Chapter Text
Eskel is trimming a new batch of lilacs and larkspur when he hears the tinkle of the bell signaling a customer has entered his shop. He sighs and stuffs the cut stems carefully into a bucket of fresh water so they won’t droop while he deals with a new customer.
With Geralt out for the week with the flu, he wasn’t able to hide in the back room like he usually preferred. His brother was gruff enough that he never got roped into long winded explanations from men dithering over the price of flowers for their mistresses or customer service issues. Eskel liked the peace and quiet of the rooms where the arrangements were typically made and no one would give him strange looks for singing under his breath or talking to the flowers beginning to droop.
He wipes his wet hands on his apron and shoulders through the door with his mind still fixed on the intricacies of the wedding arrangement he was currently working on. The bride had requested yellow roses to go with her color scheme, but maybe she could be convinced to consider sunflowers…
“Oh, hello there!”
Eskel looks up and stops short. Hydrangeas, his mind manages over the buzz in his ears. A blue that pure shouldn’t be possible within the small oceans of this stranger’s eyes. It was the same wild color of a summer sky and the perfect hue of Russian asters.
He swallows and forces himself to look at the rest of the man to try to distract himself from the heady reaction, but finds himself only spiraling further. He’s dressed in a tight pair of dark wash jeans that make the grey of his shirt and creamy color of his skin even brighter. His hair is the color of deep oak with veins of chestnut left behind by the rays of the sun. (Fuck, are those curls ?) The man leans against the scarred wooden countertop with one hip cocked and his long legs stretched out with no regard to how it drew the eye to the muscles of his thighs and the curve of his--
“Do you work here?”
Eskel blinks and forces his eyes back to the man’s face, trying to ignore the hot flush curling up his neck. He tries not to think about the smooth timbre of his voice or the mischief that’s lingering in his eyes as he watches Eskel with interest. Clearing his throat, he smoothes a hand over his apron and the simple white shirt he usually wears to work and reminds himself that he’s a professional.
“I do,” he says--realizing that he’s left his nametag on the counter--and gives a weak smile, “how can I help you?”
The stranger’s smile widens and Eskels resists the urge to groan when he catches sight of dimples. His fingers tighten on the edge of the counter in an effort to keep from reaching out and tracing the line of it. The smile transforms his face into a work of art and leaves Eskel feeling like the world is tilting oddly beneath his feet.
“I need a bouquet and I have never been very good at picking out flowers. They always seem to die around me.” It’s obvious that the man seems to be overlooking Eskel’s awkward behavior and he’s terribly grateful for the excuse to focus on something he’s always ready to discuss. “Maybe something pink?”
Eskel nods and walks over to the fresh cut flowers set into the stands along one wall, giving the illusion that the wall is made of bright blooms. “Who is it for?”
“Pardon?”
He turns back to find the stranger looking a little distracted, eyes darting back to Eskel’s face like he hadn’t heard the question. “The bouquet. Who is it for?” he repeats gently, “Family? Wife? Girlfriend?”
It’s a lame attempt at asking if the man was single or straight and he imagines Geralt’s facepalm in the back of his mind.
The stranger grins. “Just a date with a beautiful woman.”
Eskel nods again and turns back to the flowers to avoid showing his disappointment. Of course, the man was buying flowers for a significant other. Why else would he bother going to a florist?
It’s the nature of owning a flower shop that people rarely entered without already being in a relationship or grieving the loss of one. They weren’t looking for a new relationship unless they were the type to cheat. He’d seen enough men and women buying multiple sets of flowers for different partners that he knew he’d never be able to tolerate such a thing in his life. He wants someone he can trust, someone who he knows is just as gone on him as he is for them.
Not that it matters much now. He’s practically doomed himself of a life hidden in a back room while the world continues to move forward without him.
“Does she have any favorite flowers?”
“Not that I know of,” the man answers with a familiar amount of bewilderment.
Eskel hums. “Is this for a special occasion? Or just because?”
“Just because.”
Of course the beautiful stranger would be the type to buy his partner flowers. It’s like he was designed to be everything Eskel dreamed of and couldn’t have.
He pulls a few peonies in a soft pink along with a few gum leaves as filler. Then it’s a few carnations in pale cream and spirea. By the time he’s finished selecting complementary flowers and greenery, the stranger has migrated closer to look at the assortment with wide eyes.
“Wow,” he says with another blink of ridiculously long eyelashes. “You’re really good at this.”
Eskel gives him a small smile, glancing down at the flowers with a flicker of pride. He gently tugs and shifts the flowers until the arrangement is more balanced and each bloom is displayed perfectly. “Thank you. I’m glad you like it.”
He walks back to the counter and pulls out some of the brown butcher paper and twine that Geralt had claimed ‘hipster would shit themselves over’ and begins wrapping the flowers. The stranger follows closely, leaning over to watch him work curiously.
“How long have you been doing this?” he asks.
“I learned from my old man--he’s retired now, but this used to be his shop. My brother and I run it now.” Eskel’s smile at the thought of Vesemir’s reaction to being called his ‘old man’ is fond.
“Is he the one that came up with the name?”
