Chapter Text
Ian Gallagher glanced at the clock on the wall again, it had been the slowest Saturday on record that he had had at the shop since he opened.
He tapped his pen on the order pad in front of him, trying to keep awake, he already delivered the flowers that were set to be sent out today, had placed orders with his supplier for new shipments he needed, filled the display cooler with two new arrangements, and dug out the next holiday decorations from the supply shed.
He sighed and looked at the smaller more basic bouquets in the water buckets up front, a couple were looking a bit droopy. Finally finding something to do, he grabbed his cart and came around the counter to the front of the shop. He would go through the display bouquets and get rid of the less lustrous ones, donate them to the nearby nursing home or to the cemetery, make some graves brighter or old ladies happier.
He brought the cart around the counter and knelt in front of the display buckets and began to gently weave his fingers through the fraying petals. Pulling the bouquets out and softly placing them on the cart.
As he was about to untangle some flower stems from each other the front door was shoved open and the bell above it jangled sharply. Heavy footsteps thudded into the shop against the tile floor and stopped abruptly behind Ian.
After a couple beats of silence Ian turned to see who walked in and was surprised to see Mickey Milkovich standing there. Back in school Ian and Mickey’s younger sister Mandy had been friends, she needed someone looking out for her since all her brothers took turns being in and out of juvie. Ian needed a beard to keep his sexuality under wraps from the homophobes at school. He felt a pang of longing for Mandy, he hadn’t seen her since she moved to Indiana with her boyfriend, they would text and Facetime sometimes, but it wasn’t the same.
He blinked in surprise as he looked up at Mickey. He had the same dark hair and the same cornflower blue eyes. He had grown and filled out, his hair no longer resembling the aftermath of a lightning strike. The most recognizable thing besides his eyes were his knuckle tattoos. Fainter now, but the FUCK U-UP was still etched there, like a Milkovich rite of passage, at least for the males. Mandy hadn’t gotten any knuckle tattoos the last time Ian knew.
He caught a glimpse of another tattoo on Mickey’s forearm of a grim reaper with the words ‘lado sur siempre’ below it.
Ian’s gaze flickered up to Mickey’s face, mesmerized at the changes there over the years. The last time he had seen Mickey was when he was a dirty scrawny kid that terrorized the local convenience store, and anyone who looked at him or his family wrong. Ian briefly thought back to when Mickey would come in and steal from Kash’s store all the time, especially when Ian was working. Didn’t matter what it was he would smirk as he shoved whatever it was in his pockets, then would saunter out the doors.
It took a moment for Ian to register that Mickey was looking down at him, his eyebrows arching high.
“Oh, uh sorry.” Ian stammered before ungracefully rising from the floor. Surprised to find that he was now taller than Mickey by a good five or six inches.
“What can I help you with Mi-ster?” Ian had started to call Mickey by his name, but if Mickey didn’t remember him, he didn’t want to come off as a creep.
“Yeah, I’m needing something that says, ‘Fuck you’ but in flowers.” Mickey’s voice still had that rough edge to it that Ian remembered, but now it was deeper, huskier.
Ian’s eyebrows furrowed, “Uh, I’m sorry, you need something that says ‘fuck you’ in flowers? You mean like a, like funeral board lettering? Spelling it out in letters? Like F-U-C-K Y-O-U?” Ian asked confused at the request.
Mickey sucked his teeth, “Nah man, nothing that obvious. Like the language of flowers, like how a yellow rose is supposed to mean friendship, and irises means hope. That kind of shit, something subtle that will say ‘fuck you’.”
“Oh, floriography?” Ian asked curiously, surprised that Mickey was aware of something like that.
“Yeah, whatever it’s called.” Mickey waved a hand.
“So, something that says fuck you, with floriography…” Ian mused thinking of what he had that he could use, his fingers fluttering against his lips as he thought.
“It’s for a grave if that helps, not that it really needs to be subtle I guess since the fucker is dead.” Mickey muttered the last part biting the inside of his cheek.
“Oh, I’m sorry for your loss.” Ian offered gently, wondering who had died, he hadn’t heard from Mandy about anyone passing in their family.
Mickey scoffed, “I’m not, fucker’s finally doing something good for us by getting his stupid ass killed.”
Though Mickey’s voice was masked with bravado, Ian noticed the wavering look in his eyes. And he felt like he knew immediately who the fuck you flowers were for.
“Terry’s dead?” Ian asked before he could stop himself, then winced, realizing what he had said.
