Work Text:
In the middle of June, Kageyama Tobio almost quits his job.
He's been working at the Karasuno florist for over a year now. It's a constant day-in-day-out of arriving to shifts fifteen minutes early, leaving late with fingers stained green from stripping the flowers, and tending to sharp thorn-caused wounds while he's meant to be sleeping. It's his senior year of high school. He's well on his way to finishing; he can take a course in floristry and business management, start his own flower shop, and get the hell out of this town for good. And then Suga shows up.
"How much are these ones?" asks the attractive guy with the silvery hair, for the third time today, and Kageyama braces himself for another explanation through his teeth.
He is, for all lack of a better term, explanation, or theory, screwed.
It's all concomitant. A series of events he could have predicted, had he wanted.
The first time he noticed that the man was a regular, he thought he just liked the flowers.
Like he does. He was working his 4 til 10 shift like usual, trimming the stems of some calla lilies and wrapping them in cellophane. The guy had approached him, appearing as if seemingly out of nowhere, and asked, "How much are those?"
That was a month ago. He's been in here at the exact same time, 5 o'clock every day, since then.
Kageyama grumbles and tries to peer over the forest of greenery at the flowers the man is pointing to. It's a small bunch of anthuriums; the guy is smiling patiently.
"Two thousand yen," he answers briskly, rounding the corner and trying to look busy. "Caring for them is easy. You can't leave them in low light or they'll have fewer flowers and grow slower—"
"Oh, that's alright," the man answers, still smiling. "I think I might look at some others."
Kageyama scowls and goes back to what he's doing.
He's been doing this all month. The guy. His boss, Daichi, hasn’t seemed to notice it; or if he has, he hasn’t said anything. The guy always comes into the store at 5, and looks around for a while. He asks the price of something, or occasionally how to care for it. Just the feeling of his stare on the back of Kageyama's neck is like silver. He runs his fingers impatiently across the blades of his tools, stripping stems with a particular ferocity. Then the guy leaves without buying anything.
The feeling of his presence in the store is a vibration, a bouquet of colours throbbing in his temples. He turns his attention back to the alyssums on the bench, as cold and forgotten as they look. He's just about finished wrapping them when the guy appears out of nowhere again.
He points at the flowers. "Carpet of snow, right?"
"Yeah." Kageyama sucks in a breath, knowing it puffs his chest out weirdly. He braces himself for the information. "They also come in salmon, yellow, purple, and pink. We have them in a few sizes. I can also gift wrap them for you."
The guy looks pleased. Kageyama waits for him to walk away, counts to five, six, seven—
"So what do they mean?" he asks.
Kageyama blinks at him. "They require little to no maintenance. If you keep them in direct sunlight, they will—"
"No, no," the guy interrupts, shaking his hands, "I mean, what do they mean? Like how roses symbolise romance, right?"
Kageyama blinks. Then blinks some more. He feels all the weight of the store hitting him, every scent at once. No one ever asks him this. He trips over himself trying to answer. "That's— sweet alyssums represent change, or act as an invitation of new opportunity. It's. They're. Um."
"New opportunity," the boy muses, unperturbed by Kageyama's breakdown. "That's interesting, since they look like snow. Spring is meant to be the season of change, huh? Not winter."
"These are more likely to bloom in the Winter," Kageyama says, feeling fuzzy. He's never seen the guy this close up before.
"How much?" he asks. Kageyama snaps out of his daydream.
"Sorry?"
A smile. "How much are the flowers?"
"Oh— these are 1800 yen."
Then, surprising him— looking right into his eyes, a smile as bright as a sunflower— the boy says, "Alright, I'll take them."
Kageyama watches him place the money down on the counter. It happens like he's moving underwater, the guy's hand brushing his when he's passing the flowers over— barely wrapped, the cellophane still glistening and new.
"Thanks," he says politely. "My name is Sugawara, by the way."
And then he's gone.
Kageyama takes a few moments to cool out by himself in the back room, amongst all the flowers that haven't been brought to the front of the shop yet. The sickly sweet smell of decaying flowers, dew and pollen and leafy musk, fills his head up as if it were a balloon. He's fine, he reminds himself. No big deal. And he's definitely not smiling to himself one of those terrifying, elated smiles he never shows anyone for fear of them calling him creepy. No way.
He doesn't care at all, and that's that.
.
From then on, Sugawara buys flowers every day.
On Monday, he strolls into the store and asks the price of some orchids. Then, he asks what they mean. Kageyama leans against the bench and tries not to look too eager as he explains their meaning, then the meaning of azaleas, blushing fiercely through the nonstop stream spouting from his mouth.
“First love,” he stammers out, trying not to look too invested. “They can also represent… fragility and passion, depending on the colour.”
