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Of Florals and (Festive) Postscripts
“Fucking ouch,” Charlie hisses and aims a scowl at the thorn-covered stems standing guard around the prize roses at O’Captain’s Florals.
Neil smothers a laugh. “Careful,” he warns as Charlie’s arm curves into a crane movement, not unlike an arcade claw-machine. “Keating’s a business owner. He can’t keep writing off your stock damage.”
“Oh, kick a man while he’s down,” he says, reeling back at the insult. “It was one time! Besides, lilies are hardly a crowd-drawing flower.”
Neil slips out from his position behind the register and hovers by the tiered rows of buckets that line the sage-green and wood panelled shop walls.
“With their petals stripped, or streaked with pollen?” He arches a brow. “No, surprisingly not.”
“No one could’ve known I’m allergic!” Charlie insists, his eyes unmoving from the brightest of the bunch, its crimson petals ring-fenced by larger and more jagged blooms.
“And now?”
“I have a rescheduled ice skating date to make up for. And his usual Wednesday bouquet.”
He gestures back to the rose bucket. “Come on, Neil. Please?”
“Grab love by balls,” Neil mutters. He grits his teeth and rises on his tip-toes, not bothering to disguise his wince as he grasps the chosen stem. “That’s what you said, if you recall.”
Charlie accepts the flower with a shrug.
Shifting back, Neil braces one shoulder against the wall. His arms cross and his eyes sweep the still-empty shop in an obvious show of patience.
He watches as Charlie’s expression twists into something contemplative, his palms pressing together to slide the stem back-and-forth until the red rose spins like a top between his hands.
“What happened to your date last Friday?”
Neil huffs.
“It’s just a question,” Charlie says, though the tilt of his mouth tells of another, less-appealing intent.
“No good.” Neil turns his attention to the roses and deftly pulls a pair of clippers from his O’Captain’s Florals uniform apron.
“Why?”
He continues to manoeuvre himself around the shelf display and coincidentally turns his back. “He chews too loudly.”
Charlie snorts.
“We can’t all stockholm syndrome our Latin partner into a relationship,” Neil bites, starting to snip at the thorns.
“Et tu, Neil?” Charlie gasps, clutching at his chest. “I’m a catch.”
“For the police department, maybe.”
Charlie smirks and shoots a glance at his watch. “Hm, there’s still time.”
He grabs his briefcase then steps back across the floorboards. “Call Knox if I get arrested before my eight o’clock client.”
“Arson?”
“Robbery.” Charlie throws the door open with the weight of his back. “Aggravated; at whatever Grinch stole your heart.”
Neil launches towards the door. His fingers wrap around its wooden frame as he swings out into the dim, snow-dusted line of fourty-forth street. “Dalton!” His call is lost to the wind. “You can pay full price for that!”
~ * ~
Neil trims and waters to a steady flow of radio Christmas hits, and the occasional demands from harassed city shoppers.
As the snow falls, so does foot fall. So Neil slides the script for his latest play across the counter, his attention split between the frigid words of The Winter’s Tale, and icy flakes glistening en masse beyond the foggy windows.
He’s lost in a haze of verse when a draft hits.
Before he can straighten to greet the brave - or possibly stupid - customer risking pneumonia to leave with an equally delicate bouquet, Neil is caught by a flash of movement through the shop.
Startled, he finds a boy - no, a young man - cloaked in snow and muted browns pacing the singular aisle.
Windswept hair covers the line of his cheekbones, but the jerk of his chin betrays a darting gaze as it moves from the garish blooms Keating set aside for a cousin’s wedding, to the only other customer, an elderly woman lingering over a poster for flower food subscriptions pinned beside the door.
He coughs.
The man’s head snaps up.
Neil flashes a smile, his lips curved in the perfect blend of a New York challenge and an invitation. “What are you looking for?”
“Fuck you.”
