Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Blame doesn't look like the type of guy who owns a flower shop. If anything, with his overly defensive glare and arms crossed tight across his chest, he looks like the type of guy who's only working in a florist because it's the only job he could find, and he needed to find something because he's just out the army and running out of money, and had far too much time on his hands to sit and stare at the walls of his tiny apartment and remember stuff he'd rather not think about. And he looks like he's daring anyone who comes into the shop to comment about what a guy like him is doing working in a florists.

And that's not entirely untrue.

He hasn't been out of the army long. And he had had to find something because he was running out of money and had far too much time on his hands to sit and stare at the walls and remember stuff he'd rather not think about. And he is overly defensive about his job and what people assume about him because of it (too many comments about florists and pansies and blushing violets and blah blah blah shut the fuck up before I shut your mouth for you you piece of shit).

But the similarities end there. The shop is his and his alone, bought with his own savings, and he doesn't work there because it's the only thing he could find, but because he's actually good at it.

It wasn't his fault he'd been assigned fucking flower arranging as his occupational therapy, but when the army's involved you don't get the option to complain. It wasn't his fault either that he'd turned out to be so damn good at it, finding he had a knack at picking complementary blooms, creating beautiful bouquets, and even matching scents, all whilst absorbing any tidbits of knowledge their instructor happened to mention. (And it was in those classes that he'd perfected the "if I hear you talking smack about this then I'll fucking smack you" glare…)

So six months after he'd been discharged, done at last with occupational therapy, physical therapy, and any and all other therapies the army could throw at him, he'd been wandering aimlessly around the city. There wasn't anywhere in particular he was going, just needing to not be in the soul-gnawing empty silence of his apartment anymore, until he'd ended up on a quirky little backstreet, lined with all kinds of little businesses; independent cafés, boutiques, vintage and reclaimed stores, tattoo parlors, bakeries, record stores, even what looks like a joke shop at the far end. It felt like a world away from the rest of the town, awnings bright and colorful even in the weak winter sun, no two storefronts the same. He'd felt out of place in his black tshirt and khaki cargo pants, but then he'd come across the the tiny vacant store, with the "for sale" sign propped in the window, and after god knows how many flower arranging classes it wasn't his fault that his brain went, "This could make a great florists," before he could stop it.

Despite his initial exasperation at his own thought, the longer he stood on the sidewalk staring the more he realized that there was nothing stopping him.

A month later, on the street affectionately known as Mindcrack Alley, Blame opened his florists.

*

Summer comes, gloriously hot, and the stores spill out onto the sidewalks, tables and benches and displays and furniture spreading across the paving and into the road. Blame's tiny store makes the most of the sidewalk space to set up flower stands, buckets of loose blooms to pick and choose from, whilst the pre-made bouquets sit pretty in the windows. And Blame is leaning up against the cupboards behind the counter, with an overly defensive glare and his arms crossed tight across his chest, scowling at the people who pass outside (it's hot, and he's grumpy, and it's his fucking store so if he wants to glare, he'll glare), but people don't come to the store for him, they come for the flowers.

It's too hot to have the door closed, so Blame doesn't get the pre-customer warning of the tinkle of the antique bell (that he doesn't have the heart to take down, no matter how much it annoys him). Instead he just looks up from texting his friend Nebris, who owns the tattoo parlor a few doors down, to find he's got a customer. Or rather, he's got a six foot something stupid lost puppy by the looks of things, staring in such utter confusion at the rows of bouquets that Blame isn't sure he even realized he'd come into a florists.

"Can I help you?" Blame says, not trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

The customer turns, staring blankly for half a second (long enough for Blame to wonder if the guy is even on the same fucking planet), before scrubbing a hand through messy dark hair.

"I'm looking for some flowers…"

"No shit," Blame says, raising an eyebrow.

"Uhhhh…"

Blame sighs, pushing himself to standing. "When I asked ‘can I help you' it wasn't a rhetorical question." The guy looks sheepish and hopeful at the same time, and Blame sighs again, finding it harder than he expects to give his customary glare to the guy. "So who's it for, what do they like, and how about we go from there, alright?"

"It's for my friend's birthday," the guy says, suddenly grinning. "And she likes pink. And rainbows."

Blame waits for any further elaboration, but his customer doesn't seem to have anything else to add. He sighs again, and wonders how many more times he's going to do that before giant lost puppy here leaves his store.

"Right. Well I guess that's a start…"

*

Mr Giant Lost Puppy (whose credit card declares him to really be a Mr Vechs Davion) eventually ends up with a bouquet of rainbow roses. Despite insisting that this "Relly" person wasn't a prospective girlfriend, he's been utterly set on the rainbow roses the moment he'd realized that they were an option, ignoring Blame's advice on picking flowers that more traditionally signified friendship. Not that Blame was entirely sure why he was arguing for it at all – most people were oblivious to any meaning in the flowers beyond what was scrawled on the card by whoever had bought them.

It's obvious that the guy is wanting to say something as he pays, more than just thank you and she'll love them, and Blame is daring him to make the usual "you don't look like a florist" comment, readying his replies and squaring his shoulders like always. But he doesn't, just leaving with a smile and nearly hitting his head on the door frame on the way out, and it leaves Blame feeling almost cheated as he stares at the mop of dark hair retreating down the street.

