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There’s paparazzi ahead of him and very enthusiastic Aces fans behind him - very enthusiastic - and Kent didn’t get enough sleep over the last few nights to deal with either of them. He’s got shit options, is what he’s saying. So when he turns a corner and sees a camera flash, it takes a lot of willpower not to flip the bird as he tugs his cap further over his eyes and ducks into the nearest store to hide.
It’s very… sneezy inside, and he’s debating whether death by pollen is preferable to dealing with paps (probably), until he looks up at the counter, sees the man arranging a bouquet behind it, and revises his opinion (definitely).
The dude is no normal florist. The dude is a porn flick florist, with these ridiculous cheekbones and blue eyes Kent could get lost in, plus an ass Kent wouldn’t mind suffocating on. Yikes.
Kent’s eyes and throat are already starting to itch, and there’s a building pressure in his sinuses that makes him feel like his head is going to explode if he sticks around for too long, but then the florist guy looks up and smiles at him and suddenly he doesn’t give a shit anymore.
“Hi,” Kent says.
“Hi,” says the porn florist. “Can I help you?”
“Uh, yeah, maybe,” Kent says, winging it. He walks to the counter and tries to inhale as little as possible - the display of daisies alone is enough to knock him the fuck out. “I’m looking for… flowers, I guess?”
The florist looks around. “I have good news for you,” he says, so dry Kent almost can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic, and he’s a little bit in love already.
“Shush,” Kent says. “What have you got that says, like, thanks for not judging me when I get wasted on Moscato and pass out on your couch, and also sorry about that? Hypothetically.”
“Hypothetically,” says the florist, lips quirking, “I’d recommend either white tulips or blue hyacinths.”
“Blue,” Kent says. “She likes blue, I think?” Seems like something he should know about his mother. Whatever.
“Can’t go wrong with hyacinths,” says the porn florist, and he lifts a bucket of flowers onto the counter, a muted purplish-blue that make his eyes look electric in comparison. “Something small and tasteful?”
“Perfect,” Kent says, because it will be nice to be associated with the word tasteful for once in his life. “I trust your judgment.”
“Thanks,” says the florist. “If you have time, I could have it prepared in 10 minutes.”
Kent’s brain says yes, yes, let’s get in another 10 minutes of terrible unsubtle flirting but his sinuses say absolutely fucking not. Anyway, if he’s shelling out $50 for this thing, he’d feel pretty dumb trashing it in the nearest dumpster, but he’s not trapping himself in a car with a little ball of death waging chemical warfare on his respiratory system.
“Actually, can I have it delivered?” he asks.
“Of course,” says the florist. “Just fill out one of those cards - to the left of the register, over there.”
Kent has to look up his mom’s address on his phone (he’s a shit son and well aware of it). He debates for a while on the appropriateness of addressing the bouquet to Mama Parsnips - Ransom’s favorite term of endearment for Kent’s mom - before scrawling down Catherine Newman in the “To:” field. Porn florist doesn’t need to know what manner of freakshows Kent and his friends are yet.
While he’s there, he notices a stack of business cards in front of the register, and picks one up. “Jack?” he tries out.
Porn florist looks up. Score. “Hm?”
“Nothing,” Kent says, and pockets the card. He shakes one of his credit cards from his stick on phone wallet and slides it across the counter. “So, we good here?”
“Yeah,” Jack says, running it and holding out the receipt for Kent to sign. “Good luck. I hope she accepts your apology.”
“I’m not too worried,” Kent says, grinning. “Nice meeting you, Jack.”
“Nice meeting you too, Kent,” Jack mumbles, looking down shyly, and he didn’t even glance at Kent’s credit card, which means he’s a fan, which is awesome.
Kent’s walking on air when he leaves, even though it’s going to take all freaking night for his sinuses to clear. Totally worth it.
He buys one of every allergy medicine off the shelf at CVS.
