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Stiles swore to god, if one more fucking person came in asking him for an arrangement with pine needles or poinsettias or fucking holly he was going to flip his fucking shit all over the place. He loved that his shop was almost constantly crowded this time of year, loved the income and extra holiday cash that provided, but he hated pine needles and he hated poinsettias and he hated holly—pine needles were tree bits (not a flower, asshole), poinsettias were leaves arranged artfully around a tiny smidgen of a flower (tiny flower, asshole), and holly was a hunk off a goddamn bush with some puny-ass red berries on it (also not a fucking flower, you goddamn shithead), and it was prickly, it was worse than roses and he had to do roses all damn year. He hated the idiot traditionalist customers that constantly asked him to work with these three most hated holiday “flowers”, and he felt like he was making the same goddamn wreath he’d made about eight dozen other times today.
He seriously wanted to hurl.
Fucking idiots crawling all over his shop, ‘got any poinsettia arrangements,’ ‘oh I’m having a Christmas wedding I need a half dozen holly-and-white-rose bouquets,’ ‘hey bub I need a pine needle wreath,’ god it was enough to give him a psychotic break. He clopped off a bit too much of a branch of pine and cursed just as the bell above his door rang and he tried not to roll his eyes, but he didn’t quite succeed. He hadn’t expected any customers this late; it was only an hour before he closed and whatever this cheer-filled person needed would have to be a back-order that probably wouldn’t actually get filled until the tenth, he sincerely hoped they were prepared to deal with waiting six days. He pulled his protective gloves off, tossed them on the counter, turned around and there, standing in the doorway, looking unsure and beautiful, letting snow swirl in that Stiles would have to mop up before he closed, was probably the most beautiful man he’d ever seen in his life.
Granted he was only twenty-four, but damn. He felt semi-ridiculous because he was pretty sure as soon as this blue-eyed curly-haired customer opened his mouth and asked for something from the unholy trinity of hellish non-flower holiday flowers or the old stand-in, roses, he was going to want to hurl. He couldn’t help that his mouth twitched up into a smile, though, because the guy was pretty much angelic. His face was so soft but so angular at the same time, how did that even work? As he walked up to the counter Stiles realized how tall he was, he actually had to tilt his head a bit to look him in the eye and it wasn’t like Stiles was short, he was a very manly five-nine, but this guy, jesus—and then the guy was smiling this slightly-uneven smile that was just drawing Stiles in and his mouth was moving and Stiles blinked a few times and then realized he had absolutely no idea what’d come out of his mouth or what the guy’s voice sounded like. He ran a hand through his short-shorn hair and blushed, cursing internally for it. “Um. Sorry, didn’t catch that. One more again?” Because that was super coherent.
The guy’s smile just got wider and he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his very large and fluffy navy parka. “Uh. Yeah. Sorry. Mumbling, I guess. I was asking if you could help me. I’ll be honest, I have no idea what I’m doing. Flowers aren’t really my thing.” Stiles didn’t respond for a couple seconds—he was still trying to gather enough words to string together a sentence that didn’t sound pretty much like ‘holy shit you’re ridiculously hot your voice is insane where’ve you been all my life’ but that was all that was popping into his head and he swallowed hard. Apparently the silence was too long for the guy. His blue eyes grew and the smile dropped off. “Um. Not that. Flowers aren’t a cool thing to be into. Flowers are awesome! I just…’m more into baked goods myself…not just like cake and stuff, pretty much anything you need an oven to make…I own the uh, the bakery on Ninth? Flour Moon? ‘M Isaac.”
Stiles’ eyebrows rose and he seemed to finally find his voice, which, let’s face it, was a huge relief to him. Any period of time in which he was rendered speechless was just bad. “Flower Moon? For a bakery? What? Stiles.” He stuck his hand out without any further lead-in and the guy (Isaac) looked at him inquisitively before puttin’ ‘er there. His hands were calloused and long and cold beyond all reason but weirdly gentle and delicate and Stiles felt a little awed. He really hadn’t been that coherent now that he thought about it, and he kind of wanted to wander over to one of the marble counters and slam his head into it.
“Um. Flour Moon. F-L-O-U-R? Nice to…meet you…Styles?” Isaac was half-smiling half-wincing at him, as if he was afraid he was misinterpreting something, and it was that look more than anything else that spurred Stiles back into the actual real world.
“Yeah, that makes a lot more sense. Been by, never been inside, probably wasn’t paying attention to the spelling, sorry—I really like your storefront by the way, who designed it? If you remember you should shoot me the name and contact info—but yeah, my friend Scott is obsessed with your cookies, dude. The white chocolate macadamia nut? And I have to say I steal at least five whenever he brings ‘em over. And his mom? Loves your braided sage and rosemary bread, whatever the hell that is. ‘S all she eats and now she’s got my dad hooked on it, I’m just glad it’s like whole-grain or something so it’s not awful for him. And that’s Stiles with an S-T-I-L-E-S, not however you’re thinkin’ it’s spelled, dude, it’s not my actual first name but it’s the name on the storefront and on my business cards so it’ll have to do for the likes of you, yeah?” He was grinning and so was this Isaac guy and they were still shaking hands. It was starting to feel more like holding hands and he pulled his hand away and stuck it in the back pocket of his jeans, trying to get it warm after those freezing cold fingers that for some reason he still wanted to keep touching.
