Work Text:
Varlen snapped back to reality as the door to the flower shop thundered open. The bell, better suited to a gentle chime, rang wildly, sounding more like an alarm. Putting on his best smile, Varlen stood up straight, smoothing the front of his apron in the same motion.
“Good afternoon!” he said. “How can I—”
“— A question for you.” the customer interrupted. His eyes were already fixed on a wall of flowers, eyeing them the way one would when searching the shelves of a library for a very specific book. He leaned heavily on one hip, his other hand raised to his mouth. His curled finger stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Different flowers hold certain meanings, yes?”
“Yes…” Varlen said hesitantly, walking around the counter and onto the shop floor. It was rather small, but not uncomfortably so. The flowers took up the lion’s share of the space, but it could still fit about six browsing people with only minor discomfort. Varlen moved to the man’s side and tried to sound helpful. “Yellow roses are for friendship. Pink carnations show gratitude. Red roses… well, I’m sure you know what they mean.” he chuckled nervously. The man hadn’t even looked at him yet, utterly engrossed by the rows of flowers. He had a magnificent profile. “Did you have something particular in mind?”
The dark haired man nodded, but it was less pensive and more… sharp. Irritated. The nod of a person who was, in no uncertain terms, fed up with something. Or someone.
“Yes… tell me, how does one say fuck you in the colourful language of flower?”
It took Varlen a moment to process his request. Then, he let out a short snort of laughter, half because he had not been expecting it, and half because of how matter-of-factly the man voiced the question.
“Well I, a-ah…” Varlen fought to maintain composure and force the smile off his face. He took a deep, slow breath. “Geraniums can mean… stupidity?”
The man nodded to himself, reaching out to pluck a small bunch of geraniums off the shelf. “Ah, excellent. Perfectly suited to such a half-wit. What else?”
Varlen let the smile creep back onto his lips, and took to his task with considerably greater enthusiasm. “Lavender can be taken as distrust… orange lilies for hatred… oh, queen of the meadow for uselessness… let’s see… yellow carnations mean they have disappointed you?”
As Varlen rattled off his list, he became suddenly aware of the man looking at him rather intently. Meeting his gaze, Varlen was surprised to see his eyebrows raised in a mixture of disbelief and amusement. Then, the customer let out a bark of laughter, bright and approving.
“What luck! To find a florist so well-versed in spite.” he smiled, as though to show he meant no offense by the comment. “Perhaps you could write me a list? I fear I will be here a while.”
He was indeed there for a while, but Varlen couldn’t say he minded. The man’s name was Dorian, and he had a rather intricate message to deliver to a university colleague. He had apparently been sneaking stripweed into Dorian’s tea as a form of academic sabotage. As he was allergic to stripweed, Dorian had spent the days before his finals trying and failing to see through puffy, half-swollen eyelids, and thus lost out to his unnamed rival. Refusing to allow such sabotage to go unanswered, he was planning the bouquet of fuck you flowers as a courtesy. To mark the oncoming storm, as it were. Varlen took his role in the war very seriously, helping to artfully arrange the various flowers so that some of the bright smaller ones spelled a vague F if you squinted at it. Dorian delighted in the artistic touch.
“Marvellous!” Dorian declared appreciatively when it was done. Varlen tied it off with a disgusting snot-green ribbon, smiling indulgently at the way the colours clashed. “What a suitable beginning to our feud. Subtle yet vulgar.”
Varlen laughed, slipping the bouquet into a bag, the flowers poking safely out the top. “I’d tell you to try not to sit on them, but I don’t think it really matters at this point.”
Flashing him a wonderful smile, Dorian took the bag and began to fish around in his pocket for his wallet. Then, he hesitated, a strange look flickering behind his grey eyes.
“One moment.” he said suddenly, then wandered off onto the shop floor again. His face was intent. Searching. With a gentle ah-ha, he took hold of a single flower and brought it up to the counter. “Terribly sorry about that. A thought suddenly… struck me.”
Varlen gave him a fond look. He was amusing, after all, but in a very specific way. It was like his mind was working so fast that his body struggled to keep up at times. Varlen totalled the bouquet and the additional flower with a pang of curiosity, but he did not pry further. Dorian had indulged his curiosity enough, after all. Varlen had laughed so hard at the man’s show of affronted dignity that his stomach hurt, but it was obvious Dorian had been playing it up for his amusement. It made sense that a man as entrancing as him might also have someone he genuinely wanted to buy a flower for. One that didn’t sayfuck you.
Dorian handed over the money, his hand brushing Varlen’s but not quite lingering. A fleeting warmth. Then, with a gallant smile, he took the single flower and performed a dramatic bow, holding it aloft between his thumb and forefinger. Holding it out for Varlen to take.
Varlen blinked for a moment, utterly taken aback. Then he laughed gently, feeling his cheeks grow hot.
“I… I’m not sure you know what that one means.” Varlen said, his voice bordering on apologetic. But Dorian just met his eye, his lips quirking into a half-smile.
“The camellia.” he began grandly, as though reciting from a book of ancient poetry. “Admiration, good luck, perfection, and gratitude. All of which are qualities you have earned or displayed. Correct?”
Varlen nodded dumbly, somewhat surprised. Then he cleared his throat, about to point out something else, but Dorian beat him to it.
“Ah, but the red camellia…” he said, and held Varlen’s gaze knowingly. “Means something along the lines of a flame in my heart, yes?”
“I… yes, that’s right.” Varlen tried not to sound utterly stunned, but sensed he had failed when Dorian let out a warm laugh and straightened. He offered the flower again, far more honestly this time, his face still set in the afterglow of a smile.
“Then it appears…” Dorian began, but trailed off. When Varlen reached out slowly and took the camellia’s delicate stem between his fingers, Dorian seemed to relax, and finished his thought. “… that I chose correctly.”