He huffs out a bit of laughter at the thought of the What in Carnation? emblazoned proudly over the front of the building in gilt lettering. Geralt had pouted for weeks when he lost their bet to decide who would get to rename the shop when they took over. He’d wanted the shop named after wolves or some such nonsense.
“No, that’s all me.”
The stranger leans against the counter once more, all glinting eyes and distracting muscle moving beneath his tight shirt. Eskel’s mouth went a little dry when he sees the way his biceps bulge slightly when he moves. His lungs are full of a faintly spicy scent that contrasts nicely with the floral smells around them. It makes Eskel want to bury his nose against the join of his neck until everything else fades away.
Fuck, he needs to get control of himself.
“Do you want to write a message to the recipient?” he asks, nodding over to the small collection of poetry books he keeps for inspiration on the other end of the counter.
The stranger hums under his breath, considering. His face brightens when something comes to him. “Ah!” he says cheerfully. “How about ‘Because of rain, we stayed indoors and watched it pour. That’s how I found the one that I adore.’”
His heart does not give a painful lurch in his chest. It doesn’t.
“Ella Fitzgerald?” Eskel manages, voice rough.
“Of course.” The smile the man levels at him is fond, eyes bright with enough interest that Eskel can’t help the blush that darkens his cheek. “Dot loves the classics.”
The reminder that this isn’t some precursor to lazy Sundays slow dancing in the kitchen of his home feels like a blast of cold water. No matter what kind of connection he feels with this man, it’s not going to change the fact that this moment would end as soon as he steps out the front door.
Better to remember that before he gets his heart broken. Again.
“That’ll be $30,” he tells the man before he can embarrass himself further.
The stranger nods, unbothered by the abrupt shift, and pulls out his wallet, running a finger over the soft petal of a peony. “It really is beautiful work.”
Eskel smiles and hands him the receipt and the bouquet, slipping one of their business cards into the wrapper. “Thanks for stopping by.”
He watches the other man open his mouth like he wants to say something more, but he just nods and smiles again, raising the bouquet in a silent salute.
A moment later, he’s gone.
Eskel slumps against the counter and sternly tells himself to stop being such an embarrassment. He has too much work to do to get distracted by handsome, straight strangers who are in relationships. He takes a breath and stands upright again. There were wedding flowers to arrange.
The next time the stranger comes in Eskel is up on a ladder fighting to arrange a garland over the simple wooden wedding arch Geralt had built. He’s frowning, chewing on his lower lip as he tries to decide why it doesn’t look right.
“It’s off center.”
Eskel jumps in surprise, nearly toppling off the ladder. Only two strong hands bracketing his legs on the rungs keeps him from collapsing into the display. He looks down with wide eyes to see the handsome stranger from the week before smiling sheepishly at him.
“Sorry about that,” he says, “I thought you heard the bell.”
“Oh, I--it’s fine. I was just distracted.” He stares at the garland again, frowns, and reaches up toward the arch to adjust it once more. He makes a satisfied sound. “You’re right. That’s much better.”
It’s not until he starts back down the ladder that he realizes just how close the two of them are. His skin feels like it’s tight, warmer where the man’s hands are still brushing against his legs. He twists a little as the other man straightens and finds himself looking directly into those gorgeous blue eyes.
The stranger’s dimples flash and Eskel feels himself go giddy at the sight. He licks his lips and pretends not to notice the way those eyes drop to follow the motion. “Back for another bouquet?” he manages.
“The first one was a hit with Dot--you’re a magician with flowers.”
He smiles at the sincerity in the man’s expression. “I’m glad she liked it.”
Eskel slowly edges around the other man to head toward the wall of cut flowers. “Any preferences on color?”
“Hmm...I think her favorite color is green. She’s into earthy stuff.”
Thoughtfully, he begins to look through the fresh flowers they’d gotten that morning. He tugs a few sprigs of calla lily for height and a handful of orchids, enjoying the slight pop of color in the center. He considers the collection before grabbing some white lilies to add dimension.
“What are those?”
He turns to see the man inspecting a few flower pots arranged near the counter. “Succulents. They’re an easy starter plant for people who travel or can’t remember when to water.”
“Sounds like a match made in heaven.” The other man tugs a lopsided cactus with a bright red flower on the top closer and traces the edge of it. “I like this one.”
Eskel tells himself it doesn’t mean anything that he’s picked out the plant that Eskel had rescued from the bottom of the box when it had been delivered. He’s been carefully nursing it back to health, enjoying the asymmetry of the little plant. Geralt had already teased him for having a soft spot for anything broken and for treating the plants like they’re pets.
It only gets worse when he hears the man murmur under his breath in a high pitched voice, “Feed me, Seymour.”
“Maybe you can try your hand with potted plants if you get tired of bouquets,” he offers as he begins fidgeting with the arrangement.
“I don’t see how--everything you make is gorgeous.” The easy way he compliments Eskel makes the florist flush with pride, enjoying the reminder of why he enjoys flowers so much. They were simple, beautiful things that made other people happy.
Satisfied with what he’s made, he goes to the counter to tie up the arrangement and ring up the purchase.
“I’m Jaskier.”
“Buttercup.”