Isaac’s eyes were lit up and it was doing stupid things to Stiles’ heart and he knew that he was going to wind up despising this one as much as he did the rest of the holiday crowd once he opened his beautiful stupid mouth. He braced himself for it as Isaac started to speak again. “Oh, I get it now. I feel really stupid—I’m not exactly local anymore, just moved back about six months ago because there was a front I could afford with a flat above it, ‘m sure you know how hard that is to find, but I thought your sign was a misspelling or something—“Ever Love A Wild Thing?” and then the little “Stiles Stilinski” that’s just under it went completely over my head, I mean it’s obvious that you’re a flower shop but you’re so edgy and raw and organic-looking it’s really pretty incredible.”
Stiles tried not to swell with pride but it was pretty impossible not to—he’d decided in college that the only way to survive as a florist in this day and age was to take it digital and make everything modern but keep all the traditional meanings and try to apply them more abstractly, make all the lines clean and new and all the merchandise blatantly on display, thus his shop was undoubtedly the coolest flower shop ever. His actual growing merchandise was clearly displayed; it was ridiculous temperatures in here year ‘round. The heating was a bitch but he cared more about the quality of his stock and the product he could provide than the comfort of his customers, and his meticulous quality control and attention to detail showed in his profits.
There’d been six flower shops in Beacon Hills before he opened his, and within a year there were only two. His and the fucking Whittemore’s. It was just because they were too stubborn to close. They knew they were whipped—and they weren’t even in the business because of the actual flowers and desire for small business, they were only still open so the lawyer’s wife had a hobby. Shit did he not like that woman. “Yeah, I actually grow most of this myself in a greenhouse on the roof—and you know, I have some fresh herbs up there if your supplier ever starts to overcharge or anything.”
Isaac started nodding vigorously and taking off his bulky parka. “Definitely, you’re so close, too, that’d be amazing! I could just walk over in the mornings before we open—cut out the middle man entirely! Is your stuff organic? No pesticides or anything, right?” Stiles had a hard time not staring at his arms, holy crap, and his shoulders were so wide and how did he look this elegant and non-bulky when his biceps were that incredible? He was wearing a hunter-green short sleeved t-shirt that pretty much clung to him and Stiles was definitely staring because he was really ridiculously good-looking, holy god.
Stiles’ mouth went dry and he must’ve been taking too long to respond again because Isaac kept going. “And um…my store front—Hale Co. built my kitchen and re-did the front windows in like less than a month, they’re really incredible, and then my friend Erica Reyes came back down, and over, I guess, from New York with her carpenter husband, Vernon, and put together a design that I loved that was actually functional that Hale Co. had ready for me in less than a month, once again. The foreman on the crew that worked on my place was Derek Hale, he’s part owner and the most efficient guy with a hammer I’ve ever seen. If you’re thinking of a redesign I could give you Erica’s contact information?”
Isaac was looking a little uncomfortable and Stiles couldn’t really figure out why until he realized he kept letting his eyes glide down to Isaac’s arms, just…holy shit. “Yeah, yeah, that’d be awesome, give me your card and I’ll shoot you an email about getting her info soon. And dude—of course it’s organic. I even rent out a field in the spring and just spread wildflower seeds all over it, then come out and harvest them whenever I need them. I’m good at my job, got that green thumb, I don’t need any chemical stuff. I totally know Hale Co., they’re pretty much the only contractors in town that’re worth a damn and they’re the ones who built my greenhouse. Seriously, never go to anyone else around here for anything. There’s a reason they have a near-monopoly on pretty much all construction work in Beacon Hills. So um…what did you come in for? Not herbs, I’m assuming?” He gave his best and brightest smile and walked over to his ‘consulting center’—two rusty pink wing chairs on a circular rug positioned about eight feet back from and directly in front of his door. He plopped down on one and gestured at the other, leaning back and folding his fingers in his lap.
Isaac followed him and sat down just on the edge of the other chair, jacket on his arm. “Uh. No, not herbs. I was wondering if I could get a price on three wreaths, ten table arrangements, and a garland that’d be about eleven feet long? I mean, am I even in the right place? I just need some stuff to…you know, make it feel a bit more…holiday-like? Does that even make sense?” He twisted his long fingers together and looked down at his lap.
Stiles’s smile went full and open and his eyes softened a little. It was obvious that Isaac had no idea what he was doing. If he had he wouldn’t’ve showed up here this late. This would probably take at least an hour. Stiles dug a little yellow legal pad and a pen out from the crevice between the edge of the cushion and the actual chair and wrote ‘Flour Moon Consultation’ across the top. “Okay, so no offense, but you seem completely and utterly lost, dude. I can’t give you a price until I know what you want—” Stiles was going to want to shoot himself for this “—holly, a pine garland, some roses…poinsettias maybe? Let me put it this way—do you charge the same for pumpernickel and rye?”