It was no secret to their Southside Community that Terry Milkovich was one of the worst people you could ever meet. Besides being a raging homophobe, racist, drug dealing thief, Terry would also beat his wife and kids anytime he felt they were in the wrong. Ian even remembered receiving a couple beatings from Terry himself, once when he thought that Ian had impregnated Mandy, and once when Ian had emerged from the bathroom adjacent to Mickey’s room. He had mistakenly been fiddling with his fly as he walked out the bedroom door and Terry had thought he and Mickey had just got done fucking. He didn’t realize until AFTER the fact that Ian was bleeding and gasping for air on the floor that Mickey wasn’t even home, instead of apologizing he gave Ian a kick in the ribs for good measure.
Mickey looked at Ian curiously, his eyes searching his face trying to place him, the blue flickering over every freckle until his gaze met Ian’s. Mickey’s dark brow furrowed as he studied Ian’s green eyes, the blue widened with recognition, “Gallagher.” he breathed, his plush lips parting with Ian’s name, making it sound like a sigh.
Ian grinned sheepishly, “Hey Mickey.” He gave Mickey a small wave, embarrassed at the blush he knew was beginning to swirl in his cheeks.
Mickey grinned, his tongue slicking over his teeth, “Haven’t seen you since you were a shrimpy little dork hanging out with my sister.”
Ian choked on a laugh, “and I haven’t seen you since you were a little neighborhood thug beating up kids for weed money.”
Mickey laughed, “Yeah, those were the days.”
They stood there a moment looking at each other, until Ian remembered that he was at work and Mickey had needed an arrangement.
“So, uh, a something to say fuck you in flowers….” Ian rubbed his hands together thinking, aware of Mickey’s eyes on him, his lips curling into a smile.
“I think I have some things that might work, you wanna hang out here til I’m finished or come back later?” Ian hedged gesturing behind him with his thumb.
“I’ll just hang out here,” Mickey said, his eyes flicking around the storefront.
“Okay cool, Let me double check my inventory and then let you know what I think I can do.” Ian said grinning.
He grabbed the cart he had been putting the wilted bouquets on and pushed it around the counter and headed to the walk-in cooler to look at the flowers stored there.
***
Mickey Milkovich huffed as he walked down the main street on the West Side of Chicago, fucking West Side. Of course, the only florist who would work with the gays is on the fuckin West Side.
Mickey learned his lesson with the little old bag who wouldn’t do his order when she found out he was gay.
“Milkovich? You’re the homosexual one, aren’t you? Your brothers steal from me and always talk about performing vulgar acts with females, you must be the homosexual. We don’t do business with your kind.” The wrinkly fuckin q-tip had said before closing the binder she had previously placed in front of him and walking away.
“Should go back and carve my initials in her fuckin gums.” Mickey muttered to himself as he finally reached the fucking pansy ass florist.
Literally, the name of the place was The Pansy Florist, Mickey snorted and shoved open the front door. He glanced around the shop for a moment, typical looking flower place. And then noticed someone crouched to the ground, ass sticking out, apron strings trailing the floor. He could see his hands fiddling with some half-dead flowers and figured this guy must be the owner. Mickey headed over to him and stood there looking down at him, waiting for him to notice that he was there.
As he looked at the florist, he was particularly interested in studying his ass. Clad in some well fit dark wash jeans, they were tight against the rounded curve of his rear, his shirt riding up just a bit, exposing the skin there. Twin dimples were indented at the small of his back, pale skin with a constellation of freckles surrounding them, right before the jeans began to cover the curve of his rear. Mickey felt a dry spot in the back of his throat and gulped trying to get rid of it.
The man’s long pale arms were reaching out freckles splattering there too, Mickey wondered if there were freckles all over his pale skin. The man’s large hands and long fingers were gently untangling flower stems from one another, weaving and slipping through the stubby green stems.
The man, finally registering Mickey’s entrance to the shop turned and looked up at him, his eyes meeting Mickey’s for a split second and then widened slightly.
In that flash of a moment Mickey’s eyes met the florist’s he felt a feeling of déjà vu, like he had seen them before, seen him before. Like he knew him from some memory hidden back deeply in his mind, those clover green eyes with an assemblage of light brown freckles around them, against the pale skin, high cheekbones, square jaw, tendrils of red-orange hair atop his head highlighting the green of his eyes. Mickey knew he had seen him before, that he knew this man, those eyes, that hair, those weren’t colors you forgot. It felt like a firework show had gone off behind his eyes. His heart skipped and it felt like a shot of adrenaline had been administered right into his veins. The face of the florist seemed like he was struck with the same zap that Mickey had been. The green eyes widening and his broad chest rising and falling quickly.
