Work Text:
***
Rose rosse per te
Ho comprato stasera
***
"Roses for your lads! Red roses for your loved ones! Hey there, gorgeous, want to buy a rose?"
Wylan finally raises his head from where he is sketching Ketterdam's wobbly buildings leaning all over each other. The lighting is just perfect, with a delightful blue sky like they don't usually make them, here in the gray of this city.
He had thought about going to the countryside, on such a perfectly sunny day. Perhaps take Mum with him and challenge each other to who would paint the major number of wild bird species. But Marya had other plans already — I'm sorry baby, I promised Plumje to bring her see the goats to that nice farm, and Wylan absolutely didn't want to spend a whole afternoon with Alys's chirpy chatter, when he had had to spend all of yesterday with her, as well. He doesn't not like Alys, but she can be quite a lot, sometimes, and today he feels like going slow and spending the day in comfortable silence.
Now, though, he looks up to one of the many vendors scattered all over the nice comfort of Boeksplein, full of cafès and bookshops and art shops. Students crawl into the libraries like herds of cows, pushing through all the vendors crowding the big square.
There's a white and red cart, where a slim man roasts chestnuts and shoves them into ridiculously pink paper satchels for ten kruge per satchel. There's a street player, guitar missing some chord and voice sounding too unsteady, but people still throw money her way. There's people from the Barrel, lurid clothes and weathered faces, as they sell bracelets and pocket napkins and umbrellas — even though it's not a day for rain, but Ketterdam's weather is so unpredictable that of course they are selling umbrellas. There's a shady guy in a black hoodie that Wylan knows is selling pot in broad daylight, but no stadwatch officer seems intent on telling him anything, so Wylan tries to give him no mind either. There's toy sellers and donut stalls and Suli performers. There's tiny, moving ice cream parlors surrounded by people, and there's an itinerant puppet theater that only comes to Ketterdam in spring.
And, of course, given that it is spring, there's red roses vendors. They screech the loudest, trying to push perfectly picked roses in the hands of young couples or old ladies or busy men. They have to make do with the short time they have, since roses don't bloom all year.
He looks up to one of those rose vendors, shadowing the weak Ketterdam sun as he grins down at him. Wylan has to blink a couple times, to adjust his sight to the soft, white light of the sun rays and to fully take the man's silhouette in.
He is holding a bouquet of roses, from which he has taken a single rose out that he is offering Wylan with an outstretched arm. Wylan's attention lingers on the rose but for a second, before being enraptured by the man's slender fingers and, then, up to his beautiful mouth. Don't stare at his lips, he scolds himself, and he is quick to raise his gaze up. Wrong move, he thinks weakly, because the man's eyes are silver, in stark contrast with his dark, Zemeni skin.
"Perhaps you have a lady to gift a rose to, handsome?" the man winks.
Wylan doesn't have a lady to gift anything to, and he never will. Purely because he doesn't like girls like that, and he is pretty disappointed that this man believes him to be an heterosexual. Wylan did his best to dress in soft khakis and a baby blue sweater vest, his white shirt sleeves and collar peeking underneath, fluttering with the gentle breeze. His coat hangs from the chair back, and it's scattered in pins, including the gay flag pin. But, he supposes, they are out of sight from where the man is standing.
Wylan feels a little flustered as he looks at the man, so much that he just averts his eyes and goes back to his sketch, a mortifying flush spreading to the tip of his ears. If he was a little bit more confident and easygoing, he would hold the man's gaze and actually flirt with him.
After a full, heavy moment, the man sighs and leaves Wylan be, walking back on a hopping step as he approaches his next, probable customer.
***
Forse in amore le rose
Non si usano più
***
Jesper sighs heavily as he presses his knuckles against his temple, trying to ease an impending headache.
He has pulled an all-nighter, again, because Kaz wanted him on gambling tables duty at the Crow Club. Which would be fucking fantastic, as he could sneak some matches here and there, shy of Kaz's hawk eyes, if only he hadn't a meeting in five minutes. Plus, he has to start his second — third, actually, counting whatever agreement he has with Kaz — job in less than an hour.