Isaac’s head came up and Stiles watched it click behind Isaac’s eyes and the taller man shook his head, sighed, and leaned back into the cushions a bit, seeming to understand that Stiles’d had this conversation many a time before and disliking being yet another customer who was getting ‘the speech’. Or maybe Stiles was reading into it. Probably the second thing. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. ‘Holiday-like’ totally makes sense, but what holiday? You want Christmas? Hanukkah? Kwanzaa? I mean, I need details here, Mr…?”
Isaac looked up at him sharply and then back at his lap, and Stiles felt like a line’d been crossed somewhere and he’d missed himself doing it. He thought it was probably inadvertently asking what holiday Isaac celebrated—but he hadn’t really been doing that, he was just asking what holiday Isaac wanted people to think he celebrated, and maybe that wasn’t much better, but then Isaac was speaking softly and he stopped trying to figure out how he’d offended Isaac because Isaac was just telling him. “Mr. Lahey was my father. Please don’t call me that. Just Isaac. Do you want me to call you Mr. Stilinski?”
And when it was put like that, no. Not at all. Not even a little. “Yeah…we’re gonna pretend I didn’t say that and I’m never, ever going to say it again as long as you promise not to call me that again, deal?” His own smile widened as whatever weight’d settled onto Isaac’s shoulders seemed to lift. ‘Lahey’ sounded vaguely familiar, and Stiles’s mouth twisted trying to figure out where he’d heard it before.
Isaac nodded, eying him through long eyelashes, and Stiles didn’t know if his heart was swelling or stopping. Holy crap at his eyes. “Deal. Um…like I said before, flowers aren’t really my thing? I know I like ivy, I think it looks cool, dunno if you’d really call it a flower but yeah. I don’t really have that much of an opinion…you’d have creative license, is what I’m trying to say? I mean, you know flowers and decorations and stuff way better than I do, so can I just tell you basic stuff and you come up with something and I’ll just go with that?”
Stiles blinked a few times and he knew his eyes were huge right now but there wasn’t much he could do about it. “I—what? You’d seriously trust me like that? You met me five minutes ago. What if you don’t like what I do? Will you even still pay me?” It all sounded wrong and accusatory but Stiles didn’t really know how to take it back, how to fix it, so he turned it into a joke and half-laughed and went to punch Isaac’s arm playfully, but Isaac leaned away quickly until Stiles couldn’t reach him at all and he wound up sort of punching the air near him and fucking shit he’d really messed this up, god his stupid fucking mouth—but Isaac was half-laughing with him, maybe it wasn’t that bad?
“Stiles, you’re a florist, you have a degree hanging right there—I mean, yeah, it’s in business, but you still went to school so you could do this and set this up and your name’s out front, I’m pretty sure you know what you’re doing. The bouquets in the windows are yours, right? Like you were the only one who had input? Because they’re pretty incredible and you didn’t have a customer holding your hand the whole time and saying ‘this is what I want to see’. I’ll like it if it’s one garland, three wreaths, and ten table displays that are somewhat cohesive and brighten up my place. That’s all I’m asking you for and that’s all I’m expecting.” Isaac looked like he was expecting an immediate response and Stiles didn’t really know if he could give one, his mind was kind of sticking on the ‘customer holding your hand’ and how particularly bad he wanted that right now along with the fact that someone’d actually been paying attention to his window displays (which never ever actually sold, so he donated them to the art gallery across the way before they could wither).
Isaac started looking uncomfortable again and shuffling around a bit and Stiles realized that he still had his fist out and withdrew it quickly, unfolding it and scrubbing a hand over the thigh of his jeans, looking away from Isaac’s insanely blue eyes and finally realizing that his mouth was still open. He clamped it shut and actually blushed. “Uh. If you want those they’re yours, actually. And yeah, yeah, I can totally do that. The flowers. For you. But I need to actually go inside of your store first. Gotta know what clashes and stuff. So I’ll come by tomorrow? And those table displays—do you mean bouquets or would you like me to include a stand or a vase or…?” He looked back at Isaac and was disappointed and a little disheartened to see that he was shrugging his coat on.
Isaac was grinning again, though. “Vases would be awesome, cost really isn’t an issue for me—like at all, just keep it under two thousand and I’ll be pretty happy.”
“Dude, definitely! No problem.” Stiles’d gotten orders for two-thousand dollars’ worth of flowers for weddings and things but never from another shop owner. He blinked a few times, wondering how successful Isaac was. He might have to order some more out-grown flowers for this—it wasn’t like he could grow holly or pine branches or poinsettias up in the greenhouse, and he got a constant delivery of some staple flowers like baby’s breath and roses and tulips from a gardener in Brazil with a Swedish last name that’d known his mom—but he pulled out of his thoughts as he realized Isaac was up now, zipping up his coat and stuffing his hands into his pockets. Stiles figured he might as well walk him to the door and stood. “Uh…so I’ll see you tomorrow?”