The words are soft, almost whispered. His youthful tone is so delicately full of hope that Neil feels his heart lurch as if he’s been kissed, not cussed.
“N-Not you, fuck. I-” the stranger stammers and gestures meaningfully between them. “I didn’t mean to-to insult you. I would-I would like to place an order. Please.”
Neil blinks.
“Sorry.” The young man recedes into the folds of his oversized coat. “It’s a ridiculous request. I shouldn’t have presumed-”
“It’s alright,” Neil intercedes.
The door slams as the woman exits.
He jumps, and Neil slowly raises his hands from the counter.
He wants to placate this strange, wild thing taking shelter in his shop, wants to listen to his hurried insistence that he’ll pay more for the unreasonable demand, then discount whatever he asks just for the pleasure of adding some interest to his day.
He’s beautiful, even in the grip of hysteria. His blue eyes are alight with determination and his bitten lips flush pink around each stifled, erratic breath.
“There’s no one here. And luckily for you, I’m quite into floriography,” Neil continues with careful nonchalance. “So much so that I volunteer flowers for local theatres.”
“Mainly Ophelia’s flowers, but also the wedding bouquet in Romeo and Juliet.” He shrugs and the movement catches the man’s darting eyes. “I’m uniquely qualified for Tragédie.”
Neil leans toward him, his elbows bent on the rose strewn counter as he beckons him closer. “So what kind of ‘fuck you’ are we talking? Hermia’s unspoken curse at her father, or something more kill Claudio?”
“I would my father looked but with my eyes,” the man quotes with a slightly wet laugh.
Cautiously, he steps closer and tips his chin toward the theatre pamphlets stacked beside the register. “Sure you’re not a part-time psychic as well?”
“No.” Understanding sits heavy on Neil’s shoulders. “I have an Egeus of my own.”
At that, the man pales.
“So you’re familiar with The Bard?” Neil prompts.
“It’s not really a choice.” He replies without looking up. “I-I’m a poet.”
“Are you?”
“Not like an internet starlet, or, or an open mic performer,” he clarifies, “not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
At Neil’s nod, the man stands straighter.
”What I mean,” he says, “is I have a real foothold. My brother saw my work on a fucking Barnes and Noble bestseller shelf, so I thought my parents might accept it, might see my career.”
This time, the man doesn’t register Neil’s encouragement. He shifts backwards and then sideways, his steps forming a parody of a waltz in front of the counter.
“My agent is using all these,” he waves madly, “words like ‘critical acclaim,’ and I thought this dinner tonight might be a celebration that I made it, or that I’m finally a child whose success is worth a mention at the golf club.”
He shakes his head. Beneath his jacket, the man clenches his fists, wrestling to contain a multitude of buried hurts threatening to spill out.
“Stupid thought on my part. Turns out, it’s an early family Christmas meal while my brother’s back from Canada. And that’s fine! Not everything is about me, except my mom let it slip that dinner is less of a festive affair, and more congratulatory for Jeffrey dearest.
“He’s being promoted from a paid intern at some law firm he works at, which is great,” he says with a shaky breath. “Really great, but the job was promised by some cousin on the board when he took the internship. Mine wasn’t.”
Neil feels his stomach drop.
“I know poetry isn’t what my parents wanted, I mean, they didn’t even bother to read my first collection but at least they tried—“ He chokes on the memory. “Sorry, you didn’t need to hear all that. I just. I need a win, as petty as it sounds.”
“So, uh, fuck you. In flowers,” he sums up awkwardly.
Neil means to say ‘sure,’ or ‘yes,’ or any variation from his years-long stock of customer service phrases.
Instead, his too nonchalant shrug appears hand in hand with something so far from bland, it’s practically a wedding vow.
“As you wish.”
~ * ~
“We have the basics.” Neil drops a cluster of decorative stems into a cut-glass vase on the counter. They land with a soft thunk. “But any arrangement needs greenery for filler - a back-up cast, if you will - so our showstoppers can really hammer the message home.”
