Work Text:
soundtrack:
this years love | david gray
cold is the night | the oh hellos
safe and sound | taylor swift
upward over the mountain | iron & wine
hold you in my arms | ray lamontagne
Dublin sings with life after the rains. It’s cold, in March, but the streets bustle with life, the squelching and squeaking of passing wellies and umbrellas and heavy coats. It seems a funny juxtaposition to Niall, watching through his kitchen window with a morning cuppa; outside, the city teems with drab activity, while inside, his bright african violets on the sill mourn the lack of a sun to reach towards. He can never quite decide which he likes more: the activity, or the color. Zayn says that’s because Niall is both, the never-ending movement of the streets and the brilliance of the bright petals. Niall says Zayn’s full of romantic horse shit.
Niall takes a sip of his tea, Twinings lemon with his own addition of crushed rose hips, and curls his toes in his slippers. He’s still got ten till the shop opens. It’s a nice morning. He smiles into the rim of his cup when there are soft sounds behind him, sock feet on the kitchen tile. Zayn’s arms are thin, but they feel strong around his waist, wrapping him up from behind and sliding his cold hands into the pocket of Niall’s sweatshirt.
“Cold hands,” Niall says, turning to kiss Zayn’s cheek. It feels baby soft against his chapped, tea-warmed lips. Softer is the smile he can feel in Zayn’s dimples.
“Warm heart,” Zayn says back, and Niall exhales, ducks his nose to Zayn’s throat, presses until he can feel Zayn’s pulse, steady as the rain outside.
;
He makes Zayn eggs in the pan on the cook-top. When Zayn complains he can’t possibly eat that much, Niall points out he’d eaten three and cheese and the sausage, earlier, and Zayn looks so fond that they forget to fight, kissing as the eggs go brown untended.
Niall’s two minutes late opening the shop, and there’s already a harried-looking businessman on the stoop when he unlocks the door. “God, sorry,” Niall says, taking his umbrella and hat and ushering him in out of the rain. “What a day, right?”
The man looks as if he thinks he should be angry, but can’t quite manage it in the face of Niall’s smile. It only makes Niall’s grin split wider. “Take a cuppa while you tell me what I can do for you?”
Two more customers come in as Niall’s fetching the carafe from the kitchen, with another kiss to Zayn’s cheek as he hands it to him with a tray of biscuits. They all huddle in the middle of the shop with steaming mugs as Niall takes notes on the arrangement the first man wants sent to his wife at work later.
Niall’s pleased; the banker had been sent to him by a friend whose wife had loved the anniversary bouquet Niall made last month, and he seems more than content to let Niall do what he wants. When Niall mentions alstroemeria, the man looks helpless and more than a little intimidated, and Niall knows the hook is set. He takes down the man’s billing information and ushers him to the door with the assurance he’ll make something up that’ll just be the thing. The relief is nearly palpable in their handshake, and Niall turns to the two businessmen making a puddle on his shop floor, grins. “Now what can I do for you?”
;
The morning rush isn’t uncommon for Niall. His shop is on a side street just off a major commuting route to the business district, and there are always plenty of white collar Irishmen who forget to make birthday or anniversary arrangements, would rather stop in before work than risk being late home that evening. Zayn says it’s a sad commentary on the state of society, but Niall thinks the majority of them are sweet. At least they’re making the effort, and, as he points out to Zayn, “They did choose the best florist in Dublin! They obviously give something of a shit.”
He spends his morning dancing around the shop to The 20/20 Experience and wiring cabbage roses for the heart-shaped garland one man had ordered for his wife of thirty years. “Thirty years!” Niall had said, when he dodged into the kitchen to pour another cup of tea, found Zayn in the corner armchair reading. “Thirty years, Zayn, that’s like, a third of your life, right? Shit.”
“Well,” Zayn drawls, and Niall knows he’s taking the piss before he even continues, “it will be in three years an’ four months, since 33.3 is technically-”
“Ach,” Niall says, sounding like his grandmother to his own ears, bending to tweak Zayn’s ear, kiss his forehead. “Don’t distract me with figures!”
“You love my figures,” Zayn calls after him, and Niall shoots him a thumb’s up as he pulls the door to the shop closed behind him- “ye know it!”
Niall momentarily considers rethinking his no-bird policy, as he finishes the wreath, settling it in a pot of ivy and fixing a tulle ribbon. He’s always maintained that doves are just trouble, and that if you’re trying that hard for romance, you should probably admit you’re hopeless. But they would look nice with this arrangement. It might be his love of Enchanted talking, though.
He sets the arrangement in the big cooler, and surveys it for a moment. Doves would only poop on it, probably. And Zayn’s not a huge fan of the aviary species. Niall’s seen him swarmed by pigeons outside the chip shop, seen him dive-bombed by gulls at the seaside. All things considered, it’s probably better to keep doves out of the shop.
He wouldn’t mind some mice to keep the place clean, though, Niall reflects as he sweeps up the cuttings.
;
Josh arrives just before eleven, parks the delivery van in the loading spot just outside the front, and Niall’s got the three arrangements from that morning’s walk-in orders, as well as a simple bouquet ordered over the phone for a secretary in some office and a dozen red roses for a couples’ first anniversary. He and Josh trolley them out to the van with garbage bags over their heads, carefully arrange them in the back- “wish I had time for a tea,” Josh says, apologetically. “Had to take Moss t’the vet’s this morning, got her paw caught in the gate on her walk and the pad’s torn a bit.”