Isaac’s gaze turned a little wide and panicky. Stiles felt vaguely offended. “Um. I mean. I guess. Wouldn’t that be really inconvenient for you, though? I mean. Unless you take a lunch hour. But if you don’t normally then I’d rather you didn’t. Come by, you know.” Yeah, okay, now Stiles was definitely offended. What kind of shit was that? You don’t let the person designing stuff for you into your shop? What the fuck? “If it’s inconvenient. You can um. Come now? It looks like you’re closing in a couple minutes anyway. Think your boss’d mind if you cut out early?” Isaac half-laughed, sounding stunted like Stiles’ had earlier. Stiles’ sudden irritation melted away as fast as it’d come—Isaac wasn’t saying he didn’t want Stiles to come by at all, he just didn’t want Stiles to feel obligated during store hours.
Stiles could work with that.
He grabbed his thick grey wool peacoat from the hat rack by the door (he had no clue why Isaac hadn’t used it) and shrugged it on. “Hey, now is good. My boss is a dick anyway.” He grinned a grin that only lifted half his mouth and opened the door rather gracefully, for him. “After you.” This time it was Isaac who blushed, and Stiles fistpumped the second Isaac was fully over the threshold and locked the door as he followed.
Of course, they hadn’t gone more than ten steps before Stiles hit a patch of ice on the sidewalk and flailed around like his normal graceful self, grabbing onto Isaac in hopes to stay upright. He only succeeding in dragging Isaac down into a snowbank with him.
On top of him, actually. The snow melting against the heat of his legs and soaking into his jeans sucked but Isaac on top of him, supported above him by arms he’d probably tossed out on instinct to keep from hurting himself, that wasn’t half bad. Stiles found his face heating again and he made eye contact with Isaac, who, for some reason, was still hovering over him. The tips of his ears had to be blood red, he really should’ve put on a hat. The tip of Isaac’s nose was red from the cold and Stiles had the sudden almost overwhelming urge to kiss it, just the tip of his nose, just for a second, but then Isaac was getting up and offering one of those ice-cold hands that were probably a lot worse right now and laughing as snow fell into his gorgeous blonde curls and in that moment Isaac could’ve been sixteen again and suddenly it clicked.
Words were bursting out of Stiles even as he giggled breathlessly, took Isaac’s hand, and let Isaac pull him up. “Holy crap, you’re that Isaac Lahey! I think we were on the lacrosse team together! I mean, not like I ever played, but I’m pretty sure you were on it too, right?” He slipped a little on the ice again but it looked like Isaac was ready for it this time; the taller man caught him as his legs slid out from under him, wrapped his ridiculous arms around Stiles’s waist and picked him up and settled him on a much clearer patch of sidewalk a bit farther up from the icy patch. Stiles breathed out ‘thanks,’ legs going a bit jello-y, wrapping his arms around Isaac’s shoulders and leaning on him for a second. Stiles looked up at Isaac through his eyelashes, watching the blush spread across his face.
Isaac cleared his throat, but he stopped shuffling around and they were pretty much just embracing now. Stiles felt something in his chest fluttering because Isaac was staring at him intently and his eyes were bright and curious but serious and he wanted to press his chapped lips to Isaac’s and warm him up because Isaac’s breath was leaving vapors in the air and he was shaking a little, and Stiles watched him lift a hand and Isaac said quietly, “Close your eyes.” Stiles shivered and obliged. A million thoughts roiled through his brain—I just met him five minutes ago who cares if I was maybe on the lacrosse team with him in high school he could be a serial killer or something but he actually recognizes my creative genius and he’s so beautiful god I don’t care I want him to kiss me…
A moment later Isaac was stepping away and Stiles looked at him, blinked a few times, brow knotting up. “Uh?” Nothing’d happened. No lips pressing lips. What? “Why’d you ask me to close my eyes?”
Isaac was already walking farther down the sidewalk. “There was a snowflake on your eyelashes.” Isaac laughed a little and smiled a smile that could totally be considered cocky. Stiles rolled his eyes and hurried along until he pulled up level with Isaac, a smile of his own breaking over his face despite his not-quite-disappointment.
