Chapter Text
(beautiful cover by the amazing Nat. Thank you so much for this wonderful art T_T x)
It’s that man again. His name is Tyrell Wellick. Of course I know his name. The Tyrell Wellick, Senior Vice President of Technology at Evil Corp. Rumor has it he’s basically running the tech department himself. Apparently his boss is a stupid, arrogant prick who owns a Blackberry and thinks it’s the most suitable phone for the CTO of Evil Corp. Nothing more to say, really.
Well, let’s get back to Tyrell Wellick. It’s not like I has anything to do with that man. We’re from different worlds. The man wears blue. I wear black. The man’s practically radiating… princeliness everywhere he goes – you get the feeling that he’s some Northern European prince just by looking at him. It’s not about his clothes. It’s in his eyes, his hair, his facial expressions, how he holds himself. That ‘prince’ thing is all him. While all I ever was and will ever be is an anti-social junkie who runs a flower shop.
Oh, yes, I do run a flower shop, but it’s not like I have a passion in them or anything. It was my dad’s, and when he died, the ownership was transferred to me. And I keep it because I’m good at this. This flower-selling thing. I know what each flower means (daisy: innocence, violet: modesty), what should they look like together (daisy and lavender would look better together than daisy and violet), what kind of bouquets are right for each person (a grandpa who comes in here to look for some flowers for his love would appreciate a bouquet of peonies than petunias). I get them. The flowers. The people.
And there he is, Tyrell Wellick. A total mystery. I thought I get him at first. Probably a typical gentleman-on-the-outside-snob-on-the-inside kind of guy. He looks like a proper, good man, but his smile is so fake. I arranged him a big bouquet of roses and carnations. (For his wife, as far as I could tell by the white gold band on his left ring finger.) He thanked me, a tight smile pasted there on his princely features. I nodded jerkily at the cash register, handing him his changes, but in his silky voice he said coolly, “keep it,” before turning back and walked out the door like the changes didn’t mean anything. It probably didn’t. He gave me a hundred dollar bill. Snobbish prick.
But then Tyrell Wellick came back here again a week later, a week after that, and a week after that. He’s been coming back here every week for the last two months and my understanding of him is getting less and less certain. For three weeks, he just requested for ‘whatever you think is appropriate’ without saying much or asking for anything else, but then on the fourth week, he started requesting. Red carnations and purple statices and asters and hydrangeas and daffodils. I think he’s having a mistress. Or trying to make up with his wife. Either way, it’s just weird to be buying a bouquet of flowers every week for two months. People only buy flowers on special occasions or when they want something. Is his partner that hard to please?
Well, actually that doesn’t concern me at all so I should stop thinking about whether he’s having a lot of mistresses or a very dramatic, demanding wife. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that he pays good money and comes here every week. That’s it.
But sometimes he lost his usually cool demeanor a bit while coming into the shop. He would look exhausted, like he hadn’t slept for years, like something was weighing him down, but would always put that fake smile on his face. It didn’t reach his eyes and I hate it.
There’s that smile again while he’s walking toward me.
“Yellow zinnias, please,” he says politely.
I fucking hate that smile. “Sure.”
He stands there in silence while I go about the shop grabbing and cutting some yellow zinnias then spray some water onto those flowers and wrap them carefully with a piece of kraft and a piece of paper rope.
He pays for it with a hundred dollar bill as usual. I stop offering him changes at this point. No point trying to achieve something by doing things that yield the same unsatisfactory results over and over. But before he turns back like he used to, he says abruptly, “What’s your name?”
I look at him. A long pause, and then, “Elliot.”
Oh. The fake ass smile is gone. Shit. Instead, he just… smiles, and says, “Bonsoir, Elliot.”
“Good evening,” I respond automatically.
He nods, turns around, and walks out the door, movements ever graceful.
There was something off about that smile.
And that night I dream about Tyrell Wellick.