Work Text:
Gun liked Tuesdays. Tuesdays were for fuchsia studios, routine trimmings, flower arrangement sketches with Por hanging out in the background and slow mornings.
Sound always arrived a little early with his music system and his outrageous color combinations on Tuesdays, followed by a more-or-less soaked Win who would explain it away as a “school activity”. Pat and Gun would towel Win off and then send him off to the back of the studio to water the plants and clean the shelves.
Por was an excellent artist, and he never wasted a second of his time at the studio on a Tuesday. He was diligent to the point of dementia. Gun stored all the canvases in the studio for his use only.
Gun usually had the same routine as all days on Tuesdays: getting up by 6 AM, meeting the floral truck at their agreed upon location with Yo, and arriving back at the studio to unbox the flowers. From there, it was Sound’s work to clean and prepare the flowers for any kind of floral arrangement or display. He made sure to tuck the stems into the water like a doting dad helping his child put on their shoes.
None of them were as interested in organizing orders as Yo, not after he’d gotten together with Nook (who probably had a separate list for her to-do lists), so Gun would make himself scarce and get to working on the customer’s orders.
Tuesdays were fun. Except for one thing.
.◌.
The florist shop that Gun owned and managed with the help of his friends was called lovingly as ‘Baby Lily’. Gun had set it up a day before their graduation with the biggest grin on his face and the strongest blessing from his mother.
Gun loved flowers, loved working with his hands and loved seeing smiling people around him. His florist degree might not be so shiny, but he had always had his mother’s hand for support, and he didn’t regret a single thing. If he could, he would only regret not opening the shop sooner.
The locals loved it and Gun loved the locals. What was there to not like? Life was perfect.
Life was perfect right up until that one rainy day on a Tuesday in July.
Gun had just finished his third flower arrangement of the day when the air in his shop changed. A dude in really tall legs and big brown eyes had stepped into his shop. It had not been quite that dark outside yet, so the press of his lips and the sparkle in his eyes had been pretty clear from that distance.
Gun had known at once that something was about to go terribly wrong.
“Hey, Gun,” Por called out, “Gun? Gun, come out quickly, the customer is here!”
Gun liked Tuesdays but there was one thing he didn’t like about Tuesdays. Which was that they came every week—
“Welcome, sir,” Gun intoned to himself in a dry voice, “what can I do for you and when can I kick you out?”
—And so did this guy.
His name was Tinn. Really-long-legs Tinn with the sparkly brown eyes and the pressed-lips smile. When he entered Gun’s shop, he towered over his poor flowers like a giant. He only came once a week.
Despite the fact that Gun didn’t see Tinn for the rest of the six days of the week, he still couldn’t help but feel offended each and every time Tinn looked at him. Like, why was he looking at Gun like that? Did he want to start a fight?
When Gun emerged from the back of the studio, having finished with storing the flowers in the baskets and placing the pots on the cleaned shelves (thanks, Win), Por and Sound were managing the counter.
Por was enthusiastically making conversation with another guy Gun had never seen before while Sound stood there, glaring daggers at Tinn. Nobody got it like Sound got it.
“Why do you have to come to our shop?” Sound asked, seemingly out of nowhere.
If Tinn was startled, he didn’t show it. He shifted where he stood, hands in his pockets, and said, “Why do you have to be here at all?”
“Hey, asshole.” Gun jumped a little at the vitriol in Sound’s voice. “This is my friend’s shop. I’ll be here if I want to be. What reason do you have to be here, huh? What is it?”
“I’m here as a customer,” Tinn replied, in that forever unbothered voice of his, “and you have terrible customer-dealing skills.”
“Oh? You don’t like my dealing? Do you like our other skills better? Like punching you in the—”
“That’s enough, that’s enough,” Gun interrupted the impending fight by gently shooing away Sound. Then he turned to Tinn, “Uh, sorry about that, he’s—Actually, I don’t know why he hates you this much. Can I make some pretty bouquets for you instead?”
Por was completely unbothered beside Gun. In fact, he and the unknown customer had started to giggle together about something while Por made him a bouquet.
Gun looked straight into Tinn’s eyes and didn’t let his bright smile slip from his face. Even though he knew Tinn’s answer.
He had heard it at least a hundred times before.