The walk to Flour Moon was thankfully short and fairly uneventful. It only took about ten minutes but it felt like two minutes (because of the company) and two hours (because of the weather) at the same time. Isaac confirmed that he had, in fact, been a member of the Beacon Hills lacrosse team, and he’d played about as much as Stiles. Stiles was infinitely disappointed in his high school self for not noticing Isaac—for letting Isaac be one of those people whose name you heard at graduation and felt zero recognition, despite having classes with them for four years. Isaac said he hadn’t liked it much, and when Stiles asked for clarification—being on the team or high school—Isaac’s immediate and finite answer was both. He didn’t say it—he spat it, and Stiles wanted to ask for further clarification (why was it so bad for you), but they’d finally gotten to the shop and Isaac was unlocking the glass door, mouth twisted, and Stiles’d learned this lesson in college when his roommate’d punched him in the throat for pressing about his home situation: sometimes there was shit people couldn’t talk about, and if you kept shoving, you paid for it. He thought high school might be something Isaac couldn’t talk about, or at least really didn’t want to, and Stiles didn’t particularly want to revisit that part of his past either, so he resolved to let it go even though Isaac didn’t really seem the type to hurt anybody. He decided to ask about something else he was curious about instead.
“So why the baking?” It was a natural enough question—one Stiles got all the time, from everyone but his dad, but about the flowers.
Isaac’s eyebrows rose and his mouth quirked up; Stiles was glad that’d been the right direction to turn the conversation. “That’s like me asking you ‘why the flowers’. Fairly personal, yeah?” Stiles felt his eyebrows migrating to his forehead. Was it? It was only personal if you gave the real answer. He couldn’t remember ever having done that. He opened his mouth to back-track, but Isaac was holding the door open for him, and as he stepped inside, sort of backing in and still facing Isaac, Isaac answered. “I like making things that make people feel like they’re home. It’s a good feeling, and I can give it, so I try to. Plus it’s cool to have creative freedom, to be able to pull things together and not have to follow anyone but my and the FDA’s and the California Health Board’s standards. Theirs coincide with mine on most things, so it’s convenient. And it’s nice to be able to make things for people my own way. They can always say ‘chocolate cake’ or ‘raspberry pudding’ but I get to control the way I make it, you know? They can’t hand me a list of ingredients and say ‘this is what I want’—they have to trust me to know what I’m doing, and it’s a good feeling, to get it right and see somebody back again, you know?”
Maybe Stiles hadn’t ever given a real answer because he hadn’t ever heard Isaac’s. It resonated with him so much and he just felt it swell and bloom in his chest like a mother-fucking flower yes, he really had been keeping too-long hours, he needed to go to his dad’s house more. He would say ‘home’ but ‘home’ was the flat above his shop, so that would maybe not help so much in the getting away from work. “Me too. I mean, obviously they can be more exact with what they ask me, but it’s like…the reverse. They tell me what to put in and a basic idea of how they want it but I control what comes out. And my mom really liked flowers.”
Isaac smiled at him then, real and genuine and full of teeth and it felt rare and it felt beauiful and he wanted to hold onto that look, with the snow catching in Isaac’s hair and the streetlamp’s light making his eyes and his skin glow and gleaming off the gold in his hair, for as long as he could. Isaac Lahey was beautiful, and Isaac Lahey was following him into his rather spacious bakery, and Isaac Lahey was a long shot but he was a shot at least. “’S not much, but it’s home.”
Stiles couldn’t help the ‘psh’ that fell from his lips even though he was trying to suck a ridiculous amount of air in because of the smell. “Dude, you’re shitting me. ‘It’s not much.’ What’re you even saying, look at your display case, is it heated? It looks heated. This isn’t a bakery—this is pretty much just a restaurant designed as a bakery. People come here to eat dessert after they go out for dinner. Holy god.” The kitchen was a bricked-up square in the center of the floor with a long marble bar in front of it with a cash register all the way in the corner and the most beautiful glass-and-chrome display case and it looked like there was room on the complete other side of the square—Stiles started walking around, he couldn’t help it. There were places to sit everywhere, all different sizes and shapes, some obvious antiques, some huge leather couches, even a couple blue plastic school chairs. Light grey blocks that were just small enough to use as ottomans were scattered everywhere and there were four tall circular tables right at the front windows, with four stools per table that were all mismatched but the same height at least. It was cozy but not cluttered and this was the first time he’d actually understood that phrase.
“Holy god.” He had to say it again, this was the coolest store he’d ever been in—and he’d been in his. The walls were dark gray, the floor was a neutral cream color, and at the front the chairs were iris blue and orchid purple and baby’s breath white but as he walked they seemed to change into red calla lily and daisy-center yellow and flowering maple orange, and then the colors all brightened and the red and orange faded out and it was mostly pink yarrow and ivy green and he was jogging now, laughing like a child, free and unfettered, excited to get to Spring, and he wasn’t disappointed. If he’d been paying any real attention he would’ve noticed this corner first because it was all the flowers, so many of the colors he loved and got to see every day because of his greenhouse, some of them even arranged like he would’ve arranged them, and he turned to Isaac, realizing he’d kept pace and had been jogging beside him this whole time, and that made it even better, somehow. “How did you even—holy god, Isaac, this is the coolest store I have ever been in in my life. It is amazing. Did this Erica person design your innards, too? You should whip out your card right now and give me her info. Jesus fucking wow, dude.”