“Fragility and passion,” Sugawara observes, lifting an eyebrow delicately. “Well, that sounds ideal. I guess that’s how first love is, right?”
Kageyama doesn’t bother spitting out that he wouldn’t know; he’s already stammering something about how to care for them, and then Sugawara buys them.
.
It turns out Daichi knows exactly who this guy is. It’s just that he’s so seldom in the actual store that he misses Sugawara’s visits altogether, until they come in at the same time one night; Daichi for a maintenance shift, and Sugawara for… whatever it is he comes for.
Daichi greets him, oblivious to the hell he’s been putting Kageyama through these past few months. Then, with all the grace of an earthquake, Sugawara turns to him and says, “I didn’t know this guy was your boss. We went to high school together. Small world, huh?”
Daichi handles him with suspicion after that. He watches with sly glances both when Sugawara is in the store and when he is not, as if he knows something Kageyama couldn’t dream of figuring out on his own.
He walks up to him one day, sneaking up behind him while he’s pretending not to watch Sugawara sort through a display of geraniums.
“You know he’s courting you, right?”
Kageyama doesn’t dignify that with a response. Daichi leans in to breathe on his ear.
“Trust me. I’ve known him for years. He’s very transparent.”
“I’m trying to work,” Kageyama says, gritting his teeth until Daichi goes away. There’s no way. Not that he cares, anyway.
He watches Sugawara the whole time he’s in the store, and this time, when he leaves, lets himself feel a little disappointed.
.
It’s a routine. He comes in at 5 pm and asks Kageyama about a particular kind of flower. Heathers for mystery and longing, honeysuckles for the flames of love and tenderness. Freesia for trust, which he buys with a wry smile and a delightfully drawn out “thank you” that makes Kageyama’s fingertips tingle.
By this time, on most weeknights, Kageyama's the only one left tending to the shop. There aren't many customers but he pretends to be busy anyway, heart picking up whenever Sugawara gets closer.
It's interesting, he tells himself— because that's what it has to be. He examines him the way he looks for disease on the flowers, differentiates between colours so that the bouquets turn out attractive. It's all study. The way his hair— more grey than silver, a delicate colour like a shade of the Winter sky— falls over his forehead when he leans down. The way that his dark eyes move over the flowers. Colours reflecting. The mole on his chin. Or the way his lips move, when a few weeks later, he says, "You can call me Suga, by the way."
He doesn't ask if he can drop the suffix on Kageyama's name, but he does it anyway. Doesn't have to peer at his name tag before he says it, drawing it out like honey: ka-ge-ya-ma. If he replays it in his head later, it's only so that he can figure out why it annoys him; or why it bothers him, rather, why it seems to echo when it pours from Suga's mouth like light.
He begins to expect it when he comes in. He never comes on weekends; those are the longest shifts, having to deal with their delivery boy, Hinata, and the flighty young men sweating as Kageyama explains how many roses it will take for their wives to forgive them.
The air in the shop is always tepid. If he had longer hair he would be worried. Some of the girls there complain of the humidity, how they have to pull their hair back into buns so it doesn't stick up on end for hours to come. Kageyama props his head up on his chin and pretends like he's in a jungle, a tropical haven for the slow moving troubles of school to fade away into mist. He spends his Saturdays with the flowers, finding himself in the meek baby's breath plants, bluebells and forget me nots. He trims their stems the most delicately, careful not to disturb a single petal.
It's all in the method. He's the best there is when it comes to flowers.
.
On Wednesday, Suga’s eyes pass over the marigolds and the apple blossoms, and he goes straight for some red chrysanthemum. He doesn’t ask what they mean, so Kageyama doesn’t tell him. He feels himself shaking as he wraps them up, for no real reason he can identify.
“M-make sure you… lots of water,” he says, dragging Suga away from a daydream he hadn’t even noticed.
“Sorry?”
“The flowers,” Kageyama says, swallowing.
“Oh.” Suga looks particularly distracted, reaching up an absent hand to run it through the back of his hair. “Right. They’re for someone else, so…”
Kageyama’s stomach drops. He says nothing as he finishes wrapping the purchase and hands it over to Suga, and still nothing as Suga pays and leaves the shop. He doesn’t know why he cares, anyway.
It doesn’t matter that red chrysanthemums mean “I love you.”
.
On Thursday he asks Suga what his favourite flower is.
It happens on a whim. He doesn’t mean for the question to spill out, but he’s busy studying the other man’s hands as he leafs through some rose and dahlia arrangements, his own nightly purchase already tucked safely under one arm, and it just sort of happens.
Suga looks at him.
“You know, I’m not sure,” he admits, relief pouring through Kageyama’s chest when he doesn’t immediately display disgust at being asked such a personal question. Then, because the universe hates him, Suga asks, “What about you, Kageyama?”
