you even before you could open the door to the florist – an experience that isn’t new to you. You’ve been coming to this same florist shop each week to buy a new flower to symbolize something new each week.
The last one you had bought for your single dorm was a tulip to remind you of the numerous amount of changes occurring in your life almost at the same time. It seemed like fate, but you didn’t question much of it.
Being an almost broke college student meant that you couldn’t splurge and buy a bouquet of well-arranged flowers decorated with sticks that seemed to be covered in glitter all wrapped in some brown paper. So, instead, you settled for a singular flower each week or whenever the flower lost it’s fragrance and colour.
Now that you had a part time job at a tea shop, you could afford that one flower per week.
You looked around the shop, breathing in the sweet scent of the various flowers, all working in harmony as you looked for your next purchase.
“May I recommend one this time?” you hear the deep voice behind the cash register.
Him.
You didn’t know his name – he never wore his name tag for some reason. Eventually you found yourself calling him “flower boy” to make up for the lack of information. All you knew about him was that he liked to sketch, deeply cared for his friends but didn’t like to show it, was a law major, and yearned for a calm and peaceful life with his loved ones by his side. You also knew that he had a soft spot for his mom.
His hair was always well kept – not in the slick back or try hard way, but in the slightly messy way where it looked like he didn’t spend hours on his look. Today, he wore a maroon hoodie, and his cap which you assumed was the only part of his uniform, considering the fact that he wore it every time you saw him. the hoodie helped bring out the colour of his eyes, the hazel brown looked like honey doused with the afternoon sunlight pouring through the large windows.
You shrugged, trying to act nonchalant as you stepped towards him and placing your hands on the counter. “sure”
He slid a small bundle of purple lilacs towards you, surprising you by having them ready.
There seemed to be five of them bundled together with some white twine.
Your lips twitched, the flowers catching your attention.
“they’re called purple lilacs.” He said, catching your attention, making you look at him.
“I don’t know the meaning of them, but they came in today for a big wedding order. I, uhm,” he paused, turning his head and furrowing his brows, “they reminded me of you…so I kept some for you.” he finished.
Your eyebrows shot up as your heart picked up speed. You hoped flower boy couldn’t hear the beat of your thrumming heart.
How did he manage to make you speechless with one simple action?
Maybe it was the fact that you came here almost every week and started up small conversation with him – enough to call him your friend and to tease him. maybe it was the fact that your hands were itching to hold his. Maybe it was the fact that you felt like you knew him before, or maybe it was simply the fact that his eyes were too pretty to be looking at yours like that.
Whatever it was, you could only blink and gently held the purple lilacs in your hand.
Flower boy’s head was still turned away from you, and you wanted to tell him to face you so you could see his eyes again.
Finally regaining your ability to speak, you blurt “they’re beautiful,” without looking away from him.
This makes him turn his head, only to catch you staring at him.
Whipping your head towards the flowers in your hands, opting to ignore the tingling sensation the tip of your nose and fingers had, you added, “and they match your hoodie today. Thank you, flower boy” smiling widely despite feeling like you were about to burst.
He scoffs, “I told you not to call me that”
You shrug, your smile turning into a teasing smirk. “well, what else am I supposed to call you? Mr. worldwide? Mullet man? Oh I have one-“
“mr. worldwide is good, actually. You can call me that.”
You sigh playfully, “why don’t you just wear your nametag then, momma’s boy?”
The nickname makes his brows furrow and he opens his mouth to argue, but seems to decide against it, sighing and shrugging instead. “don’t like strangers calling my name.” he mutters.
“oh” you say. “but.. we aren’t strangers, are we? I mean I call you my friend all the time.” you said.
His eyebrows shoot up. “I’m your friend?”
“do…you not want to be?” you question teasingly, but you genuinely want to know his answer.
“I do. I mean, I am.” His usual smug smirk makes its home on his face again. “you talk about me to other people?” his body leans against the counter now, his face only a couple inches away from yours.
Flower boy confuses you. On one hand, he doesn’t want to disclose his name, yet likes it when you call him your friend. sometimes he reciprocates your flirty teasing, leaning in and smirking and winking – the whole nine yards, but sometimes he’s as cold as he was the first time you met him.
So, you decide to keep your distance from him as well. You push your head back, away from his so that the tingling on your nose lessens a bit, and give him the same teasing smile back. “you’re the one who gave me these flowers.”
“yeah, I don’t know if you know this, but that’s literally my job.”
“I want just one of these then. Not the whole bundle.” You say looking away from him and at the flowers.
