Work Text:
🪻
Chan sits on the sofa in his parlor. Outside, the sun is shining and he can hear birds chirping. But the sunlight isn’t strong enough to permeate the black curtains hanging over his windows. And it is not enough to pierce the grief he is currently feeling.
Yesterday morning, his wife of barely over 3 years had succumbed to an illness that had come on swiftly. He glances up at the clock on the mantelpiece, the arms frozen in place at 3:25 am, the moment that she had taken her final breath. The mirrors had been covered and their photos had been placed face down. Condolence flowers had been making their way to his front door all morning and had been his only cause for rising from his seat.
His eyes roll over to the side of the room. A picture of his late wife sits above the shiny black top of the coffin surrounded by flowers. Friends and family had been visiting to pay their condolences since yesterday. He hasn’t been able to drag himself from the chair, with his eyes glued to the casket as if the mere act of wishing would raise her from the dead.
The love that he and his wife shared wasn’t one of intense passion. It was slow simmering. The type of love that blurred the lines between close friend and lover. She had been a wonderful companion. One that was entirely worthy of a long period of mourning. Especially when Chan couldn’t help but blame himself for how it all ended. “If only”s dash across his mind. If only he had spotted the signs sooner. If only he had been more adamant about making her speak to their physician. If only he could have done something to help her.
He lurches forward and out of his seat in an instant. He needed to prepare arrangements for her burial. Their plots had been picked as soon as her illness had proven to be more persistent than they had expected. But flower arrangements needed to be made, not just for the sake of following societal norms but for her .
Calling the maid into the room to keep an eye on the coffin and an ear out for mourning visitors, Chan dons his hat and heads out. Not too far away in downtown, a flower shop had opened fairly recently. His wife had absolutely raved about a bouquet of clematis she had picked up for Chan a few months prior to her falling ill. It would be the perfect place to order flowers for her funeral.
He approaches the front of House of Blooms. Most of the storefront is made of glass but the bits of color that peak through are painted in a deep sage green. Beautiful flowers, the names of which he couldn’t even attempt to guess, spill out of the flower shop and onto benches placed in front of the windows. Walking inside, Chan almost feels like he’s lost in nature. Flowers hang from the ceiling in pots and others are stacked on layered tables or laid in rows on the dusty rose colored carpet. The inside of the shop is painted a lighter sage green and there is an ochre counter to his left as he enters.
Spotting no one at the register, his feet carry him throughout the shop. His fingers brush against the tips of various colored petals and he feels a bit out of his element. He knows that there are all sorts of meanings to the type and color of flower he could buy but he knows nothing of it. All he knows is that white flowers have been present at every funeral he has ever attended.
“May I help you, sir?” a voice asks from behind.
Chan turns around to see a man, a bit shorter than him, standing in the doorway of what appears to be a workroom. He must have just been trimming and arranging a bouquet in the back, if the dirtied apron around his waist and the cloth he’s wiping his hands off on are any indication. The sleeves of his white dress shirt are rolled up and the black apron fits snugly on his torso. Chan would dare to think him handsome if he wasn’t still distracted by grief.
“Yes. I just stopped by to inquire about flowers for a funeral. I do not know much about flowers so I was wondering if you could maybe help me,” Chan asks.
“I’m sorry for your loss. What was your relation to the deceased?” he asks.
“She was my wife,” Chan says, the words coming out in barely a whisper.
“That’s dreadful news,” the man says, thoughtfully. “If you’re looking for flowers for a funeral, I can help you. What was your relationship like with your wife?”
“My relationship? I suppose we were the best of friends. She was gentle and it was never hard. I don’t know if there’s another woman who could take her place,” he says, after a moment of thinking.
“I think there are a few flowers that could be good for you. Follow me,” the man says, gesturing for Chan to follow him over to a pot of pink flowers further into the shop.
“These are pink carnations. If you planted these by her grave it would mean that you will never forget her. And these,” he says pointing to a larger purple flower, “are purple hyacinths. They symbolize sorrow. They’re usually found at funerals or planted in cemeteries.”
Chan nods and asks the florist to add them to his order before he remembers the flowers he had originally been looking for.
“I tend to see white flowers at funerals. What kind might they be?” he asks.
“Lilies. Very common for funerals. That was going to be my next suggestion,” the florist says.