It's just— he needs the money to repay debts and to send his Da and to, perhaps, pay for his own necessities: food, a roof over his head, bills, stuff like this.
So, he rushes through a meeting with his stylist, cutting it much shorter than it was needed, and he apologizes repeatedly on his way out. It's ridiculous, really, because his side job as a model pays much better than whatever he makes with fucking roses. But he likes the job, loves to see shy budding couples approach him to ask for Two roses, please, at which he always replies that Three roses mean I love you, and they usually buy three. He adores talking to old Lady Rose who always tells him about how her name was given to her because her grandfather did sell roses, as well. He likes to waltz through the university square where everyone is dressed nicely, with his colored attire like he is a parrot disguising himself in a flock of gooses.
As he reaches his usual spot in the middle of the square, his eyes fall, as usual, to Artist Kid's spot. He doesn't come by often, but when he does he always sits outside Johnny's with an oversized cup of coffee and a sketchbook in hand.
"I wish he would paint me," Jesper once told Inej, and she answered by rolling her eyes.
Yesterday, he finally tried to approach him and— A disaster. A major disaster, that's what had happened. Jesper's heart was beating like crazy drums, and then it had sunk to the pit of his stomach when Artist Kid had just turned his head, ignoring him altogether.
This morning, he is here as well.
Jesper stops in his motion, possible customers sliding at his sides like he is an iceberg in the middle of the ocean, tides running at its sides and leaving it motionless and undisturbed. He ignores the flow of people, the roses he should be selling, and he pouts when his heart uselessly bumps in his chest. It's to no avail. Artist Kid has barely looked up at him, and Jesper remembers too well how his breath had caught in his throat — he has the most beautiful blue eyes he has ever drown into. But, apparently, not even his own pretty face and model physique, nor his eccentric clothes have caught Artist Kid's attention.
Jesper is not a quitter, though.
"Hello there, care for a rose?" He approaches Artist Kid because of course he has to. The man barely raises his eyes from his sketchbook, and Jesper gawks once more at how beautiful his drawings are.
"You know, ignoring me twice is pretty rude."
The beautiful boy finally glances at him, and Jesper gulps under the intensity of his sky blue eyes. He really wants to dive into them, get lost in those clear waters, get lulled by those endless skies. He wants to kiss his pretty, freckled nose and to be kissed by that perfectly plump mouth. Saints, he got it bad.
"I'm allowed to ignore squawking vendors," Artist Kid says, all snarky and petulant.
Jesper doesn't mind, because he achieved his aim: Artist Kid talked to him. Nevermind that he is most definitely a rich asshole, Jesper is already playing Artist Kids' annoying sentence in his head on repeat.
"Roses are special this year, though. You don't want to miss out."
"I'm sure you say this to all your customers. Every year."
Jesper breaks in an amazed laugh.
"I don't. Really," he admits.
Artist Kid stares at him a while longer, but then he averts his gaze and Jesper realizes that their conversation is over. He sighs, shuffling his feet until he reaches his usual spot.
***
D'amore non si muore
E non mi so spiegare
Perché muoio per te
***
Wylan's heart beats like crazy as he sits at his usual table for the third day in a row. He doesn't usually stick to these kinds of habits, but there's something, in chaotic Boeksplein, that just calls to him like a siren song. Well, perhaps that something is a very tall and very handsome someone.
His eyes run through the square in search of dark skin and flashing colors, patterns that shouldn't work together but that fit the man incredibly well. He spots him, already screeching in the chaos of Boeksplein, waving his roses back and forth as he runs from person to person, demanding their attention if only for his hot pink shirt and enchanting charisma. Wylan doesn't usually do this — this being catching crushes on random strangers. But the man is beautiful, and he hopes he comes to his table and talks to him again.
He doesn't.