Isaac blushed and he shrugged out of his parka and dropped it on one of the chairs before walking back around to the front, jerking his head so that Stiles would follow. Stiles unbuttoned and pulled off his coat and followed maybe a bit too fast, winding up a little ahead of Isaac. When Isaac spoke Stiles was surprised by how nervous he sounded. “Um. The inside was mine? I mean, this place used to be a dance studio so we had a ridiculous amount of floor space and I could do whatever I wanted with it, so I did…this. I wanted a place that people could pretend was home, if…if they needed to. Since there were four corners and four seasons and mismatched furniture is probably the coolest looking thing ever, this happened. Are you hungry? Thirsty? I could make you some hot chocolate, if you want?”
For a second Stiles was too overwhelmed by the fact that Isaac’d done this to answer. He was walking backward and trying to look everywhere at once so of course he backed into something and fell again, only this time Isaac was too far away to grab onto so Stiles just flailed around spastically trying to catch his balance before tumbling completely backwards onto a plush dove-gray love seat. He spoke from there, legs dangling over the arm of it, blushing like he was a freaking teenager again. “Uh. Yeah. Sounds good, dude.”
Isaac actually insisted on walking Stiles back to ELAWO—they’d somehow managed to talk for over four hours and it was just past midnight. Not exactly dangerous, but not exactly safe, either. Downtown was empty but for the club scenes about eight streets away, and nothing could be heard of them but the barest techno thumping on the wind. They didn’t really talk, which was weird for Stiles, but it was nice, too, because the quietness and the chill made them sort of crowd together as they walked. When they finally got to the shop, Stiles stood awkwardly at the door for a moment after he unlocked it, unsure what the procedure was. Isaac just smiled and lifted his hand in a little salute and started to wander off before turning abruptly, one finger out and mouth open, poised for a question, but he was tentative about actually asking it. “Uh—ah—do you take a lunch break?”
Stiles raised an eyebrow, definitely amused. “Yeah, but I usually just bring some food down and eat in the shop. Why?”
“What time?” Isaac’s smile was so bright and excited, it made Stiles wonder what he was getting himself into.
“Uh…three, usually? Why?”
Isaac shook his head, still grinning. “Don’t make lunch. Good night, Stiles.” He flashed another brilliant grin at Stiles before walking quickly away, towards his home.
Stiles called out to him even though he probably should’ve just left it there. “Good night, Isaac. Sweet dreams!” Isaac raised a hand and made the ASL sign for ‘u’ and the number two, and Stiles’s heart actually skipped a beat. He’d taken American Sign Language as an elective in college, but he never got to practice—maybe he’d be able to now that he knew Isaac was around. He stood there for a moment, hand on the door and ready to open it, oblivious to the cold, just grinning out into the night.
Stiles was dealing with a goddamn holly emergency when Greenburg strolled in in a black apron with a white crescent moon centered on the chest of it, holding a white covered dish, shaped almost like a ceramic cake pan. Stiles sighed aloud. He’d kind of hoped Isaac would come by to pick up his order instead of sending an employee.
“Wreaths are there, dude, just uh—if that’s for me just set it on the counter, ‘k? I gotta—I gotta finish with this thing.” Greenburg nodded, complied, grabbed the two wreaths of red poesies and white baby’s breath with ivy-and-forget-me-not accents meant for Isaac’s shop doors from the stands, winked, and bolted without a word. It took Stiles almost fifteen minutes to finally get the fucking holly to cooperate with him, and when it did he was exhausted and starving. He turned his sign around to closed—fuck this, man, no more fucking people wanting holly wreaths while he was eating—and the second he uncovered the dish warm saliva shot into his mouth and he heard his stomach grumble and almost whine for it.
There was a little card that said ‘Glad you aren’t vegan—this is the best soup I make. -Isaac.’ The letters were spiky but even, as if written carefully, and Stiles glided his fingers over them for a second, blushing. On the back was a list of ingredients for everything, with ‘not sure if you’re allergic to anything’ written in the tiniest possible script at the very top, and Stiles smiled and tucked the note into the bottom of his cash register drawer with the few hundred dollar bills he’d gathered in the morning, feeling weirdly assured that the note was worth just as much, if not more.
Thanks to the constant heat inside his shop and the ceramic dish, it’d stayed hot, and stayed delicious. Broccoli and cheese soup—which sounded kind of gross but tasted amazing—and a chunk of that braided rosemary and sage bread, with a little pink cellophane-wrapped candy on the side. Stiles literally licked the bowl after he was finished, and he had a hard time finishing the last scraps of bread—it wasn’t that it wasn’t good—it was spectacular, that was the problem. He didn’t want it to be over. And then the candy—which, according to the card, was a kind of peppermint cake-bite dipped in dark chocolate. He didn’t think he’d ever eat anything that topped the soup, but that candy seriously did it, holy crap it was amazing, he actually had to sit down.
He smiled huge and thought about the note—two could play at that game. He just had to find a creative way to get it delivered—his assistant was down with the bronch and he’d been without aid for almost a week now, he was thinking of asking Scott to come in. Guy was a lawyer but he was a wiz with holly. Dick.