His favourite flower changes every other day. Because of this, panic swells in his chest, flaring up the pupils in his eyes until they look like the tugged petals of abandoned flowers left on the side of the road from a bad break up, all big and sad and obvious there. “Moonflower,” he settles upon eventually, tucking his chin to his chest and pretending to be busy.
“Oh,” says Suga, “yeah, I can totally see that. They’re pretty and mysterious. Like you.”
He’s gone before Kageyama even has the chance to look up, wondering if he heard him right. Still the feeling sticks with him, so that he has to replay Suga’s words in his head over and over all night. Like you. He’s doomed, he knows it. Like you.
.
On the Friday a week before graduation, Suga doesn’t show up.
Kageyama tells himself it isn’t a big deal. He watches the door carefully, a low gaze under his brow from 5 until 6. Then from 7 til 8, and when he’s closing up shop at 10, he can’t deny that he’s a little disappointed. Only because it’s a stir in routine, a change to something he just got used to. He hits Hinata over the head when he passes by, just for good measure.
“Ow! What was that for?”
Normal. Everything is normal.
.
That night Kageyama buys himself a moonflower on his employee tab, and leaves it on the windowsill in his bedroom. He lies there like a statutory island for what feels like forever, begging on some plants and greenery to just shoot up from his floor and grow over his body. He doesn’t feel like moving now or ever, and it has to have to do with Suga.
Why does he even care? So what if he comes into the store every day and makes Kageyama’s life a little less dull; it’s just a wanted distraction from the mundaneness of wading through work and school.
So what if he genuinely cares what Kageyama has to say about the flowers? He’s just polite. He can’t exactly judge a guy simply for refraining from hitting him or turning his nose up like other people do, whispers of “that’s the guy who’s obsessed with flowers” following him around. No, Suga’s never been like that. He’s never looked at Kageyama like he’s anything but the whole world.
So what if Suga’s kind of beautiful? So what—so—
So what if he has the same taste as Kageyama, if he appreciates all the right flowers and says all the right things—
So what if he’s buying flowers for some girl, or—
Oh God, Kageyama thinks.
He’s screwed.
.
On Saturday morning, the bell jingles at the top of the door. It takes Kageyama a few seconds to process what’s happening, and why it’s out of the ordinary.
It’s Saturday morning.
It’s Saturday morning and Suga is walking towards him with coffee and a takeout bag and it’s Saturday morning and he’s in the shop.
Hinata punches him in the arm. “Kageyama, wake up. If you go all out of it again like last night, I’ll have to mind the shop…”
“Good morning, Kageyama,” Suga greets, making him jump about a mile into the air even though he saw him approaching. The carnations he was trimming scatter across the counter, forcing swears out from under his breath.
Suga waves the bag sheepishly. “I brought you breakfast.”
Kageyama just stares at him. He was so sure he wasn’t going to come back—why? Suga has been here every day. Why does he care so much?
“I’m working,” he says, looking down at his hands. Suga seems to follow his gaze, speaking easily, that languid tone about him that makes Kageyama’s insides feel like water.
“Well,” he says, “you could put this in the back for your next break. Though, it might go cold… ah, I didn’t think about it. I’m sorry.”
Kageyama feels everything bubbling to the surface like he might explode. Iris, jasmine, morning glory choking him, bleeding from him and blooming on the surface. He feels heat overcome his face, with no explanation as to why. Which is a good question. Why is he freaking out?
“It’s fine,” he says. “No problem.” His voice has raised about a thousand octaves. Hinata is staring.
“Kageyama, go take a break,” Daichi says, passing him by and giving him a hard side-eye.
“It’s not even 11,” he starts to argue, but Daichi is already holding up a hand.
“I’ve got it covered. You need a break, you’re scaring the customers.” He nods in Suga’s direction. “Koushi.”
“Daichi,” he greets back. He looks at Kageyama expectantly. Eyes as bright as the yellow lilacs behind him, framing his hair like a halo.
“Are you coming?” he asks, and Kageyama has no choice.
He goes.
.
They leave the shop together, rounding the display of roses and Peruvian lilies. Kageyama can feel his palms sweating.
This is the first time they’ve been out of the shop together, and it feels important, like the persistent sun on the back of his neck is trying to tell him something. Suga walks them around the store and to the area of park and greenery and benches, where Kageyama has seen couples go before. On Valentine’s day he found flowers in the trash cans there; a waste he mourned, saving what he could. He sees the men and women go from the shop to the park on most weekends, or off in that direction, off to win whatever love they may.
Suga is staring at him.
“Thank you for breakfast,” he says, unsure how to make his voice sound less warped. Suga is still staring, a patient gaze that both relaxes Kageyama and shakes his bones.
Suga waits until they’re both sitting down to speak. “You’re upset,” he observes.
“I’m not.”