“That’s alright,” Tinn said, smiling slightly as if he knew the effect it was having on Gun’s rising blood pressure. “I just want to buy a flower.”
Before Gun could ask him, which flower it would be, Tinn had already selected and placed the flower before Gun on the counter between them. It was Lavender this Tuesday.
Gun looked down at the flower, then raised his head and looked back at Tinn. “Lavender.”
Tinn’s smile widened just slightly, and Gun had this intrusive thought that if Tinn weren’t so annoying, he would be cute.
Gun broke the eye contact, sighing out with his mouth. He repeated the miserable process of packing the flower and giving it to Tinn, and then receiving the payment from Tinn for the flower.
And then receiving the flower back from Tinn.
Gun hadn’t actually expected it to be any different this time. Hell, he hadn’t even expected Tinn to speak three words more to him than he usually did.
He still gave the lavender a prolonged look of disbelief, as if every time was the first time.
Tinn met his eyes when Gun got over the initial shock of the moment. Smiling like a whole bastard, Tinn said, “Here. For you.”
“You are,” Gun enunciated each word clearly, because every time was indeed the first time, “giving my flower back to me.”
They had followed this script before. They had gone over this before—every Tuesday.
Like clockwork, Tinn gave Gun a pressed-lip smile which made his pink lips stand out. He nodded and didn’t offer an explanation.
“So, it was Lavender this time,” Win said.
Yo clapped his hand in glee. “Ooh, I’m so thrilled. Giving each other the same flower is so romantic!”
“Romantic, my ass,” Gun swore. “He’s clearly insulting me! He has never bought anything from my shop—Wait, no. He has never bought anything from my shop and taken it home with him. He always returns them to me. He’s—he’s messing with me!”
Yo’s smile dimmed but he tentatively offered, “Or he’s flirting with you?”
Gun couldn’t see it but the suggestion took root in his brain alarmingly quick and deep.
He shuffled back to the front of his studio where flowers lined the shelves for customers to admire. Pat, Sound and Por had gone home, leaving only Yo, Win and Gun in charge of the studio for tonight. Gun had a big order to deliver tomorrow for someone’s bridal shower. She was a lovely lady who had always encouraged Gun to go on with his florist dream. She was getting married in December. How nice.
Gun smiled without realizing it. Tulips, violets and zinnias swayed before his eyes in their pots. Tulip, Violet and Zinnia. Hm.
Tinn had bought and returned all these flowers to him before, at some point, on some Tuesday.
Most people thought that florists knew what different flowers meant but it was not Gun’s thing. He always focused more on the design and colors of his flowers than their meanings, though with Por’s help, he was getting better at the Language of Flowers.
But it was ridiculous to imagine Tinn giving him a rose. What a silly thought.
.◌.
“I really love you, Gun. I really, really do,” Pat said, half-irritated and half-tired, “but what do you mean you didn’t know that Tinn is the son of Mayor Potajanee?”
In the harsh sunlight of Friday morning, Pat’s dirt-smudged ankles and sweaty temples looked grotesque. His glasses were reflecting the sunlight onto a pair of leaves and Gun knew enough Physics to fear a sudden fire in the backyard of his studio.
But he wasn’t as scared of Pat’s glasses setting fire to leaves as he was of facing Tinn again. Pat was right—How could Gun have missed that? Tinn, tall, good-looking, smart-looking and possibly a fluent speaker in the Language of Flowers, was without a doubt the mayor’s son. This was the kind of shit fairytales pulled all the time.
Hesitantly, Por said, “So, we’re gonna have to make a public apology, right?”
“Hey!” Gun exclaimed, scandalized. “Don’t even think about it. Wash the buckets properly. I will deal with him.”
Gun went back to prepping the vases around the backyard, not quite handling the situation well. He was extremely disturbed by this tidbit. It shouldn’t be a surprise but that didn’t mean it wasn’t. Oh hell, he was screwed.
“Guys,” Win started, scrubbing floral foam off his white shirt while Sound gently tucked a lock of his hair behind his ear, “the real question is: Why does he come to our shop?”
“Rich guy like him,” Por mused, “can’t have a weird hobby of buying Gun’s flowers and then returning them to Gun, can he? Maybe his hobby is wasting money, in general.”