“Excellent. I believe arrangements with these three flowers will do well. If there are any other flowers that you think would look nice, feel free to add them,” Chan says as he walks up to the front counter with the florist.
Chan shares the details and the two agree upon him paying half of the bill up front and the rest after the funeral procession.
“I will put the utmost care into these arrangements,” he says.
“Thank you, Mr…?” Chan begins, realizing that he hasn’t asked for the man’s name yet.
“Mr. Seo, Changbin Seo,” he says with a firm handshake.
Chan swore he felt a small spark but that couldn’t have been real.
🌸
The next two days leading up to the burial were spent between his house, greeting visitors who had stopped by in the midst of the wake, and making final arrangements for the funeral. On the day of the funeral, everything ran smoothly. The flowers were delivered just as they had been promised and the bill was settled. Everyone that mattered had shown up dressed in black, handkerchiefs in hand.
What Chan hadn’t expected was the dread he felt upon walking through his front door. His once happy home now felt painfully empty. The flowers from the wake were beginning to wilt because he had instructed both his butler and maid not to touch them. So they sat by the window, waiting until the day that their petals would begin to fall. He heaves a sigh as he climbs the stairs up to his bedroom. He hadn’t slept in his real bedroom in two weeks, his wife remaining on bed rest until the end, and tonight will be no different. He carries himself to the next bedroom, their guest room, and changes into his night clothes. Peeling back the covers and lying down, he wastes another sleepless night staring up at the canopy above him.
The next morning, he rises, planning to head straight to his parlor once again, but is intercepted by his butler. Apparently, Mr. Changbin Seo had delivered flowers to the house not long before Chan had woken up. He comes down the stairs to find the bouquet sitting on a small circular mahogany table in the foyer. Chan closes in on them, taking one of the petals in between his fingertips to feel its softness. His eyes settle on a small card attached to the vase. He lifts the card reading the text printed onto it.
“My condolences. Emmie was a lovely woman. I believe these were her favorites: Clematis and Gardenia. If you come in to the shop I’ll fix you up with a new vase of your liking,
Your Humble Florist,
Seo Changbin”
They are not typical flowers to give to the grieving but they meant so much more than that to Chan. He may not know what they mean but he knows that his wife loved them. This meant someone had been listening to him. Someone had been paying attention to her. So much more thought went into gifting these flowers than if he had sent a dark crimson rose. He had to pay the shop a visit and thank Changbin for the gesture. It would only be right. And also the invitation had been extended.
He pulls his coat on, dons his hat, and once again heads to House of Blooms. He brushes past another man who has just paid, holding a large bouquet of flowers. Chan gets in line in front of the counter awkwardly, waiting for Changbin to finish up with his other customer. When he lifts his head though and gives Chan a welcoming smile, Chan cannot explain the flip his heart does. Perhaps it’s just his anxiety. He has always had a bit of a nervous temperament.
Changbin rings out the other customer quickly, to the point where one might even say he’s rushing her, and Chan steps forward.
“Hello, once again Mr. Bang. How are you fairing this morning?” Changbin asks.
“I’m well. About as well as I can be whilst in mourning. I wanted to come down and thank you for the bouquet you sent. It was very kind of you,” Chan says.
“It was no problem. I always send condolence bouquets to those who order funeral arrangements from me,” Changbin says. Chan can’t tell if he’s lying but he finds that he doesn’t care if he is. “Might you also be here for a new vase?”
“Oh no, the one you sent was just fine,” Chan says.
“I insist. I only sent you the most basic of vases. Perhaps picking one out yourself will allow me to get a sense of your preferences should you choose to do business with me again,” Changbin adds.
He supposes that makes sense. But he’s never been a very complicated man. The vase at home works just as well as anything else he could get but with the way that Changbin’s eyes are practically begging him, he supposes that he could look around.
The vase selections span from incredibly simplistic to downright ornate. Chan finds himself steering clear from the latter and instead settles on a nice simple design. The base swells at the bottom, the neck thinning before the lip curls outward. It’s a sage green porcelain, like the walls in the flower shop, with light pink flowers swirling around the vase.
“Excellent choice, sir,” Changbin says, lifting the vase and carrying it to the front counter.