Stiles flipped the sign back around and started work on two of Isaac’s table displays during a lull in business, ones that could go in either the winter corner or the fall corner, at least as far as his color sensibilities were concerned. He used some flowering maple, a rich orange color, and forget-me-nots, a sweet blue that contrast nicely, along with some tiny white furled wild rosebuds that would open over time as long as Isaac kept the vases filled. The stars of the arrangements were two magnificent purple irises Stiles’d previously been too in love with to use. Oh well. At least Cassandra and Pygmalion would go to a good home before they withered. He used two matching grey-green blown glass vases from one of his many thrift store visits and then dropped some of his own home-brewed life-extension medication into the water, the tiny granules sinking to the bottom assuring him that as long as the water was regularly replenished and stirred (not freaking dumped jesus) his flowers would survive for at least 25 days and at most 40 without his loving care or roots beneath their stems. He’d come up with the formula with his lab partner’s help in an advanced chemistry class in college.
He wiped sweat off his brow and admired his creations. They looked magnificent, at least to him, and he hoped Isaac liked them half as much. He text Isaac to say thanks for lunch and to ask how much to deduct from Isaac’s total for it and got ‘nuh-uh that was on me thanks for the wreaths’ and a smiley face. That day, Stiles filled twice as many orders as he thought he was going to and closed with a smile.
At 9AM, just as he resolved not to go through the crazy idea he’d gotten as he’d fallen asleep, Isaac text him ‘lunch is on me again greenburg’ll pick up the dish from yesterday @ 3 and our first set of displays hope you didn’t wash it’ and a winky face. Stiles grinned huge and actually sighed and clutched his phone to his chest.
The day flowed by at a glacial pace. It was like waiting for school to let out all over again. Finally, it was three, and he’d done what he’d randomly decided to do and placed a single cheddar-orange Ranunculus in the covered dish along with one of his finer cards. The card read, in his normal handwriting, not his fancy florist’s script, ‘Best soup ever. Seriously, freaking awesome. Best bread. Best candy. Thank you so much. I’m excited for lunch today! Hope you like the displays—if you just water them when it gets low NOT CHANGE THE WATER OUT and stir it around a little they’ll be good.” He added a smiley face at the bottom and immediately regretted it, feeling like he was passing notes in high school again, jesus.
So of course Greenburg showed up with a steaming plate at just the moment he closed the dish—he’d look spastic beyond spastic if he tried to take the note and flower out now. He passed the dish to Greenburg and accepted the new one. It was kind of hilarious watching Greenburg shuffle out and he hoped sincerely that Greenburg wasn’t going to drop anything, while at the same time kind of wishing he would, because that’d mean he was two more displays away from getting free lunch for the next freaking month.
They went through this for five more days, until all that was left was two displays and a garland, all of which Stiles’d sadly whipped up the night before, so there was no more putting this off. It was Sunday and both their stores were closed, so Stiles just asked Isaac why he didn’t come by and help with the vases so Stiles could get the garland.
At this point Isaac’d sent Stiles five dishes, each one more delicious than the last, and Stiles’d sent back four flowers, slightly coordinating with the dish sent but more sent to convey a certain meaning than anything else. Stiles was sort of in love with the entire romantic Victorian notion of flowers having meanings—they didn’t get much else right in that era, what with the lead face paint and such, but flower meanings was something he could get behind, especially when he was courting without actually saying that out loud.
The cheddar-colored Ranunculus, to signify that he thought Isaac was massively charming. A white Hyacinth to say ‘hey, I’m being totally serious right now,’ that matched Isaac’s turkey sandwich nicely. A yellow Chrysanthemum (usually used to signify a secret admirer, but this was Stiles here, subtle he was, secret he wasn’t), in stark contrast to the dark meat of the pork chops and potatoes Isaac sent over. Stiles was beginning to think that he was being served things that definitely were not on the menu. He’d have to check next time. Queen Anne’s Lace, to say ‘hey, your face is kind of angelic and amazing’, that reminded him so completely of the awesome crumpet things covered in cream sauce he kind of couldn’t use anything else.
So here it was, Sunday, and Isaac’d asked him to have lunch with him instead of just sending him food via creepy winking courier. Stiles was appreciative. Today he had two roses in the covered dish, but they weren’t boring because the colors were incredible—they were some of the best ones he’d grown. A lavender rose and an orange rose, both full and rich in bloom. Hermes and Apollo, or at least that’s what he called them. Most of the names he gave his flowers had kind of a Greek feel, he couldn’t really say why. Their stems were twined together and together like this he thought the translation might mean something like ‘I am passionately enchanted by you’ or something along those lines. So it was totally understandable why he kept going back to the dish and uncovering it and just staring, because this was kind of a big deal. At least for him.
When Isaac came in and they saw each other again, Stiles had the most insane urge to hug him. It was weird but it seemed normal at the same time, and apparently Isaac had the same urge and just did it, shit. Stiles blinked, practically consumed in Isaac’s parka, enveloped in his arms, before he made them respond and hug Isaac back around the waist semi-awkwardly, sighing into it a little before he pulled away.