Gun felt a little offended, but he couldn’t explain why. “Maybe he’s just a jerk. Looking down on me like his mother always did.”
The boys hummed in agreement.
Potajanee used to be their principal in high school. She had never particularly encouraged Gun to become a florist because she felt it was “too unstable”. She had seen the error of her ways in the end, though.
Damn, what did this mother-son duo have against Gun and his flower shop? He was just trying to arrange pretty flowers and make people happy.
“Alright, I’ll be off,” Win announced, ditching the work in favor of draping himself all over his boyfriend like a sagging octopus, and despite his words, did not move from Sound’s arms for a good three minutes.
Gun felt sorry for Win. Win was a middle-school teacher now, and he honestly was the best one, by Gun’s standards. He organized all kinds of crazy fun activities for his students that left him sometimes splattered with paint or water or powdered glitter or sometimes, all three. He had Fun Days on Tuesdays, so Gun was always amused to see him in varying states of muddy each time he stepped into his shop.
Today was Friday, though and Win had taken a leave of absence so he could go on a date with Sound. Gun wished he could make it less exhausting for him, but it wasn’t in his hands. He could barely handle Tinn, anyway.
Por turned to him after Win and Sound had left, hair secured under a straw hat and giant yellow scrubs covering his forearms. He was helping Gun with prepping the vases after having washed his bucket, but he looked a lot more prepped than anything in the shop’s backyard.
“Gun, I’m sorry,” Por said quickly, “I should’ve told you about Tinn.”
Gun’s eyes widened, “You knew!”
“Gun, to be honest, everyone did,” Por guiltily bit his lip, “except you.”
“You’re freaking dumb, my friend,” Pat said loudly, “and I’m sick of washing these buckets. Hand me the chicken wire, Yo.”
The New Plan for their town came a week later.
It was dark enough in the studio that Gun could allow himself to stare at the flower Tinn had bought from him and then returned to him this Tuesday: a red rose.
Yeah, he was not going to think about that.
The New Plan proposed that the town would be remodeled and all small shops that were of little use to the locality would be removed. Of course, the owners would get compensation money to establish a new shop in some better area or anything else they wanted to do with the money. This posed zero threat to Gun’s shop.
The locals loved Gun’s shop and none of them would ever let Potajanee overthrow him. Unless Tinn really did come into his shop every week to take stock of his condition and find weak spots to exploit.
He wouldn’t, would he? Was he?
Gun knocked his knuckles against the smooth counter. All this angst and for what.
The evening painted shadows across the studio. Gun didn’t like the darkness very much, so he moved further towards the door and almost got himself knocked over by Tinn, who, at that exact moment, was pushing open the door to get inside.
“Sorry,” Tinn said, moving into Gun’s space and softly closing the door behind him.
Gun could only blink. He had no idea what he had been thinking about.
Tinn was really close. His big brown eyes were even bigger and no longer brown, but a darker shade of black. The darkest shade. Gun knew it was the dim lights in his studio playing tricks on him, but he swallowed a little, still.
Tinn wasn’t the first one to step out of the close proximity. Gun’s legs stumbled back on their own when Gun realized that they were standing close together in a dark studio for no reason.
“Today is Friday,” Gun said, coughing superstitiously.
Tinn looked away and Gun got the feeling that Tinn was acting weird. He wouldn’t meet Gun’s eyes and his lips were drawn in a straight line. His face was drawn in ten kinds of shadows, not including the shadows in Gun’s studio.
“Hey,” Gun said in a lower voice, “what is it?”
Finally, Tinn turned his face to him. He was frowning as he asked Gun, “Don’t worry about the New Plan, okay? I’ve got it. I’m sorry I couldn’t reach you sooner but I—"
It was like he got possessed: Gun reached up and took Tinn’s face in both of his hands. Palm to cheek and palm to cheek. Tinn’s mouth shut close pretty soon after that. Some wires in Gun’s brain melted, probably.
But Gun grinned. He felt like laughing and dancing. With Tinn’s face safe between his palms, it was all so clear. Red rose wasn’t all that difficult to decipher, after all. Tinn could have given him a red rose the minute he’d first walked into Gun’s shop and Gun would’ve accepted it.
