Work Text:
[ 5:30 PM ]
A second did not even pass before the wind chimes he had hung above the door rang, alerting a new arrival. Sigma already knew who it was, not sparing a glance toward the customer because there was one, and only one regular who visited at this specific time without fail.
He only sighed and escaped to the back room when he heard his co-worker's overly gleeful greeting. Gogol did not spare him a glance either as Sigma hurriedly passed by, the bouquet his friend had been working on long forgotten (he should chew him out for that later…) when he caught a mop of black hair sticking out of the green foliage in his peripheral vision.
He could practically visualize Gogol's slightly pink face just by hearing the drawled-out syllables through the wall.
“Fe-dee-ya! Welcome back!”
Normally, Sigma would have been okay with Gogol's crush—had it been little.
Growing up with Gogol from childhood, Sigma knew very well how easily swooned the latter was, be it a slightly nice gesture or the correct reaction he was looking for. He was easy to impress after all, and he, very much, lacked the parental love needed to keep this from happening in the first place. Yet all of those crushes were short-lived, barely lasting a week before Gogol lost all interest in them, much to Sigma’s relief. It was annoying how Gogol kept jumping back and forth, sure, but as long as it was only temporary, there wouldn’t be major harm done.
Dostoyevsky—his current crush (read: victim of affections)—however, had already broken Gogol's best record (a week and a half), and the gushy rambles Sigma was subjected to only seemed to get longer and… increasingly infatuated. He had come in once for a bouquet last month and, for some odd reason, continued to do so without fail, seemingly integrating the act of buying the same bouquet into his schedule right after his evening college classes ended.
Just yesterday, Sigma had realized Gogol had given the other a nickname, and was now working up the courage to talk outside the flower shop. Which seemed normal—but Sigma knew better, and Gogol was anything but normal. His friend had no shame, not a single ounce of nervousness or shyness in that awfully giraffe-like frame of his. For him to grow somewhat hesitant over a simple invitation…
His head snapped up from the potted plants when he heard Gogol shout at him to watch over the counter, and the same man came rushing into the back room with his face the same color as the hybrid roses Sigma had watered that morning.
"Sigmaaa…" Gogol whisper-cried.
"Don't even start," was all Sigma could say before he headed out, leaving his co-worker alone to panic by himself.
"Sigma!"
Again, another call to swipe ignore at.
"Good afternoon, Dostoyevsky."
It was funny how Gogol seemed to have fallen for a guy who contrasted his very being.
Gogol had silvery hair and wore clothing that seemed to blend in with each of the flowers they offered in the shop, whilst Dostoyevsky's eyes and hair barely shimmered under the sunlight, seemingly absorbing all light like a black hole. His clothes only supported this theory: dark and worn coldly, as if there wasn't a heatwave outside. The few hints of color were the purple rings under his eyes and the worn-out bag slung over his shoulder (or not; it was barely green anymore).
Dostoyevsky only nodded at him in greeting before his eyes drifted toward the order Sigma held. "You look tired."
"Gogol's on the same shift as I am." Sigma clicked his tongue as he reached for the ribbons and the tape dispenser beneath the counter.
"I suppose he is rambunctious… stay strong." Oddly enough, there was something amusing about how deadpan Dostoyevsky sounded all the time—but Sigma was more annoyed at how oblivious he was to Gogol's crush, and so he slid down to the floor.
He bet this was the most pathetic and defeated he had ever looked, but whatever.
When Sigma only groaned in reply, Dostoyevsky curiously peeked behind the counter and observed his misery. "I suppose I can't do anything about it?"
In a fit fueled by irritation and some bravado, Sigma aimed a ball of crumpled crepe paper at the idiot's face. Dostoyevsky dodged it. "Yeah, actually —stop pinning already."
A blink.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Don't try fooling me," Sigma hissed. "There's a flower shop nearer to your house."
"Perhaps I simply like the flowers here better." Dostoyevsky shrugged. He placed his hands behind his back as he walked around, as if he hadn't already memorized the map of the place.
Sigma didn't want to let go of this opportunity. He insisted, "Or the employee. I know you stare at Gogol."
"So does everyone else when someone is making their order, no?" Dostoyevsky turned to him, feigning an innocent smile.
"Not with—" Sigma gestured vaguely. "I've never seen a straight man smile at another man like that!"
Dostoyevsky whistled. "That's a bit of a weak argument you have there, Sigma."
"You don't even like flowers!"
Gogol had mentioned that before—that Dostoyevsky didn't exactly feel anything for the pretty petals, the fragrant bulbs, or the graceful existence of flowers. "Fungi and mushrooms, maybe!"—but certainly not plants often used just to create a welcoming atmosphere.
"I don't."
"So there's no reason for you to be buying flowers here all the time!"
Dostoyevsky laughed lightly, as if he had been caught. "That is also true."
"You're infuriating. Nikolai's irritating."
"A perfect match, no?" Dostoyevsky covered his mouth to hide his amused grin. He laughed a little more at Sigma's annoyance before shaking his head. "Alright. I suppose I'll take the initiative then, to spare you from his further doting."