Chan can’t help but mentally note Changbin’s broad back as he walks to the front of the shop. Chan follows, keeping his eyes on Changbin’s figure the entire time until he has to force himself to look away. Changbin wraps the vase in parchment, his deft fingers tying twine around it to keep it in place. Chan shakes his head just barely so as to avoid Changbin noticing. Why is he so caught up in Changbin’s physique?
“How much do I owe you, Mr. Seo?” He asks, lifting his coin purse.
“It’s on the house,” Changbin replies.
“I couldn’t do that,” Chan begins before Changbin raises a hand.
“I insist,” he says.
Chan leaves the shop moments later, a new vase in hand. What an odd morning…
Heading home, he closes the door behind him and sinks his back into it. He sighs. Then he puts his coat and hat on the rack and carries the vase into the kitchen. Removing the parchment he places the vase on the table and fills it with clean water. It really is a pretty thing. He nods decidedly then fetches the bouquet from the foyer, carefully removing the flowers and placing them into the new vase. He has to admit, it’s nicer than the old vase. He cleans out the old vase before storing it on the counter.
The bouquet is once again placed on the little table in the foyer.
The rest of his day is business as usual, however, there’s still something gnawing at the back of his mind that he can’t quite place. Guilt? Grief? Confusion? Excitement ? That night as he was busy staring up at the canopy instead of sleeping, a new line of thoughts filled his mind. Not thoughts of his wife. Not even of his own guilt. But instead, thoughts of the florist. Thoughts of Changbin, the man who had sent him flowers.
💐
In the beginning it starts out slow, a flower here and there, a small bouquet every now and then. Tags naming flowers such as white hyacinth, zinnia, periwinkle, and acacia flowers that he has come to discover are symbols of friendship. Chan makes a few visits to House of Blooms to pick up the proper items needed to care for the plants. It’s good for Chan. It gives him something amidst the mourning to help him get through the day. Having something that relies on him, something that he can hopefully keep safe for once. It also gives him a chance to form a new friendship with Changbin.
But as the black curtains come down, flowers begin to arrive at Chan’s door like ants to a picnic. His butler, Mr. Dods, is practically in dire straits finding places to put them. They hang from pots on the front porch. They line nearly every windowsill in sight. There is not a flat surface that is safe from a small potted plant or singular flower in his parlor. Despite Mr. Dods’ concern, the added color is truly welcomed. It had been so dreary in his house, what with the black curtains and black cloths surrounding him.
“Mr. Bang,” Dods begins one morning as Chan does his (now) usual rounds about the house, watering and pruning flowers.
“What can I help you with, Mr. Dods” Chan asks, rather distractedly.
“It’s nothing, really. I was just wondering what your thoughts are on all of these flowers that Mr. Seo has been sending to the house?” he asks.
Chan stops and looks over at Mr. Dods. He’s an older man and a very proper one at that. His suit is always crisp and neat and his posture is enviable, even at his older age. Chan has known Mr. Dods for most of his life, the man having first worked for Chan’s father until he moved out. Mr. Dods had followed him. And so, when his soft voice asked Chan the question, he knew that it was more than just a simple inquiry.
“I think that they're lovely. I have enjoyed caring for them. Is there something else I should be thinking about as well?” Chan asks.
“No nothing at all,” Mr. Dods says, turning to look at a potted, Gardenia plant.
“Now you can’t expect me to believe that. Mr. Dods, please speak your mind. It was a genuine question, is there something else I should be thinking about?” Chan pries.
“Sir, do you know about flower language?” Mr. Dods asks.
“I’ve heard of it but I’ve never been much into flowers until this past year,” Chan replies.
“I would suggest reading up about it, sir. It may help you understand the hidden messages all around you,” Mr. Dods implores.
Chan sighs.
“Please don’t be cryptic,” Chan says.
“The boy has sent you roses!” Mr. Dods raises his voice.
Chan’s eyebrows rise, but says nothing. Mr. Dods continues.
“Red roses mean love! And look over here, red tulips, red chrysanthemums, declarations of love! The boy is sending his message quite loudly,” Mr. Dods says.
Chan doesn’t know what to say. He has found a great companion in Changbin in the months following his wife’s death but they weren’t that close yet. Surely Changbin can’t be in love with him. He doesn’t deserve anyone else’s love. Especially not from Changbin. He had been so sweet to Chan, sending flowers and accompanying him to rowing competitions or to the beach. What had Chan done to deserve any of the flowers? Occasionally, he had found himself bringing over lunch for Changbin at the shop when he had spare time or inviting him to attend a lecture with him. They were just typical acts of friendship. He had done nothing extraordinary to earn affections from Changbin. Right?