He pivots and points to masses of white heaped in buckets to the left of the counter - where the stranger now perches on Neil’s seat.
“Baby’s breath means innocence and everlasting love,” he explains, leaning over to grab a loose handful of stems. “But we’re using it ironically. Plus, they leave such a mess that it's an everlasting pain in any houseproud mother’s behind.”
The man is still grinning when Neil places a warm hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently to herd him towards the front window. “We have petunias for resentment,” he points to a row of smaller, clustered petals.“Geraniums for stupidity, or foxglove for insincerity.”
“And,” he turns with a flourish, “for the more literary minded, we have carnations.”
“Oscar Wilde,” the man observes with a nod.
Neil claps his hands, and his voice drops into a deep imitation of the dead poet. “A delightful symbol, but one presented in yellow to express one’s disappointment.”
His breath huffs into a quiet laugh, and it fuels the performance Neil knows he’s putting on. The warmth of it spreads like mythic nectar right through his bones.
“Buttercups?” The man asks, voice still breathy as he points to a clump of acid yellow in a pot marked for clearance.
“Hey!” Neil reels back, his expression scandalised. “I have some integrity.”
“Right. Decorous insults, not cheap shots.”
“Preciscely.”
“In that case, I’m surprised I’m not fighting my mother for custom,” the man teases, his expression warming with something like camaraderie.
Neil matches his grin and leans precariously over a row of indoor flower-beds. “I’m a loyal man.”
He shifts onto his tip-toes, then stretches for a box situated at the top of the tiered display he’d ordered by customer demand.
“And,” he hesitates. “Orange lilies for hatred. If that’s too strong I can take it out but-”
“No,” the man says quietly. “I hate myself for hoping. They’re awful every time.”
Neil dips his head in acknowledgement. “It’s a therapeutic addition. On the house.”
He rights himself, then moves to slot the vibrant posy into the already garish sample bouquet exploding from a vase.
“If you’re happy, it’ll be ready by five.”
The words are hardly spoken before the man nods.
“Who should I mark for collection?”
“Anderson, Todd.”
“Alright. Anderson, Todd,” Neil says, his tongue wrapping around the vowels just for the pleasure of it.
“Just Todd.” The man digs through his pockets and withdraws a leather wallet. He places a handful of bills on the deposit slip and then smiles. “Thank you.”
“You haven’t seen it yet,” Neil says lightly, suppressing his own amusement.
Todd looks over his shoulder as he pulls open the shop door.
Cold gusts lift the edges of his coat as he stands in the doorway, the chill rousing a different kind of flush in his cheeks. “I trust you.”
Flakes of ice drift through the open door. Their bite lingers, but Neil stands, alight with a warmth he hasn’t felt in years.
~ * ~
“I never thought you’d be keeping secrets,” Charlie says, fishing with all the subtlety of one slicing their palm to attract Jaws. “Not from your oldest, dearest friend.”
Neil turns the ‘CLOSED’ sign, then moves to yank open the curtain concealing a small kitchenette in the closet-space behind the register.
He traipses inside and dumps a watering can into the metal sink. He twists on the cold tap, releasing a torrent of water. “It’s nothing,” he says at last.
“It’s nothing,” Charlie mimics derisively. “Nothing has you skipping around like you’re back to playing Puck?”
“I’m not-” he starts, then presses his lips together. “It was a request, if you must know. Not another ‘sorry-I’m-a-cheating-asshole’ or, ‘condolences-on-your-mother’s-death’ request. It was ...considered.”
“Considered,” Charlie repeats. His skepticism floats through the curtain.
“Personal.” He tries. “Vengeful.”
Wooden beads clatter as Charlie pokes his head through the curtain. He repeats the word, then throws the rest of the beaded threads back with aplomb.
Sighing, Neil stops the water and turns to lean against the sink, his arms crossed tight over his pruning apron.