“well, you’re not buying the rest of them. I’m giving them to you.” he says, going to print out your receipt.
Tilting your head slightly, you ask “wait, what? On what occasion, flower boy?”
He ducks his head further away from you, as he shrugs and says, “uhm… customer discount. Since you come here so often.”
“oh, of course. Just a customer, totally not ‘cause I’m your friend.” you smile sweetly.
That goddam smile, he thinks to himself.
“a friend who doesn’t know my name.” he mutters under his breath, but he knows you heard him.
You scoff, “yeah, and who’s fault is that?”
Mine. It’s all mine, he thinks.
Truth was, he wanted to tell you his name. but every time he did, you’d call him “flower boy” again and he’d be a jumbled mess of nerves, his hands tingling along with the middle of his chest.
If telling you his name meant that you wouldn’t call him your flower boy anymore, then he’d never reveal his name. He would legally change his name to flower boy if that’s what made you call him that. But that wouldn’t make it special because everyone would call him flower boy when the name was something only you could call him, something sacred-
He had to stop himself. What if his real soulmate, his real partner who was there for him during the hardships of battles, showed up tomorrow? Would he have to choose between you and them?
The only person who knew about his little…. crush was his good friend of his past birth, Marco. He would always shake his head, ever patient of Jean and his ramblings, and urge him to tell you his name. “you never know,” he said.
No. Jean knew. Jean knew how cruel the universe was. The universe ripped his lover away from him right when they were about to win, right when Jean would finally, finally get his perfect peaceful life in the interiors.
The universe that bought them together, the same universe who made two lovers unite and unite and unite, also was the same universe that broke Jean’s soul in two.
He didn’t allow himself to wishful think his way to finding his lover. He didn’t know his fate. He didn’t even remember their face, let alone their name.
But then there was you. shining and beautiful and radiant, flower buying you, you who had a small wallet with embroidered flowers that you said your mom made for you, you who’s first purchase was a singular stem of poppy flowers.
You. His Poppy.
Jean was kind of glad you didn’t tell him your name. That didn’t stop him from teasing you about it, though.
“well what’s your name, then?” he asks, trying to hide the blush on his cheeks.
“nope. Im not telling you my name until you tell me yours, flower boy”
Jean’s chest tingles. His hands itch.
He sighs, looking away from your eyes for the hundredth time today, all in hopes of you not catching his burning blush.
“prepare to call me flower boy for the rest of your life, then, poppy.” He says, his nickname for you slipping naturally off his tongue as if it was meant to be said out loud, said beyond the comforts of his own room, said to you , out of all people. You.
Your eyes widen and your body stiffens. You recover quickly, though, following up with the singular word, “poppy?” asked in the sweetest tone he’d ever heard, so sweet he could taste it.
Then again, all your words were sweet enough to taste.
Jean shrugs, acting as if he hadn’t thought long and hard about what to give you as a nickname, and says, “it’s what you first bought. Poppies.”
“oh.” You say, a small smile on your lips. Jean has never seen you without one. “that’s… considerate. I like it. Poppy.”
His stomach flips and heart beats almost violently after hearing you say it.
Poppy. It was a nice name. apart from the butterflies in your stomach and itching on you nose and hands, you didn’t think much of it. Well, more than you would usually think about him, anyways.
You took the bundle of purple lilacs and glanced at the clock behind flower boy, missing the way his shoulders deflate in realisation. You’d leave soon.
You turn back to look at him and smile wider. Pulling out a flower from the bundle, you boldly place it on the table and look at him.
“for you.” you say. You don’t wait for a response of any kind and turn on your heel, bringing the bundle the of now four purple lilacs to your chest and leaving the store until next week – same time, same day.
Meanwhile, there’s jean, who you left giving a flower that symbolized first love and a heart now beating so relentlessly fast that he felt like his chest would burst.
He knew what it meant. He knew you knew what it meant. He wish he could forget the hopeful look in your eyes when you first walked into the shop. He wish he could forget, for a moment, that his real soulmate exists, that he isn’t supposed to be feeling like this. But he cant.
He hasn’t forgotten the way he felt when you first stepped into the store. He hasn’t forgotten the way you excitedly told him about the meaning of the flower as if you had been friends with him for a long time. He hasn’t forgotten the way his heart thudded against his chest with hope the moment you did.
Poppies meant rebirth.
He couldn’t take his chances. He couldn’t bring himself to loose you all over again if you were his soulmate.
But he could hope.
He’ll give you a daffodil next time, he thinks.