"At least have the courage to fucking say something," he mutters to himself, aggressively sweeping up the cuttings and ribbon ends from the counter top.

"Say what?"

The voice comes from Nebris, standing in the doorway and already wearing the smile of someone who's seen this many, many times before. In this heat he's only wearing a vest on his top half, and the tattoos that snake up his arms are on full display.

"Oh, hey Nebris. And nothing, just some customer, the usual."

"Maybe one day you'll stop being so damn touchy about this place," Nebris says, shaking his head slightly. "But until then, I'll keep buying you soothing, soothing coffee."

Blame barks a laugh. "Yeah, caffeine, the most soothing of substances. Actually," and he glances first around the store, and then across the street to the coffee shop, "I can see the store from Zisteau's place, I'll join you."

"Gracing me with your presence? I feel honored."

Nebris finds himself on the receiving end of a probably-not-genuine glare from Blame as he's ushered out of the store.

"Shut up Nebris. And to think, I was going to get this round for once."

"Bitsy, you are a ray of sunshine, you light up my life, you are the most generous of all men, your heart knows only justice and awesome, and…"

"I will lock you in the damn store, Nebris!"

Chapter Text

The artisan coffee shop just across from Blame's store is owned and run by Zisteau, and at this time of year his tables and chairs and Blame's flower displays turn this part of the street into a slalom for pedestrians, the scents of the flowers and the brewing coffee competing for attention.

Inside, there's the coffee bar in one corner, a high table with barstools against the window, and the rest of the space is filled with a scattering of dark wood tables and bright orange armchairs. It's not the most practical of cafés, but pointing this out to Zisteau simply gets the reply of "Yeah, but it looks good," every single time. Plus the coffee is the best in the area, so people can't really complain.

At a corner table near the bar, there's someone with 3D glasses perched on the top of his head, settled in his brown hair, doodling something in a notebook with a look of intense concentration, whilst on the sidewalk outside, someone with a bright red shock of hair is sharing a table with someone who has the front of his hair swept up and still slightly bleached blonde, both of them laughing absurdly loudly over their iced coffees. Other than that though the café is quiet, so Nebris and Blame grab a table under the shade of the awning, just as someone with sandy brown hair and a beard passes them and heads into the coffeeshop.

"Hey Kurt!"

Kurt looks up just as the newcomer is sliding into the seat opposite him, grinning at him.

"Brian, hey," Kurt smiles, starting to sweep up his stuff from the tiny table top, only to realize the Brian doesn't have a drink yet that he needs table space for, and he stutters awkwardly between carrying on tidying and putting things back to how they were. Brian starts laughing, but this is Kurt's best friend, and even when he's laughing at Kurt, he's not really laughing at Kurt.

"Thought I'd find you in here," Brian says, and glances meaningfully over his shoulder to the bar, where Zisteau is humming to himself and drying coffee mugs, with his back to the room.

Kurt's eyes go wide and he turns bright red, unable to drag Brian back around to face him without making it obvious, instead just hissing out a "BRIAN!" and silently willing the barista not to turn around at this precise moment.

"It's fine, your secret's safe with me," Brian smiles at his friend. "For now, at least. Because please tell me you've spoken to him in these past few months?"

Kurt shifts awkwardly. "Of course I've spoken to him…"

Brian raises his eyebrows, and glances over his shoulder again. Zisteau has vanished, probably to the storeroom or the office. "Ordering your drink doesn't count, Kurt. Not unless you're asking for a espresso macchiato with a side order of your number."

"Oh god…" Kurt groans, sinking down in his chair.

"Okay, okay, I'll stop," Brian laughs.

"You're no better," Kurt grumbles, picking up his cup and swirling it as he checks if there's anything left in it.

"Doesn't mean I can't try to help," Brian smiles, but he's not going to push the subject any further, and instead he twists his head and tries to peer at Kurt's notebook. "So whatcha drawing?"

Kurt's expression twists awkwardly again. "It's nothing important, just silly…" He tails off, but when he looks up Brian looks genuinely interested. He should know his friend well enough by now, but this is Kurt. "You're not allowed to laugh…"

"I won't laugh."

"I want to get a sleeve tattoo. So I was… doodling…"

"Really?" Kurt braces himself at the surprise in his friend's voice. "That's awesome. Is this…" Brian picks the notebook up and examines it more closely. "Ooh, a space shuttle?"

He still hasn't relaxed entirely, but he nods. "Yeah, and that's a nebula, see, and that…"

*

When Zisteau comes back out from the storeroom, the cute guy with the sketchpad now has company, and the two of them are bent over the pad, clearly concentrating on whatever they're now working on together.

Damn, Zisteau thinks to himself. That customer had been coming in mostly by himself on and off for months now, bringing books on geology or space or his sketchpad or tablet (so much with the last one that to begin with, Zisteau had wondered if he was just there to abuse the free wifi, especially considering how damn awkward he'd always looked), and Zisteau had been intrigued. But today had been one of the few times the café had been quiet enough that he could have excusably started talking to him. Too late, again, he thinks, just as the cute guy laughs at something his friend says, and his face lights up, completely different from the shy slight frown he usually seems to wear. Zisteau sighs. Next time, next time…