Wylan knows that he should have seen this coming: he has been nothing but rude to him. But he hoped he could apologize, and perhaps buy a silly rose. Maybe even three: for his Mum, for Alys and for little Plumje, and watch the man flush because three roses, he knows, mean I love you. He has been waiting for the man's incredulous grin and to be given three ridiculous roses in his hand — maybe their fingers would brush together, and he could feel the smooth texture of the man's skin against his. Nothing of this happens, though. The beautiful vendor glances at him just once, with hopeful, excited eyes. Wylan is about to stupidly wave his way — an invitation. But the man is swifter: he shakes his head and sighs, resigned and a little bit pouty.
Wylan wants to walk the distance dividing him from the beautiful vendor, he wants to tenderly hold his hand and to— To—
He doesn't even have a chance to muster up his courage, because as he keeps watching in the vendor's direction, he notices how a buff man that the vendor had approached shoves him away with unnecessary brute strength. Then, his beautiful face disappears in the sea of people.
Wylan jumps up from his seat and, without a second thought, he runs between the streams of people. And— Here the man is. He's ass to the ground, legs a bit spread and bony elbows pushed to the pavement in search of a grip from where to push himself on his feet. The roses are spread at his sides, ruined by hurried, careless steps. Wylan doesn't wait for the man to stand up on his own — he stretches a hand out and he holds the vendor's gaze. The rose vendor takes his hand. Wylan is almost tempted to let go, because a burst of goosebumps surges from where their bodies are connected. Fuck , his hands really are velvety and soft.
"Thanks, man," the vendor exhales when he is up on his long legs. Then, he glances down at his roses and his shoulders slump in defeat. "Great— Today's money is gone."
"I'm sorry. That man was unnecessarily rude."
"Says you," the vendor muses, but he is smiling. Wylan smiles back.
"I could offer you a coffee?"
The man looks torn, a kaleidoscope of emotions flickering through his beautiful face. They settle on a wide, luminous smile that reaches his gray eyes.
"Sure."
***
E il tuo cuore lo sa
Cosa voglio da te
***
Jesper's hands are sweating as he sits at Artist Kid's usual table. Artist Kid orders his coffee in a quick, dismissive way. Then, he takes all the time to look up at Jesper.
"Is coffee okay?" he asks sweetly, as the waitress waits a little impatiently.
"A latte, please. Two sugars," Jesper croaks, and his voice comes a little bit too squeaky to his own ears.
"Disgustingly sweet," Artist Kid laughs, as he waves his hand the waitress way. She leaves. "I'm Wylan, by the way."
Jesper grins wide, wide, feeling a flush heat his whole face. "Jesper."
They sit in silence for a bit, and Jesper of course starts fidgeting with the hem of his pink shirt, as Artist Kid looks at their surroundings like this — sitting at a table with some random man — is normal to him. Only his flushed cheeks sell him away.
"So—" Wylan says, when their coffees are brought to the tiny table. "Do you sell roses for a living?"
Jesper laughs. "No. Side chick is modeling. Side, side chick is working for the asshole owner of the Crow Club. Ah. It's in the—"
"I know the Crow Club," Wylan cuts him off, surprising Jesper. This kid is more interesting than he had given him credit for. And he had given him a lot of credit. Then, arching an eyebrow in a confused frown, Wylan adds: "Side… chick?"
Jesper grins stupidly wide. "Yeah. My other jobs."
"I don't think side chick is the proper term—"
Jesper laughs, and he beams when Wylan stops in the trail of his words to smile back at him. Saints, he is so gorgeous.
"What do you do?"
At that, the tips of Wylan's ears blush a bright red, and Jesper is this close to whimpering because that's fucking adorable. The man in front of him looks mortified, though.
"I— ah. I kinda don't need to work. 've got some family money."
Jesper's eyes widen in surprise.
"You don't need to work! Man, I wish it was me. I'm absolutely spent. Especially now with, you know, side chick selling roses."