"Were you waiting for him?" Sigma raised an eyebrow as he watched Dostoyevsky pick a few flowers from the display, piling them into his arms.
"He seemed as though he was already working up the courage." Dostoyevsky mused, twirling a white rose between his fingers. "It would be rude to steal his thunder."
Sigma huffed, continuing to work on his orders as Dostoyevsky did his thing. He was right about that part, so Sigma can’t help but feel a little guilty that he was essentially encouraging Dostoyevsky for Gogol’s efforts to go down the drain.
A few beats of silence passed before Dostoyevsky spoke again.
"Are there any flowers Kolya is particularly fond of?" he asked. Sigma looked up from his work, a little startled to see Dostoyevsky had approached the counter, a small pile of white and yellow flowers in his hands.
Kolya. Sigma held back from asking about that. Instead:
"Why?" Sigma asked as Dostoyevsky set the flowers down before him, along with a long sheet of patterned paper and a silver ribbon Sigma didn't remember having in stock.
"Add three of those," Dostoyevsky hummed, already sliding his card into the register and inputting his password. "I assumed it was sunflowers or daffodils, but you know him better."
"…Yes. It's sunflowers." Sigma hesitantly arranged the flowers in the paper Dostoyevsky had provided, tying the bundle securely.
"No," Dostoyevsky stopped him, tugging Sigma's wrists away from the bouquet. He untied the thread. "Call Kolya over."
"You're doing it now?" Sigma wasn't sure how to react. Or feel about that in general. I mean, sure, the sooner the better but…
"Do you want it to happen at a later date?" Dostoyevsky mused. "I am fine with that as well."
"No, no. Get him to stop already." Sigma grumbled as he left his station. "I'll get him. You better not change your mind."
Sigma ended up waiting in the employees' room as Gogol took over his spot, leaving with pink cheeks to give them privacy (and frankly, Sigma didn't want to be there and feel like an intruder in something that intimate). It took maybe twenty to twenty-five minutes before he heard Gogol squeal, followed by a loud thud from outside.
(The next day, Sigma felt conflicted when he saw Dostoyevsky standing beside Fukuchi, their manager, and the older man patted his head after offering him the same brown apron he and Gogol wore to work.)
"Fedya!" Dostoyevsky smiled as Gogol returned from the employees' room, tying his apron around his waist. "The usual bouquet again?"
"No." Dostoyevsky laughed at Gogol's dumbfounded expression. "It's special today."
"Ooooh, Fedya's going to ask someone out?" Gogol asked as he picked up a pair of scissors and, after twirling them to demonstrate a trick, trimmed the thorns off the roses. Dostoyevsky could see how he bit back his tongue, his regret worsening when Dostoyevsky nodded in response.
It was painfully obvious—Gogol was an open book to anyone well-versed in human behavior. He was expressive in every possible way, from his swaying posture to his pupils and finger taps.
"Yes." Dostoyevsky hummed, closing his eyes. He could imagine Gogol's smile faltering behind his eyelids. "I already paid Sigma."
"These look nice. Lots of romantic meanings, if you weren't aware," Gogol commented as he tied the stems together.
Dostoyevsky didn't fail to notice the bitterness beneath his tone—a hint of betrayal and anxiety. "Is that so? I picked them on a whim."
"That's not the Fedya I know. He does research when he says it's special." Gogol chuckled dryly as he finished the bouquet and handed it to him. "Then good luck on the lucky—"
Dostoyevsky pushed the bouquet back into Gogol's arms. "That was a lie," he blurted, tilting the bouquet upright. Gogol’s hands followed the movement, the flowers now beneath his nose, tickling his chin.
"Since you know floriography, this should make it easier," Dostoyevsky continued, leaving no room for confusion or disagreement. "Go out with me, won't you?"
Gogol blinked once, then twice. Slowly but surely, his face heated up, from his neck to the tips of his ears. Dostoyevsky could have held up one of the hibiscus nearby, and Gogol's cheeks would have been a darker shade than the red petals.
"What?" Gogol grasped the white and yellow flowers, his fingers digging into the paper. He glanced between them and Dostoyevsky, eyes wide. When he noticed the sunflowers, he turned scarlet.
"I apologize if it's sudden, but Sigma wanted it over with."
Gogol stayed still, unmoving, before suddenly climbing over the counter and tackling him to the ground. He knocked his head a little too hard, a loud thud resonating beneath them, but he didn't mind—not with Gogol's giddy squeal and eager yes’s as he hugged him as if his entire existence depended on it.
"I don't think I've ever seen you smile," Gogol said, poking Dostoyevsky's face. He beamed, nuzzling his cheek. "Not this… genuine, at least. I feel a bit special, heh."
Dostoyevsky sat up, chuckling as Gogol rolled off his chest and landed on the floor rather ungracefully. "Sigma claimed it was a smile unnatural to use toward another man."
"How rude of him!"