That was quite a realization to have within two consecutive seconds.
“I know,” Gun was almost whispering now. “But I have a question, Mr. Tinn.”
Tinn’s eyes slipped down to Gun’s lips before snapping back up too fast, as though Tinn hadn’t meant for it to happen. Gun’s grin widened.
“What is it?” Tinn said.
Gun kept looking into Tinn’s eyes and allowed his gaze to travel downward until it rested on Tinn’s lips. He didn’t look back up because he’d totally meant for it to happen. He had done it on purpose.
“Why Tuesdays?” Gun asked.
Tinn had started to turn a slow and steady shade of red. He cast his eyes here and there, as though looking for an escape. It was cute.
It was a different kind of cute from Tinn’s pressed-lips smile, and his unexplainable smiles when he handed Gun the flowers that he bought from him, to him.
“I,” Tinn got out, struggling visibly, “I watched you opening this shop after graduation. It was a Tuesday and my birthday.” Tinn swept his gaze upwards, then around the shop, observing it from all angles, and added, “And every time I come here, I get the same feeling. Like it’s my birthday. And today’s not even Tuesday.”
Gun dropped his hands from Tinn’s face, curiosity piqued and eyes wide. “Woah. You knew me?”
Tinn nodded shyly. If he weren’t so tall, Gun was sure Tinn would be trying to shrink into the ground by now. Being tall took that option away from him but he sure was trying his best.
Gun hesitated before asking the next question on his mind. His heart was beating a little too hard; it was difficult to concentrate on things like a backstory reveal.
Luckily, Tinn continued on his own, seeming no longer shy. His blush had receded, but he was smiling, and he was still cute, so Gun counted that as a win.
“I had no idea you were a florist,” Tinn said, “before I saw the flowers at the shop and connected the dots. There are no florists in this town. I never could have thought that somebody my age would open up a flower shop, but you did.”
“It’s called being awesome,” Gun added solemnly. Then, “Were you surprised? That I was a florist?”
Tinn shook his head. His smile widened when he said, “I first saw you while you were making a crown out of wildflowers for a little boy. I was not surprised you were a florist.”
Gun let out a breath of laughter. He remembered that he and Win used to spend a lot of time with the kids in the neighborhood. Now, Win was the only one who got to play with them because Gun was too busy with the shop.
“They were cute kids,” Gun said, making Tinn smile in response. “I should invite them over to help with the shop sometime.”
Tinn hummed, as if he thought every idea out of Gun’s mouth was a good idea. Gun’s heart skipped a beat, then skipped another beat.
Tinn was gazing at him with a soft face and a small smile, and if Gun’s heart skipped a third beat, he would die.
.◌.
So, Gun loved Tuesdays.
Tinn never contributed in Por’s sketching and designing of floral arrangements because he was a self-proclaimed loser in art. He helped with everything else, as if to compensate for it. Now that he had gotten the permission to be there, he was there almost all the time.
“You should’ve listened to me when I said he was flirting. I knew it because that’s how I used to flirt with Nook, you know,” Yo told Gun as they picked up the boxes of flowers from the floral truck.
“I did,” Gun insisted. “Like, after a lot of thinking.”
Gun thought he heard Yo mutter “Yeah, right” under his breath.
“You know,” Gun said, looking out into the bright afternoon outside his studio, “I was so sure you were insulting me.”
Tinn, recipient of Gun’s random sentences, quirked an eyebrow in response. “You did? At what part?”
“Yeah, I did. When you returned the flowers.”
“Sorry,” Tinn laughed. “Tiw was a little shortsighted that day when he gave me the idea.”
Gun wouldn’t say Tiwson, Tinn’s best friend, was shortsighted any day, but then again, Por complimented him almost too much, and that might be making Gun biased towards Tiw or something.
“So, it was his idea.”
“Only half,” Tinn said. “I was supposed to give you a rose after buying it from you and make you fall for me, all romantic. Also, I wasn’t supposed to plague you every week with a new flower.”
Gun scoffed at him, “You’re just terrible at flirting. So tacky.”
“So, did it work?”
“Yeah.” Gun blushed. He wasn’t supposed to say that out loud, what the hell.
But then Tinn smiled widely for him and kissed his cheek, so it was totally worth it.