“No. Changbin is not sweet on me. We are simply friends,” Chan says.
“With all due respect lad, it’s foolish to lie to yourself. What would be so horrible about inviting new romance into your life?” Mr. Dods asks.
The possibility that I ruin everything. The possibility that I don’t live up to expectations. The possibility that I make another mistake .
This is what Chan wants to say. They’re the thoughts that plague his mind. They’re in the background any time he has to make a decision. But Chan swallows them back. He looks at Mr. Dods, the man’s eyes filled with more emotion than he’s accustomed to seeing in them.
“Why are you so invested in this?” Chan can’t help but ask.
“Because this is the first time that I’ve ever seen you this happy about a person. I know that you loved Emmie, heaven knows we all did, but the two of you had never been in love. You cared for each other and you were very close but this , what I’ve seen in you since you started talking to this boy, is something else. I want you to be happy. Follow it,” Mr. Dods says.
Chan sighs. If anyone knows him best, it would be Mr. Dods. He’s not entirely convinced that Changbin has romantic feelings for him yet though. But he will at least humor the older man for a bit.
“Would it make you happy if I looked into Flower language? Maybe I can try to interpret what Changbin is trying to tell me,” he suggests.
“Ever the stubborn one, Mr. Bang. I think it will be good for you,” he says before leaving Chan alone with the flowers.
He supposes he’s due for a trip to the bookstore.
Within an hour, Chan is perusing the aisles of the cramped bookstore until he finds a text that will work. The name on the front of the book is called, “A Literary Guide to the Language of Flowers.” The book details different types of flowers, with sketches of each and the symbolism behind them. It goes into which flowers should be used on which occasions and the types of flowers that should be sent to convey different messages. He just hopes that he can identify the flowers based on the drawings in the book.
He puts the book to use the moment he gets home. With a notebook laid over the bottom half of the book, Chan goes around his house and marks down the names and colors of all of the flowers that Changbin has sent.
He identifies the vase in the window upstairs as morning glories. According to his book, they’re supposed to symbolize affection. Friends can send flowers that mean affection to each other, right? Platonic affection, surely. But then he remembers the arrangement of honeysuckle, pink rose, and peonies and it makes him wonder. Why would his friend be sending him flowers with such romantic connotations?
White Jasmine, Daisies, arrangements laced with baby’s breath. Bouquets of asters and yarrows sitting proudly in beautiful porcelain vases in his parlor.
And when his mind wanders back to the bouquet that serves as the centerpiece of his dining room table he really cannot rationalize it anymore. Red roses, surrounded by other smaller flowers in a cohesive bunch, but none more prominent than the rich, deep red roses. Chan did not need to purchase a book to understand the meaning of those flowers.
So he weighs his odds and decides that perhaps there’s one more trip he needs to make.
🌼🌹
There aren’t many people left on the streets at this time, and there is no one at House of Blooms. Chan can smell the strong floral scent before he even reaches the shop. It appears that Changbin has already taken in most of the flowers from outside for the night and they crowd the front of the shop. Chan tries the door and finds that it is still unlocked. The bell dings and pierces through the relative quiet of the shop.
Chan comes around the counter to look back into Changbin’s workroom. Changbin sits on a small wooden stool, his sleeves are rolled up, just a few inches below his garters. A florist's knife with a carved wooden handle rests in his hand as he expertly slices through the bottoms of stems, the discards landing in a metal bucket in front of him. It seems that he hadn’t noticed Chan yet, his eyes dialed into his craft. He lays the freshly cut flowers, violets Chan thinks, in a line onto some parchment and it’s only at that moment that Changbin seems to realize another person is in his shop.
“Sorry, we just clo-” Changbin begins before he sees Chan, standing in front of him, a book in hand. “Chan, how wonderful to see you! I hadn’t been expecting you to come by.”
Changbin places the knife down and wipes his hands off on the apron laid over the front of his body. He looks up at Chan with sparkling eyes and Chan can hardly keep the smile off his face. He truly is precious. Would it be so bad if he were to allow himself his own little bit of happiness. Mr. Dods had certainly encouraged it, and if the truly absurd amount of flowers that Changbin sent to his house were any indication, he did too.