“Heya, Kent,” Bitty sings out when Kent enters, fiddling with a display of sunflowers that’s taller than he is.
It didn’t take long for Jack’s employees to learn Kent’s name once he started coming in four times a week. He has a feeling they all know why he’s there, even if Jack doesn’t.
“Hi, Bits,” Kent says. “Jack here today?”
“In the back,” Bitty says, jerking his thumb in that direction. “That fool Maurice is stuck at the border again.”
“That blows,” Kent says, grimacing. Jack’s a pretty even-keeled guy, but his recurrent US Customs and Border Protection problem causes him angst like nothing else. Kent’s learned not to be surprised at the streams of agitated Quebecois he can hear from the back room every seventh visit or so, or the sight of Jack pacing back and forth and carding his fingers roughly through his hair as he barks staccato instructions over the phone.
“I know, poor thing,” Bitty sighs. “How’s your cold?”
“All better,” Kent says, because it’s a little too late now to admit that he was just too much of a dumbass to remember his Claritin-D. The timing of Jack’s goldenrod delivery didn’t help. “The soup helped loads, seriously, thanks again.”
“Aw, I’m glad,” Bitty says, beaming. “I can’t even begin to fathom how anyone could play hockey while sneezing their brains out like that.” He shakes his head.
“Yep, it’s a toughie,” Kent agrees, because he’s a lying liar who lies. “Kit loved the catnip doll you made her, by the way.”
“Did she?” Bitty says with visible delight. “I’m so glad. You better have taken about six zillion pictures of her.”
“Give or take,” Kent says.
“The sad thing is, I know that’s not an exaggeration,” Jack says, coming out from the back. Kent scrutinizes his hair - it’s only a bit more vertical than normal from all his agitated finger-combing, so it must not have been such a bad call. When the truckload of poinsettias tipped over on the highway two days before Christmas, it stuck straight up like he’d been electrocuted, which had been fucking adorable. Kent had watched him smooth it back down in the reflection of a vase and wished like hell he was allowed to be the one to do that.
Someday soon he’s actually going to get the balls to ask Jack out. He’s building up to it. It’s gonna be great.
“Shush,” Kent says. “Everything alright?”
“Yeah, should be,” Jack says. “What about you?” He looks closely at Kent, reading his expression with a laser focus that makes his heart skip a beat. “How are you feeling?”
“Great, now,” Kent drawls, leaning against the counter.
Bitty snorts, but Jack just smiles, sweet and oblivious. “Good,” he says. “I’m glad. What are you apologizing for today?”
“Kit may or may not have thrown up in April’s car,” Kent says. “Or, uh… I may or may not have thrown up in April’s car.”
That startles a laugh out of Jack, which is exactly what Kent was going for. “So the usual,” Jack says, pulling up his bucket of hyacinths.
“Sadly, yes,” Kent says. At first he was amused that Jack couldn’t tell this was Kent’s way of flirting with him. Then he was a bit insulted that he came across as such a hot mess that Jack genuinely and unquestioningly believed he needed to send apology bouquets to every woman in his life on a daily basis. Now he’s made it the game to see how far he can push it before even Jack, oblivious as he is, catches on.
“Delivery?” Jack asks, not that there’s any real question about it.
“Yeah,” Kent says. “Thanks, boo.”
Jack smiles and punches his shoulder lightly. “Sure thing, man.”
Bitty sighs despairingly. It takes a lot of effort for Kent to keep from doing the same.
R u up? Kent texts Jack at four in the morning. There’s roughly a 100% chance of it, since Jack is up at this hour every day arranging bouquets for the early morning deliveries. The only question is if Jack has his phone on him, which isn’t a given. Fucking Luddite.
Yeah whats up
Can’t sleep. Kent kicks his blankets to the foot of his bed, overheated.
Want to come arrange flowers with me?
Kent is abruptly wide awake and in a much better mood. Y/hell y, he texts back, jumping out of bed and throwing on some clothes.
