Work Text:
Adjusting the side mirror, Alfred inspected his hair to be sure the drive hadn't mussed what his stylist had done. The streaks of purple slid across his face; he tucked his bangs under the rim of his glasses and behind his ear. Flashing his reflection a wide smile, Alfred clicked his tongue and mimicked firing a gun with his fingers. Perfect, Alfred deemed his appearance.
He swung his leg over the side and left his motorcycle parked in the street outside a flower shop sandwiched between a three story insurance firm and an even taller bank. A few clay pots crowded the sidewalk. Alfred needed to sidestep them to gain entrance to the front door that was barely two feet wide. Inside was both a little better and a little worse in terms of size. The store stretched farther and farther back, but the volume of plants and gardening supplies crowded every available surface.
Sounds of running water from fountains were all Alfred heard, but instead of calling out he raised his chin and walked to the rear of the shop. On each wall the shelves were overflowing with goods, but the products were organized: herbs and edibles to one side, planting tools hung or stacked neatly, and at the back were the flowers. Some were in storage coolers or growing in pots, whereas most were precut in holding containers and sorted by color.
Alfred was examining an assortment of carnations when someone appeared through the employee-only door behind the desk. Standing taller, Alfred turned to greet them. "Ivan, hey!"
The man had delivered twelve dozen black roses to the penthouse Alfred's father owned downtown. At the time Alfred cared more about the tall florist dropping by than the bouquet or the secret admirer that'd paid for the gift. He still didn't care to remember what lovesick message was printed on the note card, but he did find the flower shop's name and address on the reverse. So one day Alfred ditched his entourage and hunted the place down, and returned once a week since.
Ivan finished dusting his hands off on his work apron. A little dirt clung to the pads of his fingers. "Alphonse, hello! It is good to see you again."
"It's, uh, Alfred." To this day he wasn't sure if the Russian's memory was that faulty or if it was some game he played. When Alfred first introduced himself he was miffed at the lack of recognition. He was on the covers of magazines, had starred in several big production movies, and was top of his class at the most prestige school in the nation. People fawned over him wherever he went.
Except here, where Ivan didn't know that Alfred was the son of a rich company president and treated him like anyone else. He treated Alfred like normal. And he found that he rather loved it.
"Ah, my mistake. I will get it right someday." He planted both hands on the counter and casually leaned on it. "What brings you in today?"
"It's Monday! You owe me a new flavor-of-the-week," Alfred said, looking pointedly around Ivan to the drink station. Aside from his status as a master gardener, Ivan had a pension for experimenting with his homegrown tea. But not the hot variety, like his dad's stuffy salary man was prone to drinking at the office.
This iced version Alfred could stomach. During their first meeting Ivan offered him a sample. Alfred feared chugging it without tasting or dumping the drink inside a potted plant without the other man's noticing and lying about the taste, but he was lucky. The majority of Ivan's original concoctions didn't resemble bitter leaf water – far from it.
Ivan laughed. "Yes! How could I forget that as well?" Contrary to his words, he ducked below the checkout counter and retrieved a chilled, pre-made drink rather than putting together a new one from the colorful dispensers. On the clear, plastic lid was "Frederic" in Ivan's boxy handwriting.
While he did that Alfred reached into the deep recesses of his long-jacket pocket for a wad of three crisp tens. In a vie to show off he used to pay Ivan in fifties or hundreds, boasting he keep the change. But the florist hadn't looked comfortable when he did that and more recently, insisted Alfred needn't pay to be his official taste tester. Now he used smaller denominations to make it harder to distinguish his payout whenever he shoved the dollar bills into the tip jar.
Accepting the drink, he took a sip through the thin straw. Alfred's eyes lit up. He almost didn't swallow fast enough to keep from dribbling a bit down his chin with how excited he said, "Wow, this reminds me of a Creamsicle!"
"Yes, you are correct," Ivan said, chuckling again. He motioned to the warm-tinted jug with fresh slices of oranges floating inside of it. "You tell me I need sweeter flavors, so I try for ice cream. You like it?"
"Like it? I love it! You're gonna add it to your standard lineup, right?" Alfred asked around his straw. His cup was two-thirds empty, draining to nothing save ice at the bottom.
"If the brew is well-received by other customers, then yes. I am thinking of retiring the raspberry herbal tea since my ever-bearers are done for the summer season." Alfred's needy shaking of his empty mug prompted Ivan to refill it, and while his attention was diverted Alfred stuffed an additional fistful of fives and tens into the tip jar.
"I tell you what though, if you manage to develop that Coca Cola iced tea? I'd put you on the map myself and keep you in business."
"I am afraid such a task still eludes me. I will have to keep trying," Ivan said. He returned Alfred's cup with fresh oranges lining the inside. "I meant to ask sooner, but is that a new jacket?"
Chest puffing up, Alfred grabbed the left lapel to model the aforementioned attire a little better. He'd hoped his preening and fussing with the jacket throughout their conversation would gather Ivan's attention. The outerwear was akin to his older version, only better.
Dark feathers lined the collar and cuffs, with additional trim up and down the front, but unlike his ratty, last season version there were longer, purple feathers sporadically mixed in with the black ones. They matched Alfred's streak of dyed hair, the renowned star tattoo on his face, and Ivan's eyes. Definitely the same purple color as Ivan's eyes. That'd been the most important aspect Alfred stressed over and over with the designer.
"Yeah! Pretty snazzy, huh? That other one was getting way dated," Alfred said.
Ivan hummed, then said, "I am not so sure. This one seems to be missing something" and Alfred identified the exact second he stopped breathing and the murderous thoughts began. His fashion designer was never going to work in this town again – no, this country. Neither were their interns or seamstresses or anyone who had a hand in making this jacket. Alfred swore he was going to set fire to the attire as soon as he got home, just as he was going to burn their careers—
Stepping out from behind the counter, Ivan walked over to a wall teeming with tiered flower holders. Bypassing those, however, he raised his arm up to pluck one at the stem from a hanging planter. The cluster of soft, baby-blue flowers were tucked inside Alfred's front pocket. Ivan lined it up just so and pressed his hand over the fabric of his jacket as if to keep the flower in place himself. "There. Now it is perfect."
Alfred lost his grip on the iced tea.