“Out with it.”
Charlie settles against the inside of the doorframe and tilts his head. “It just seems a bit too Macbeth for you, conjuring a bouquet to warn of Macduff.”
“I knew you watched me rehearse that play!”
“Fine, yes.” Charlie bats Neil’s accusing finger away. “I'm the best friend ever. Tell me about this plot for vengeance."
He rolls his eyes. “He requested an ugly bouquet for family dinner. It’s hardly Hamlet.”
“No, but it’s still damaging to your reputation,” Charlie points out. “Keating’s chill, but even I can’t see him wanting his branding on that.”
“Ever the businessman,” Neil mutters then snatches up the watering can. “Can’t I do something nice?”
He scoffs. “Golden boy. We know you’re not that pure of heart.”
“I know I never get involved with people’s family stuff,” Neil concedes. “But you should’ve seen him. He deserves better than parents who so clearly don’t give a shit.”
Charlie lets out a slow hum. “So you agreed because he’s pretty.”
The watering can hits the sink with a clang. “I didn’t say that!”
“You didn’t have to.”
It’s quiet in the shop, almost silent except for the faint whirring of a generator.
Neil chews his lip. “He’s a poet.”
Charlie cackles.
~ * ~
Time crawls as he awaits the return of his stranger.
His script lays open, its pages poised on the scene he’d run with Charlie before he left to deliver his rose bouquet.
Now, the typescript blurs into shadow from the sinking winter sun. The darkness stretches, its fingers reaching for the moment he’s been waiting for.
A faint shuffle sounds at the door.
Neil shoots up and grips the counter, steadying himself by counting each beat of his heart.
It takes five counts to cross the length of the central aisle, and another four to unbolt the heavy, wooden door.
“Hi.”
Neil takes a beat to breathe in the bright, familiar eyes blinking up from his doorstep.
He swallows. Todd’s shy smile is no longer enclosed by worn wools and pink cheeks, but a tailored dinner tux and a heady, sandalwood cologne.
“Hi,” he breathes out and sweeps a welcoming arm inside the shop. “It’s ready, but you might want to brace yourself.”
Todd flushes as he shakes the snow from his dark overcoat. “Already am,” he jokes with a stilted smile, “and that’s just for the bread and hellos”
Neil chuckles weakly, covering his own nerves with a flourishing bow as he moves aside, revealing the full horror of their collaboration.
Todd leans in and his smile grows by the millisecond as he takes in the sheer monstrosity of Neil’s creation.
He looks up in wonder.
Neil winks.
“Any notes?” He asks impishly.
“I think this one speaks for itself.” Todd prods at the orange lilies standing tall amidst the ferns in the back. “And loudly.”
He lifts the bouquet and feigns a gift of it to Neil. “How do you feel?”
“Perplexed. Like I might consider how one would come by such a…” Neil trails off and eyes the clashing colours with a significant pause. “Such an idea.”
Todd gives a satisfied nod and tucks it under his arm. “Thank you. I really can’t say it enough.”
“It’s been a pleasure.” Neil replies, his voice hoarse. He clears his throat and waves vaguely towards the other man’s jacket. “I know you have to go, but may I?”
Todd’s brows furrow, but he nods.
Leaning away for a moment, Neil plucks a small hand of red amaryllis from the window display.
With the posy in hand, he draws closer to the once stranger, his hands slow and gentle as he tucks it into his empty chest pocket.
Todd stills but gives no indication he hates this invasion of his personal space.
Greedy, Neil adjusts the already perfect suit. “There.”
“What is it?” He asks, his eyes darting up to meet Neil’s.
“Strength.”
~ * ~
“I’M HERE!”
The door crashes open. Light spills out and carves a slice into the darkness that’s promptly filled with a whirl of brown hair and scuffed loafers.