"Why do you do it, then?"
Jesper's face opens in his lopsided, starry eyed smile. "Because it's romantic. I love when people buy roses from me for their partner, or for their Ma, or for themselves. It's such a gentle gesture of love."
Wylan positively melts into a soft, tiny smirk, at that. His freckled cheeks are beet red, by now, and he is impossibly beautiful. He takes a long sip of black coffee. Jesper doesn't tear his eyes away even when Wylan averts his — not in shame, though. He just takes a pen out of his satchel and he scribbles something on his napkin.
A phone number, Jesper realizes, feeling like he has won all the Three Man Bramble matches of the night. No, feeling even more euphoric than that.
"I might be interested in buying a rose, then," he says, with his chin tilted outwards in sheer stubbornness. "Or three." He is flirting, and he is absolutely gorgeous as a smart glint flickers through those beautiful sky-blue eyes.
"I— I don't have any, now," he stupidly murmurs. Idiot, of course he doesn't have any, and Wylan knows. Jesper is left mouth agape when Wylan laughs, teasing, his eyes set on Jesper's and locking him in his place.
"Yeah, I know. You could maybe bring me one, tomorrow at this table?"
Jesper grins, heart thumping in his chest. "Yes. Yes I can do that."
At that, Wylan takes the last sip from his cup and he stands, beautiful hands firmly planted on the table surface. "Great," he says. Then, he leans forward and he splashes a soft kiss to Jesper's cheek. To Jesper's lower side of the cheek, really. Hell— to the corner of Jesper's mouth. Jesper chokes on a breath and he sighs when the brief, incredibly sweet press of Wylan's lips is lost.
"See you tomorrow, then!" Wylan all but yells, and he runs before Jesper can utter a single word. Not that he would manage to, given how he's going nuts with joy.
***
Nel cuore del mio cuore
Non ho altro che te
***
When Wylan wakes, it's with his cheek planted in the soft linen of his pillow. He hugs it a little tighter against his face, trying to linger to the last bits of sleep before they slither away.
He tries to search for warmth around him, but his favorite source of warmth has probably left hours ago, considering how high the sun is, filtering through the window. Wylan groans a little, but the groan melts into a deep yawn. He raises on his elbows, tilting his head on both sides. Nothing.
Not really nothing, actually.
On the bedside table, there's two objects that immediately make sleep wither away. Wylan sits up with a quiet giggle hoarse from sleep. He bats sleep out of his eyes with repeated blinks and then he takes the paper from the nightstand.
A chick that looks more like a potato facing on a side. A ridiculous attempt at a mannequin right beside it.
Side chick: model.
Jesper is off to work, and Wylan knows that he has to, but he also wishes that he could keep his boyfriend at his side all the time — he wants Jesper close, to kiss him silly every time he wants, to hold hands with just to feel grounded. He wants Jesper to punch laughs out of Wylan's chest like no one else is able to.
The other object on the nightstand is what makes him laugh now. Three years of dating and not a day has gone by without a red rose perched on the bedside table, every morning. Wylan doesn't even know where in the world he manages to find roses all year 'round. Perhaps there is Kaz's hand in this deed.
What is certain is that Wylan, as always, brings the rose to his nose and softly inhales its sweet scent. Too sweet, for his own liking, but he knows that Jesper loves sweet flavors and fragrances the most. It's such a Jesper scent, that he has to purse his lips to softly kiss the petals.
He can't wait for Jesper to be back to kiss him just as softly, if not more. With all the care and the love in the world, because that's what that ridiculous red rose vendor slash model slash criminal deserves: to be loved softly, gently, patiently.
Wylan knows that when he will reach the bathroom, there will be a red rose waiting for him there. And another one for him on their dining table. It's what pushes him to leave the comfort of the blankets.
After all, three red roses mean I love you, and Wylan adores waking up with the reminder of how much Jesper loves him with nothing else than such a preposterous, silly, Jespery gesture.