I don’t know what that means.
“Oh, Jack,” Kent actually says aloud, to his phone, in his empty house.
He drops into the shop on a Tuesday in February and finds the place mobbed, line spilling out the door. It’s unfortunate, because he actually came for a legit reason this time - he promised Ransom that he’d deliver a bouquet to March in his name that day, only he’s going to have to fight through the crowd to do it.
Kent hesitates for a moment, sense of duty to Ransom at war with his claustrophobia around mobs of strangers.
At that moment, Bitty comes bustling out with a bucket of dirty water to dump into the street drain.
“Hey, Bits,” Kent says, walking over. “What’s going on?”
“Oh, hey Kent,” Bitty says, clearly frazzled, eyes a bit wild. “Both Lena and Tucker called out, wouldn’t you just know it. Today of all days!”
“What’s today?” Kent says.
Bitty shoots him a clearly pitying look. “Oh, honey. No wonder,” he adds, mostly to himself.
“Hey!” Kent says, pretty sure he’s offended, though he doesn’t know why.
“These poor little darlings,” Bitty says, definitely to himself. “How in god’s green earth did you miss all the signs?” He points to the storefront.
Kent looks. In his defense, they start putting up Valentine’s Day advertising in, like, December. “Ohh.”
“And things seemed to be going so smoothly this morning, too,” Bitty laments. “All our deliveries went out on time, only now…” He shakes his head. “Jack’s in a state, as you can imagine.”
Kent winces.
“Say!” Bitty says. “Are you busy now?”
Technically, Kent’s only plans for the day were his normal post-practice nap and breaking in his new slowcooker with the pulled pork recipe Lardo told him about. But his plans definitely don’t include shutting himself in a crowded flower shop for an entire afternoon when he doesn’t have his Claritin. Kent’s not that much of a masochist.
“Jack would be real grateful, you know,” Bitty says slyly.
Kent might be that much of a masochist.
At 12:14 AM, Jack locks the back door of the shop and rests his forehead against the cool glass.
Kent cracks his eyes open and watches him, the way fatigue and satisfaction line his shoulders in equal parts, the small, exhausted smile on his lips.
“Dude,” Kent says. “The next time I whine at you about overtime shifts, you have my permission to smack me in the face.”
Jack’s smile broadens as he sits down next to Kent on the steps. Kent shifts a little to face him, leaning back against a trash can for support. It’s less gross than it sounds, because it’s full of flower clippings, emanating a sickly sweet scent.
“Kent,” Jack says, quiet and shaded with heavy emotion.
Kent shifts a little. “Ooh, I know that tone of voice. That’s the sound of a man who’s going to let himself be guilted into buying me midnight pancakes,” he jokes.
Jack normally lets Kent get away with it, but this time he reaches over and turns Kent’s face to look at him. “No, I’m serious. Thank you so much for - you didn’t have to…”
“Hey,” Kent says, worried that Jack’s going to tell him how much he appreciates their friendship, and Kent is thusly going to have to fling himself into traffic to keep from getting weepy. “It’s cool.”
And really, it wasn’t as bad as he’d feared it would be. The roses had been rinsed already, and they were already pretty low down on the hell scale with regards to pollen output. Sure, cleaning them for eight hours hadn’t felt great on the sinuses, but at least his throat isn’t burning. Much.
“I’m serious,” Jack says again. “Thank you.” He hesitates for a moment. “I wanted to say thanks, so, uh, I made you…”
Kent tenses up, but Jack pulls out his normal arrangement of blue hyacinths - only bigger, grander, white tulips and ivory roses intermingled, white and blue ribbons woven into the bouquet.
“For me?” Kent says, unsure what Jack is apologizing for.
“For whichever of your…” Jack stumbles around the word, “uh, ladies you were meant to spend today with.”
Kent furrows his brow. “My ladies? Dude, what kind of gigolo do you think I am?”