“They locked the fucking bank down over some idiot sporting a long, hard meatball sub in his blazer pocket.” Charlie yanks his scarf off like it’s strangling him. “Where is he?!”
Neil continues to flip through his script. “You missed him.”
“Go after him!”
“This is not Love Actually.”
His head snaps up at the answering huff.
“No.” He jabs a finger in Charlie's direction, his chair screeching as he stands. “I’m not Colin Firth, or some scarily emotionally mature kid racing through an airport. It would be cue cards, unwelcome cue cards crashing an already traumatic family dinner.”
“Neil-”
“And the waiter!” He says louder, his gesticulations growing into bird flaps. “The waiter, who probably earns more in one night in tips than I do per five commercials, will take one look at my shop apron and sling me out before I even catch a glimpse of him. Nevermind his parents-”
“Or,” Meeks interjects, stepping through the open door. “You wait outside.”
His sensible words take the wind from Neil’s rather frantic sails.
“Or that,” Charlie grins. He throws an arm around his boyfriend and tugs him into an obnoxious, smacking kiss.
Neil glares.
“Aww Perry, are you feeling lonely over the holidays?”
“Such a shame there’s nothing you can do about it,” Meeks adds neutrally. Like an asshole.
“That’s not a guarantee,” he shoots back. “What if I misread things?”
“A man actively choosing to articulate his feelings with an expensively ugly and passive aggressive bouquet is not straight,” Charlie adds with more than a little condescension.
Neil tuts into the red and green bouquet he swipes from under the counter. “That’s a stereotype. And offensive.”
“I’ll do penance blowing my boyfriend.”
“Jesus.” He throws his coat on and stomps over to the door.
“Get a room,” he aims an exasperated look over his shoulder, and then yanks the door open with a shout. “And not this one!”
~ * ~
It’s a clear, crisp night which does nothing for Neil’s nerves as he paces the alley running the length of the restaurant.
Cringing, he tips his head back, remembering every impulse that has led him to seek shelter in this trash-strewn passage.
“Pull it together, Perry,” he mutters, slumping against the rough, brick wall.
After a moment, he glances at his watch, curses, and resumes his pacing.
The thought of giving-up, of preserving whatever sliver of his dignity still remains persists with every pace, until a familiar shuffle gives him pause.
To his left, the restaurant door swings shut behind a silhouette.
Todd emerges from the bright light and yanks at his scarf. With a half-strangled sound, he kicks out at an inconvenient pile of snow.
It’s clear dinner has been everything he envisioned, or more, Neil thinks bleakly.
He steps out from the alley and into the flicker of a nearby street lamp. “Tell me to get lost if this is creepy.”
Todd startles.
He releases a long, slow exhale as he recognises the cadence of Neil’s voice. “Not at all,” he says dryly, “in an empty, barely lit street.”
Neil keeps his hands clasped behind him and rocks on his heels with a shrug.
Todd rolls his eyes, but Neil catches a hint of a grin.
“Was it awful?”
“Expectedly so.”
“And the flowers?”
Sparks catch in the blue of Todd’s eyes. “Grotesque.”
Neil fails to stifle his delight. “Ah.”
“Well. I wouldn’t worry.” He draws his arms out and hands Todd a real bouquet from behind his back. The token is a burst of red peonies, matching amaryllis, and a backing of evergreens, all encircled at the stems by a gold ribbon. A sprig of mistletoe dangles from its knotted bow. “You’ve got a better one.”
Warm fingertips press to the inside of his wrist.
“Neil,” Todd murmurs, close enough that his thank you is a physical thing. A breath that skitters softly over his skin.
His fingers find the silk of Todd’s sleeve, slipping over the fabric to his shoulder, and tracing the delicate line from shoulder blade to spine. “Don’t thank me.
“No?” Todd laces their fingers around the stems, his thumb presses Neil’s to the mistletoe postscript. “How about this?”
His chin tilts, lips pressing Neil’s with a soft, evergreen kiss.