The man blinks, frowning a little. “I’m sorry?”
Belatedly, Eskel reaches out to shake one surprisingly strong hand. He tries to ignore the way the calluses on his fingers feel against his skin amidst the rising embarrassment. “Your name--it’s another word for Buttercup,” he explains.
“Ah!” Jaskier says quickly, “I didn’t know that.”
He realizes the man is still waiting for his name and curses, “Sorry--I’m Eskel.”
“Not a flower name?” Jaskier bats his eyelashes playfully, startling a chuckle out of him.
“No, my parents didn’t want to be too cliche.”
“Well, Eskel, I have to say you’re quickly becoming my favorite non-flower-named person if you keep this up,” he says when Eskel presents the completed arrangement to him and accepts his debit card. Jaskier leans forward to fill his lungs with the sweet scent of the flowers in his hand, letting out a happy sigh before he opens his eyes again.
“Happy to help,” Eskel murmurs. “Do you want to write another message?”
“Of course, the last one went over great.” He looks thoughtful, tilting his head like he’s scrolling through a list of songs.
“More Ella Fitsgerald?”
“No, Vivianne doesn’t like the blues. She prefers the big band sound.”
Eskel stops mid-motion with the receipt still in his hands. He tries to remember what the name of the woman Jaskier had mentioned the last time he’d come in. He could have sworn he’d called her Dot? Deb? Definitely not Vivianne.
“How about ‘You’ll never know/ How many dreams I dream about you/ Or just how empty they seem without you’?”
“Harry James,” Eskel says dully.
Jaskier doesn’t seem to notice the way he’s reacting to the realization that the man in front of him is bringing these flowers to an entirely different woman this week. “I prefer Crosby’s cover, personally. No one sounds quite like him.”
He nods, looking down at the familiar wood of the counter. It feels like a tragedy that Jaskier is not only out of his reach, but he’s also cheating on the women he’s bringing these flowers too. It’s not fair that someone could quote all of Eskel’s favorite songs so sincerely without being bothered by the concept of cheating on one of his partners.
He should be grateful that he’s found this out now instead of after allowing this crush to develop further. Whatever possibility there might be that Jaskier is polyamorous or just dating around is slim enough that Eskel knows better than to hope for it. It was already a long shot that he’d even be interested--it was too much to hope for more.
So why was that so hard to accept?
“Thank you again!” Jaskier calls over his shoulder and a moment later he hears the chime of the bell above the door.
Eskel sighs and wishes he didn’t feel so disappointed.
The next week, Jaskier requests an arrangement of roses for Helen and carefully transcribes the lyrics of ‘Dream A Little Dream of Me.’
The week after it’s Dot again and more peonies surrounded by crocuses.
It becomes a habit to keep an eye on the front door every Wednesday. Jaskier told him after the second week that he tries to grab the flowers on his lunch break. It’s how he found the shop in the first place.
“I tutor a kid near here,” he tells Eskel as he watches the florist trim the thorns off some David Austen roses. “He’s a menace, but his mom wants him to learn piano and is willing to pay for all the grey hairs I’m getting.”
“You play piano?”
“And a few other instruments. My favorite is the lute.”
Eskel grins a little. “A lute? Do you moonlight as a bard too?”
Jaskier gives a delicate sniff, tilting his nose up like an offended heiress. “It is a majestic instrument,” he says then grins when Eskel snorts. “Do you play anything?”
“Just the kazoo. Badly.”
“Truly a classic instrument.”
“I am a man of many talents.”
“Clearly,” Jaskier hums. “So what do you do when you aren’t dazzling me with your floral abilities?”
Eskel fidgets with the greenery until it settles properly against the brighter flowers. “Hmm...I’m not very interesting.”
“I doubt that. Everyone loves a man of mystery.”
He smirks at the other man. “Then maybe I should keep you in suspense.”
“Tease.”
“One of the added benefits to shopping here,” Eskel teases. He finishes with the wrapping and twine and looks up at the other man. “Any messages?” he asks with a pen already poised over the paper.
“Can you write that it’s for Mary?” Jaskier asks, leaning closer to watch.
Eskel stares at him for a moment, stomach sinking at the reminder of what he was there for. Another name and another woman.
Oblivious to Eskel’s internal conflict, Jaskier continues to gesture and smile about the woman he intended to give the flowers to. “She doesn’t really enjoy the classics. I was thinking ‘ Body-ody-ody-ody-- ’” He cut himself off and flushes bright red when he notices the florist’s wide eyes, “I’ll just write it out.”
The florist pretends to rearrange the business cards and brochures near the cash register. It’s better than focusing on the way Jaskier chews at his bottom lip in concentration when he writes.
“Perfect!” he says a moment later and carefully tucks it into the paper so it won’t fall out when he leaves. “Excellent work, as always.”
“I’m glad you like it,” Eskel replies faintly.
The musician looks like he was a little curious about the sudden blankness in Eskel’s expression, but doesn’t press. “I’ve got to run if I’m going to make my next appointment. See you next Wednesday!” he calls cheerfully as he heads for the door.
Eskel watches him and tries not to sigh. “See you next Wednesday,” he repeats to the empty store.