“Holy crap it’s gotten worse, Stiles. It’s so freaking cold. Are you sure the flowers are gonna be okay?” Isaac pulled away and rubbed bone-white fingers over his wine-red cheeks and Stiles didn’t think, didn’t care, didn’t anything—just reached out and grabbed Isaac’s hands and tried to massage some freaking warmth into them, holy crap.
“Dude, seriously. Gloves. Your Christmas present from me. The flowers’ll be fine, I dunno if you will be though, holy crap, sit down and warm up for a minute.”
Isaac shook his head and pulled his hands from Stiles’s grasp, almost cantering over to the covered dish. “Nuh-uh, food’s already ready and waiting, c’mon! I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. Is that the garland?” Isaac pointed to the ten-foot long trail of ivy attached to a rather large copper pot.
Stiles rolled his eyes. “No, that’s lunch.” He grinned and waved Isaac over. “Come help me loop this stuff over my arms so it doesn’t drag the ground. Where are you putting it? I assumed along the top of the front wall of the kitchen?”
Isaac grinned back and did as Stiles asked, looping the long strands of ivy around his neck and shoulders. “You guessed right. Now come on, it’s freezing.”
It was likely that they looked completely and utterly insane, trundling down the sidewalk in thirty-degree weather, calling to each other about patches of ice through the down-drift of snow, but Stiles didn’t care much. It was kind of fun. Somehow both of them managed to stay upright throughout the short walk (nobody slipping on ice, nobody tumbling onto anyone else into a snow bank, though the last bit did disappoint Stiles a little). Stiles almost choked on his tongue when they were finally within the doors of Flour Moon, because it did look a lot more seasonal, and so many of his arrangements were settled exactly where he would’ve put them, and it just looked…it looked really beautiful.
“Looks incredible, right? Thank you, Stiles, for doing such a magnificent job. If you’ll hang on a second I’m gonna set these up and take this back to the kitchen—you can set that on the counter, yeah?” Isaac was grinning huge and Stiles couldn’t help answering that ridiculous smile with one of his own.
“Yeah, definitely, I’ll just uh…wait here.” Because that wasn’t completely obvious.
After Isaac scrambled around a bit like a madman and helped Stiles put up the garland, Stiles sat down at one of the high tables and Isaac brought out their lunch—ham and sharp cheddar sandwiches on rye with sides of sweet potato fries. Stiles saw the fries on the blackboard menu situated in front of the counter—he was assuming they were actually baked—but not the sandwich, and decided to finally call Isaac on it.
“So how many of my lunches did you make special? Like just for me?” He was blushing a little and he nibbled a fry, just to give himself something to do, but of course the second the orange prism of deliciousness touched his tongue he crammed it the rest of the way in and went for more.
He looked up at Isaac and felt like all the breath’d been sucked out of the room, because Isaac was smiling at him very fondly, all teeth, and he was just…wow, he was just really beautiful.
“Um. All of them?” Isaac’s smile went closed-mouthed but didn’t lower in intensity at all.
Things were tumbling out of Stiles’ mouth without any restraint at that smile. “Did you get the flowers? Any of them? The last two?” He felt his own color deepen and a delicate peach shade streaked across Isaac’s face, so different from the wine-red from the cold.
Isaac looked down at his plate and nodded. “Um…I’m not—I mean, I don’t…”
Stiles was backpedaling like crazy suddenly, an even darker color now, because he really would’ve rather been ignored than outright rejected and this sucked. “No—I mean like don’t feel like obligated or anything just um we can totally pretend that didn’t happen, totally, don’t worry, it’s all good. It was weird—I’m weird, I’m sorry, but if I didn’t freak you out too much I—” He was going to say ‘I’d still like to be your friend’ but he about swallowed his tongue when Isaac placed a tentative hand over his.
“Um. I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen. I um…I like you. I’d like to date you, actually. I just don’t…I don’t do…sex. Like that’s not a thing that’s going to be happening. If you’d like to re-evaluate your feelings now, I understand. But this tends to be something that I get a lot of ‘why didn’t you tell me at the beginning’ so I’m gonna try just putting it out there, see how it goes.”
Stiles blinked a few times. Okay. Not rejected. Fucking awesome. “Dude, you’re asexual?” Isaac’s eyes grew a little. “Yeah, man, I know what the term is, no worries. I’m cool with it. I’m pan, but I don’t need the future promise of sex to want a relationship with somebody. We can have the ‘boundaries’ talk later, though, okay? For now—have you seen Avengers 3 yet, and if not, would you like to? With me? As an actual legitimate date?” Stiles turned his hand and held Isaac’s, smiling slow and big.
As it turned out, Isaac hadn’t seen it yet, and later that night they candied rose petals and had that boundaries talk, and apparently kissing was all clear.
They wound up doing a lot of that in the months, and years, to come.