“You are.” He smiles at Kageyama, all the brightness and the brilliance of the store contained in one person, and it makes his head hurt. “Is it because I didn’t come last night?”
Like a blow to the head, Kageyama realises he knows everything. He must know that Kageyama has developed this—this ridiculous crush, and now it is going to ruin everything, now it is going to—
“Oh, boy, you’re making that overthinking face,” Suga says, brows drawing together. He reaches out one hand, as delicate as anything, and smooths the mirrored expression from Kageyama’s face. “Don’t worry. I just wanted to explain.”
He nods towards the coffee, which Kageyama had forgotten about. Timidly, tentatively, he takes a sip.
“I was buying all those flowers,” Suga says slowly, “for you.”
Kageyama stops drinking. He seriously resists the urge to spit it out everywhere, swallows it past the exponential lump in his throat. Weakly, he asks, “What?”
“I like you, Kageyama.” Suga’s voice rings out sunnily, a soundtrack to this unbelievable moment. Kageyama sits there. Frozen. “I like you a lot. It’s okay if you think this is weird, but… I was hoping you might like me too. And I’ve done something with the flowers that I want you to see.”
“Why?” he asks finally, choking the word out like a tulip unfurling. Suga’s eyes widen in surprise.
“Well, I wanted to do something nice for you, and I know you like flowers, so—”
“No—” Kageyama shakes his head, shakes the pollen that feels clumped in his hair and ears and eyes, too much of Summer having gotten into him.
Everything is the sun and flowers, things he has always been scared of because they don’t feel meant for people like him.
It’s overwhelming. An efflorescent gift out of his reach. Suga is staring like he wants an answer, and for a second Kageyama doesn’t think he can give one. Then—
“Why do you like me?”
“You’re cute,” Suga answers immediately, shrugging. “Obviously. And interesting. But extremely cute.”
“Cute,” he repeats, not meaning for the word to come out so bitter. Suga laughs.
“Attractive, too. But I definitely think you’re adorable. Not that I don’t take you very, very seriously.” His gaze darkens at that, so serious it’s like a bullet to the head. Kageyama swallows.
“I can’t believe this,” he mutters, and drops his head in his hands. He feels Suga’s hand move to pat his back, a comforting gesture. “I’m not meant to like anyone in this town. Just flowers. Just staying for the flowers, and then I leave.”
“You’re a third year student, right?” Suga asks, and Kageyama picks his head up to look at the other man. His face must confirm it, because Suga starts laughing.
“Oh, man. I have a crush on a high schooler.”
“I’m just about to graduate,” he argues. “I’m eighteen.” He’s about to add more when he sees the look on Suga’s face, a very delighted ‘gotcha’ expression. Feeling out of his element, he adds, “I didn’t think anybody noticed me.”
“Are you joking?” Suga looks bewildered, ready to fall to the sky and take Kageyama with him. “How could I not? You have such a gift with those flowers. I thought it was… I don’t know. You’re amazing.”
He had thought he was acaulescent. Either without entirely, or with a stem so short his leaves appeared basal and nondescript, belonging to the bottom layer of everything. Nobody noticed him.
Certainly not cute guys he thought he had no chance with.
“My break’s probably over,” he admits, heart still racing, hands still sweating. Suga must see the underlying answer in that, because his face lights up, stirring something in Kageyama’s aculeate chest.
“If you want,” he says, handing a slip of paper over so quickly Kageyama doesn’t get the chance to recoil, “you can call me, and I’ll show you the flowers. I think you’ll really like what I’ve done with them.”
“Right,” Kageyama says. Spinning. He turns to leave.
“Oh, right,” Suga says, drawing an incised shiver up Kageyama’s spine in his descent to leave, “I never told you what my favourite flower is. I think I’ve decided.”
Kageyama turns carefully on his heel to look at him, afraid of what his own face must look like.
“Lily of the valley,” Suga says. Kageyama turns and hurries back to work.
Because no big deal. Lily of the valley, whatever.
There’s no way Suga knows that it represents love.
.
It isn’t until after his shift, when the sun is low in the sky and he feels tired and safe, that he texts Suga. Just a simple ‘hello, this is tobio from the florist’, nothing to rile anyone up. He treks out through the foliose concrete jungle, listening to the sigh and pull of the ocean in his peripheral, watching the flowers as he goes and already thinking about arrangements he can start on tomorrow. He thinks of Suga, unreservedly letting the thoughts now form in his mind, the thoughts of his long fingers and careful smile eyes like florets, watching him delicately, his warm gaze.
Maybe it’s okay to want to care about someone, and to want them to care back. His chest feels effervescent.
When he gets home, there’s not a text waiting for him; just a picture, with no context to fall back on. But Kageyama knows exactly what it is.
It’s an arrangement of every bouquet of flowers Suga has bought from him, each of them meaning love.