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The morning at the small flower shop, nestled in one of Rome’s neighbourhoods, was unhurried. Its owner, Vincent Benitez, carefully arranged the fresh delivery of flowers, gently smoothing the leaves with his fingers. He smelled distinctly of sweet coconut and rice.
Behind the counter stood Giulio Sabbadin — a tall, stern-looking man with dark hair. His fingers methodically sorted through the receipts and tidied the cash register. His lips were pressed together, and he didn’t look particularly happy.
“Customers again. They can never say what they want straight,” he grumbled with a Georgian accent. “‘Oh, do you know what my boyfriend would like? And what about a girlfriend? She wants something yellow, but not too yellow.’ What am I? Their girlfriend? A mind reader? Is it so hard to just say it?”
Vincent shook his head and walked over to his assistant. Benitez was smiling, and he adjusted the handmade jasmine flower on his uniform.
“Giulio, people just don’t know the language of flowers. Our job is to help — that’s what florists are for,” Vincent said, shaking his head, though it didn’t impress his grumpy omega assistant much.
“The language of flowers, ha! Soon I’ll be able to translate their ‘I like it…’ into ‘I have no taste and I don’t know what I want’.” Sabbadin yawned and turned away, adjusting the gerbera leaves.
Their friendly conversation was interrupted by the ring of the shop bell. Thomas Lawrence walked in — lean, wearing a white shirt and strict black trousers. Vincent knew him — they had been acquainted for a long time.
Sabbadin watched the nervous visitor. The scent of fresh coffee tickled his nose.
“A beta,” he said to Vincent. “Pretty nervous, wouldn’t you say? Usually they’re more composed.”
Vincent ignored him and, smoothing his clothes, asked, “What would you like?”
Thomas looked hesitantly from Giulio to Vincent.
“Something for home. I’d like something not too exotic and low-maintenance,” Lawrence answered, flustered.
“So you don’t know what you want?” Sabbadin clicked his tongue. “Like everyone else in this shop.”
“Quiet,” Vincent said sternly, and discreetly pinched Giulio’s side. Then he turned back to Thomas. “I could suggest lavender. It’s undemanding and beautiful. Just don’t drown it in water like a swimming pool. And lavender means admiration in the language of flowers.”
Sabbadin smirked when he saw Thomas’s eyes widen. For a moment, besides the scent of coffee, the air smelled of old paper. So this beta didn’t just smell of coffee — sometimes something else came through.
In the end, they sold him a small pot of lavender and a little bag of fertiliser. After saying goodbye, Lawrence left the shop “White Jasmine”.
Thomas began to visit more often. First every three days, then every other day. Each time he got better at saying what he wanted — a succulent, mint, a cactus. Vincent was glad that this modest man surely had a garden or secretly loved botany. But he didn’t notice that those blue eyes lingered not on the seeds and fertiliser, but on the shop owner. It seemed Thomas very much liked Benitez’s soft hair and the scent of coconut and something sweet. Cologne, perhaps.
One day, when Vincent had gone to the back room for more fertiliser, Giulio stayed behind the counter. Thomas stood modestly, looking at the flowers to pass the time.
“Are you in love, then?” Sabbadin smirked, his eyes glinting. “Or are you just shy?”
“What?” Lawrence exclaimed quietly, his cheeks turning pink, and the scent of paper and rain after a storm grew stronger. “You… you’re wrong! But… you know, I would like to give flowers to someone. I know what I feel, but I can’t choose the right bouquet.”
Oh, Sabbadin loved teasing romantics like that. He didn’t do it out of malice. It was just that an omega florist sometimes got bored. And the fact that someone didn’t know the language of flowers wasn’t Giulio’s problem.
“You know, every flower here means something,” Sabbadin said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Aloe is bitterness. Yellow roses, in Victorian times, meant jealousy. I like that more than sugary ‘joy and warmth’. And red roses… passion.”
Lawrence nodded, embarrassed. He smoothed his hair, feeling his palms sweat. Giulio turned away and took three thorny yellow roses, still damp from water, and added two sprigs of aspidistra — the plant of indifference. But Lawrence didn’t need to know that. The green leaves gleamed in the light.
“Here, give this to your… whoever they are — omega, alpha, beta, whatever,” Giulio said, keeping his face perfectly innocent. “Let’s see what they say.”
Lawrence left, smiling happily, hugging the bouquet of yellow roses and aspidistra. He didn’t seem to notice the trick.
When Vincent returned, Sabbadin was standing behind the counter with the most innocent look. The shelf was missing the yellow roses.
“Um… where are the roses?” Benitez asked, looking at the shelf as if the flowers might reappear out of thin air.
“I sold them to your ‘regular’. Said they were for a gift. So he could figure out what he really wants. If you want, you can change them.” Sabbadin waved a hand toward the shelf of red rose varieties. “Change them for red ones, for example.”
Vincent blushed. He took out a sprig of jasmine — a symbol of friendship growing into love. After thinking a moment, the shop owner added a sprig of lavender. Then he brought out parchment paper and wrapped the bouquet. Sabbadin smiled, and he himself began to smell of lime.
“Need help with the note or decorations?” Giulio asked, tilting his head and examining the bouquet.
“No, it’s fine,” Benitez shook his head, bending over the note. “You’ve already helped enough.”
“For Thomas L. If he returns,” read the note on the bouquet.
The next day, Thomas came back. Now he was dressed in a dark coat and looked very embarrassed.
“I… yesterday I asked a florist friend what yellow roses mean. And aspidistra… I felt ashamed. But you… you changed them.” He looked at the note and broke into a smile.
“Because I know what you want, Mr Lawrence,” Benitez said. “I apologise for the mistake. I’ve fixed it.”
“Then… may I give this bouquet to you? And invite you for tea?” Thomas asked, gathering his courage, smiling slightly and adjusting his red scarf.
Vincent smiled, breathing in the scent of coffee from Thomas and smiling at the beta. He glanced at his watch. There was such joy in the omega’s eyes — like a child whose parents had just bought them a new paint set.
Giulio came out and began pushing them toward the door.
“Go, go. I’ll close the shop for today, since its owner has… urgent business on the love front with some Anglo-Italian beta.” He snorted as both guests turned pink. “And don’t you both forget about the red roses. They’re there for a reason.”
Vincent and Thomas left. Giulio changed the sign to “Closed” and sat down at the table. Opening a bottle of mineral water and taking a sip, Sabbadin opened his contact list and found Aldo Bellini, his acquaintance, a librarian.
[Chat with Aldo Bellini, online]
Giulio Sabbadin: Looks like I’m closing alone today. He finally invited him for tea. You can tell Tedesco if you want. (Read at 7:55 PM)
Aldo Bellini: Well, finally. I thought I wouldn’t live to see it. 👍
Sabbadin sighed contentedly. Through the window, he could see Lawrence and Benitez exchanging sweet glances. Well, that really was rather lovely. Turning away, Giulio bit off a piece of chocolate, smirking to himself.