“I wanted to thank you for all of the flowers you've sent,” Chan says, quietly, picking at the corner of the binding of his book. “They’re beautiful.”
A rosy dusting of blush appears on Changbin’s face as his eyes widen a little bit. He stands up straighter, his chest pushing out just a little and his muscles going a little stiff.
“I’m glad you liked them. I hand picked them out for you,” Changbin replies, unable to make eye contact with Chan.
There’s something about the way Changbin reacts that is just so precious to Chan. Changbin is usually the cheekier one of the two of them. He’s usually the one to tease Chan. But at this moment, Chan can’t help but push a little further.
“Don’t you hand pick flowers out for all of your customers?” he asks.
Changbin sputters a bit. “I, I, um, of course I do, it’s just that for you it’s just…”
“It’s just what?” Chan asks in a teasing lilt, his eyes feigning innocence. He places his book down on the counter.
Changbin is sweating. He tugs at his collar to allow air to pass through his shirt.
“You’re different.” Changbin all but whispers.
Changbin is too embarrassed to notice Chan take a few steps towards him, closing the distance. He lifts his pinky and swipes a bit of Changbin’s bangs out of his face and revels in the way that Changbin freezes, looking up at the older boy.
“Different enough to send love letters to in the language of roses?” Chan asks. From where he is finding this abundance of new found confidence, he will never know. But he has decided to make good use of it while it lasts.
Changbin looks mortified. His eyes are wider than Chan’s ever seen them and his plush lips are parted. Chan holds back a giggle from how cute Changbin is acting, but he allows a small smile to remain on his face. He doesn’t want Changbin to think he’s not interested, but he does want to tease him just a little bit.
“I apologize. I know it is probably rather improper of me to send flowers with such a romantic connotation so soon after you were in mourning but I couldn't help myself. Could you possibly forgive me?” Changbin blurts out.
Chan furrows his brows. Oh dear.
“Changbin, you haven’t done anything wrong. The flowers have been more than welcomed. Even more so now that I know that they have meaning behind them,” Chan says.
“Do you mean to say… actually, what do you mean to say? I don’t want to assume anything,” Changbin asks.
Chan can’t help but chuckle.
“I mean to say that your feelings are reciprocated,” Chan says.
Changbin breathes out a pleasantly surprised huff.
“I don’t know what to say,” Changbin says.
“Say nothing, you’ve already told me how you feel loud and clear,” Chan says.
When Changbin appears to be gearing up to begin, what Chan can only assume will be a lengthy monologue of some sort, Chan takes Changbin’s chin between his index finger and thumb and lifts his face up. He can practically see all of the gears in Changbin’s head come to a full stop before racing at full speed as Chan leans forward and presses a soft peck onto his lips. Changbin’s eyes float closed as he melts into the kiss, his hands coming up to rest on Chan’s chest. Chan pulls Changbin in by his waist with one hand while the other lies gently on the back of his arm.
Moments later, Chan pulls away and smiles when Changbin leans in further to chase them, his eyes still closed. Chan looks to the side and spots what he can only describe as the perfect flower for this moment. He leans over and picks a single stem from the bundle and holds it out for Changbin with a shaky smile.
A single, beautiful white camellia flower is held between the two of them. Changbin’s eyes widen. He knows what this means but surely Chan couldn’t. It had been quite reckless of him to send Chan the roses and chrysanthemums, flowers whose meanings were often common knowledge. But a camellia?
“A camellia?” Changbin asks, his eyebrows furrowed in curiosity.
Chan picks up the book that he had placed on the counter a couple minutes earlier and lifts it up for Changbin to see. “A Literary Guide to the Language of Flowers.”
“I’ve done my research. I believe that this is meant to say, ‘you’re adorable?’ If I’m not mistaken, at least,” Chan says. The confidence is still there but the awkward little chuckle after is enough to pull Changbin back up and balance the dynamic just a little bit.
“It appears you have done your research. I’m impressed. Though, I feel as though I should be the one giving you that flower,” Changbin responds.
“You’ve given me plenty of flowers, let me give this one to you. The first of many more to come,” Chan says, his smile becoming more steady on his face.
“If you insist, Mr. Bang,” Changbin replies with a smile of his own.