“Shit,” Niall nods, “that blows, mate, she’s alright though?”
“Oh yeah,” Josh says. “Got her an antibiotic that cost more than my pub allowance for the month though.” They both roll their eyes. “And Zayn?”
Niall nods. “He’s well.”
Josh gives him a quick hug, and Niall returns it easily, presses his nose to the wet shoulder of Josh’s jacket. “See you tonight, yeah?”
“‘Course,” Josh grins. “Wouldn’t miss it. Tell the missus hi.”
“Aw, feck off,” Niall says, but he’s smiling as he steps back into the shop.
;
Zayn has a rough afternoon.
Niall doesn’t notice, at first- Zayn’s left the armchair when he goes into the kitchen for the twine he’d tucked somewhere in the drawers there the other day, he swears, but he doesn’t think anything of it. When he flips the sign on the door of the shop to “we’re lunching!” and cleans up in the kitchen sink and Zayn still hasn’t turned up, though, he climbs the stairs to their flat with increasing dread.
Zayn’s just coming out of the bathroom when Niall steps into their bedroom. He looks sheepish and pale in the dim light of the room. Niall hadn’t drawn the curtains when he got up, hoping to let him sleep in a bit, and Zayn had obviously forgotten. It’s still raining outside, and Niall comes over slowly, wraps Zayn up in his arms, holds him tight to his chest.
“Sorry,” Zayn whispers. “Was hoping I could make y’lunch, but it’s- smelled rank, had to make a dash.”
“Shh,” Niall soothes him. The joke sounds harsh, coming out of Zayn’s mouth. “I know, I’ve told you y’don’t have to, babe.”
“Can’t sit around useless all day,” Zayn retorts.
Niall presses his palm to the base of Zayn’s spine, draws it up the small of his back, measures how delicate he is under the touch. “Sure y’can. An’ y’not useless. Y’look pretty, an’ you know how I like pretty things.”
“Don’t,” Zayn says, softly.
“I do,” Niall insists, pulling back to smile at him. All of him: the dark circles under his eyes and the hollows of his cheeks and the chapped pink of his lips and the ruthless buzz cut of his hair, the delicate shells of his ears more prominent like this. Niall kisses his mouth, smells fresh tooth paste and the slight bitterness of sick and kisses him more firmly. “And I like you, and I think you’re pretty.”
“You’ll make me cry,” Zayn warns, and Niall hugs him tight, holds him for a long time.
;
That night, before Niall even closes the shop, locks the front door and turns off the lights in the studio, he can hear the chatter of voices from the kitchen. When he steps through, it’s to a warm glow of faces and conversations, and Zayn’s smile from the armchair. He looks pleased and contented, rested after lying down for the afternoon while Niall worked in the shop, and someone (Louis, probably) has convinced him to try a bowl of soup. It’s half-full, cradled in his lap and the blankets tucked around his legs.
Niall remembers the day that Liam and Louis brought the armchair over- months ago in the fall, when Zayn hadn’t come home yet, and Niall had been cleaning obsessively in preparation for his return. He’d opened the back door to the two of them, struggling under the weight of the heavy, plush chair, and between them, they’d gotten it in. There was no way to get it up the stairs, and Louis had pointed out that it might be nice to keep in the kitchen, so Zayn could have a place to rest while Niall was working, not be so far away.
It’s become a permanent fixture, now, and as small as Zayn looks, curled up in it, lap throw and comforter tucked over his legs, he’s also the center of attention, with Louis perched on the chair arm, running a hand through the fuzz of his hair. Harry’s cross-legged on the floor with his own bowl of soup, telling some story only Zayn would find funny. At the stove, Josh is ladling bowls for the other lads, and the back door opens with a jingle, Bressie’s wide shoulders a welcome sight as he comes in from the corridor, says his hellos.
They won’t stay long, not like they used to; Zayn tires easily, and Niall won’t let him wear himself out, knows the signs now. But they’re here for now, filling the kitchen with pleasant chatter and fond swearing, discussion of the Derby match the night before and the art show that weekend. Zayn is giving Niall a hopeful, pleading glance, and Niall knows it’s about that, the Matisse exhibit opening at the library, and he’s already thought about it, how he could close the shop early, bundle Zayn up and get them a taxi so they won’t risk the weather. We’ll see, he mouths, and Zayn reads his lips from across the kitchen, smiles softly. He’ll get his way.
“He looks better,” Bressie says, clapping a hand on Niall’s shoulder. He’s too subtle to be looking directly at Zayn, studying his soup as he spoons it into his mouth, but Niall isn’t fooled.
“Yeah,” he says. “Ye big softie. He’s doin’ alright.”
Bressie sets his bowl on the counter and gets down two mugs to pour them tea from the kettle Louis had started first thing. Niall looks from the stream of steaming water, the sweet, citrus aroma that wafts up, to the life in Zayn’s face as he discusses the upcoming Thor premiere with Louis.
“And how’re you?”
Bressie is watching him carefully, as he hands him the mug, and Niall blows over it, takes a short swallow as he considers. Across the room, Zayn laughs, bright and sweeter than the scent of lemon ginger tea.
“I’m doing alright, too,” he decides. “Yeah, I reckon. I’m doing alright.”