“I mean,” Jack says, looking down at the arrangement of flowers.
Which - dammit, Kent had been sending them to all different women on purpose, so Jack wouldn’t think he had a steady girlfriend. He hadn’t realized that the obvious logical conclusion is that Kent doesn’t have a steady girlfriend.
Kent’s starting to understand what Bitty meant with all that poor little darlings talk.
“Oh, fuck me,” he says. “I mean, for one, I didn’t even know today was Valentine’s Day until Bitty told me. And for another, I’m not sure which of my relatives or the various Aces WAGS, trainers and coaches you think is sitting at home pining away for me right now, but she’s gonna have to get used to disappointment.”
“Oh,” Jack says, blinking.
“Zimms,” Kent says, “I adore you and all, but if I had a girlfriend, I wouldn’t have spent the entire day cleaning roses for you.” Balls to the wall, Parson. “And maybe that’s why I don’t have a girlfriend.”
Jack stares at him for a moment, brow furrowed, interpreting the layers of meaning behind this statement. Kent sits patiently and gives him time.
“I,” Jack finally says, and clears his throat. “I made something for you also.”
He reaches down by his side and picks up another arrangement, passing it to Kent.
It’s gorgeous, a monumental display of vibrant yellow chrysanthemums, brilliant red tulips and darker red roses - it’s so grand as to almost be austere, but for the delicate pink sweetpeas that soften it into something intimate, personal, sweet.
Kent gets about two seconds of appreciation before he starts sneezing and doesn’t stop.
“Crisse,” Jack says, “are you okay?”
Kent nods even as his eyes start leaking tears, and he sets down the display and staggers away to the other side of the alley, hacking into his hands. “‘M good,” he wheezes out, sneezing another three times in rapid succession. “Just - you - Claritin?”
Jack hurries inside and comes back out a minute later. “I found Zyrtec? I hope it’s still good, it’s been under the counter since before Bitty started here…”
Kent makes grabby hands towards the box, catching Jack’s toss and downing two pills dry. They’ll take about 10 minutes to sink in, but he’s already feeling better just from the distance.
“Are you allergic to flowers?” Jack asks.
Kent winces. “Chrysanthemums are death,” he says, voice croaking. “Roses are okay. And tulips.” He wipes his tears away on his sleeve.
Jack stares. “Then… why?”
He doesn’t finish the question, but Kent knows what he means. He doesn’t really know how to answer, though. I didn’t want to freak you out once you figured out I would rather flirt with you than have the ability to breathe comfortably? It went on for too long and I didn’t know how to bring it up? I’m pretty sure Bitty will make fun of me forever when he finds out and I’d like to avoid that for as long as possible?
All true, and none of them particularly appealing as far as answers go. He shrugs instead.
But Jack gets a look of dawning recognition, and Kent’s pretty sure he understands anyway. “Oh,” he says. “Oh.”
“Yeah,” Kent says, ducking his head. He’s probably not helping his own case vis a vis convincing Jack he’s not a hot mess after all, here.
But Jack is smiling when he looks up, so endeared. He lifts a hand towards Kent’s face, and of course Kent sneezes again, and Jack draws away, which is pretty much exactly what Kent doesn’t want. But Jack gives a warm little laugh that quells Kent’s immediate flash of panic, melting down his spine like warm rain.
“I’m going to go wash my hands,” Jack says, walking backwards like he doesn’t want to look away from Kent for a minute. “And when I come back, I’m going to kiss you, if that’s alright.”
“So alright,” Kent breathes out.
Jack lingers at the door. “I’ll be right back,” he says. “You’ll wait?”
“Forever,” Kent says, and Jack’s answering smile is blinding, sunshine made corporeal.
“Totally worth it,” Kent says aloud to the two arrangements of flowers left sitting on the steps. He’s taking both of them home with him, and his sinuses can suck it.