Their eye contact was brief, and the florist glanced from Mickey’s face to his tattoos, and Mickey instinctively arched his eyebrows, his mouth pulling into a sneer. If this fucker was about to judge him for a little bit of ink he had some news for him, he was the one with “The Pansy Florist” above his door. Mickey was used to getting looks and stares for his outward appearance as a thug, but he had grown since he was a kid. Letting Terry tattoo his knuckles as the Milkovich rite of passage was one of the stupidest things because they got fucking infected at first. Once they finally healed, he had liked them, but now as an adult he had to deal with them forever, unless he wanted to laser them off, which no fuckin thank you. The green eyes gazing at his faded ink didn’t seem critical, in fact they were gazing at the rough letters with fondness his mouth curling into a small smile.
The man’s eyes went to the tattoo on Mickey’s forearm that he had gotten while he had done some work in Mexico, a cool grim reaper with “lado sur siempre" etched underneath. Mickey had been a bit homesick when getting it, thinking of his Chicago home, now he eternally has “South Side forever” inked into his skin. The green eyes curious and intrigued, the smile morphing into a mischievous grin.
The pair of achingly familiar eyes finally made their way up to Mickey’s face, widening as they locked with Mickey’s. Different emotions flashing in the shades of green that made Mickey ache in his chest.
“Oh, uh sorry.” The man stammered before rising from the floor, halfway tripping as he turned to face Mickey, trying to make it one fluid movement and failing. The man rose up, his head clearing Mickey’s by a good several inches, making Mickey have to tilt his head back to look at his face.
“What can I help you with Mi-ster?” the florist asked, his voice a nice tenor timbre, a small smile tugging at his lips.
“Yeah, I’m needing something that says, ‘Fuck you’ but in flowers.” Mickey said. He had thought about what he was going to put on Terry’s grave, and that was it. He wanted to piss on his grave honestly, but he would settle for a middle finger in the form of petals. He knew that Terry’s cronies would be coming around to pay their respects for the next week or so, so he wanted this middle finger to be subtle, or risk the Sinaloa Cartel breaking into his apartment just to enforce respect.
The florist’s eyebrows furrowed, “Uh, I’m sorry, you need something that says ‘fuck you’ in flowers? You mean like a, like funeral board lettering? Spelling it out in letters? Like F-U-C-K Y-O-U?”
Mickey sucked his teeth, “Nah man, nothing that obvious. Like the language of flowers, like how a yellow rose is supposed to mean friendship, and irises means hope. That kind of shit, something subtle that will say ‘fuck you’.” Mickey had read about flower language before, but he couldn’t remember the actual term for it. He figures of all people a florist would know what the fuck he was trying to say.
“Oh, floriography?” The florist asked his eyes dancing.
“Yeah, whatever it’s called.” Mickey said waving a hand, wanting to seem nonchalant, feeling like a major tool for even knowing about something as gay as floriography.
“So, something that says fuck you, in floriography…” The redhead muttered, his fingers fluttering against his lips. Mickey felt a little zing seeing the trails of freckles decorating his hands, little marks of sunshine that brightened up the paleness of his skin.
“It’s for a grave if that helps, not that it really needs to be subtle I guess since the fucker is dead.” Mickey muttered the last part biting the inside of his cheek.
The florist looked up at him with a mixture of surprise and sympathy in his eyes, “Oh, I’m sorry for your loss.”
Mickey scoffed, “I’m not, fucker’s finally doing something good for us by getting his stupid ass killed.” Mickey wondered if he said that enough he would feel it through to his bones. As much of a piece of shit his dad was, he had sparingly good memories of him where he seemed to actually know how to be a dad.
“Terry’s dead?” The florist blurted out surprised, seeing Mickey’s reaction he winced.
Mickey looked at him curiously, he searched his face trying to place him, he felt the familiarity blinding him, he was so familiar to Mickey that he felt like it was on the tip of a memory, someone that he knew. His eyes studied the freckles that danced over his nose, under his eyes, the ones along his jaw calling to Mickey, tugging him back to the past. Mickey’s brow furrowed as he looked back to the green eyes, that shimmered, looking back at him unabashedly. Mickey’s eyes traced the freckles along his jaw again and again, the memory hidden about to break the surface, the freckles, the eyes. The green like a field of clovers on a clear day, after a morning dew, shimmering, forlorn, Mickey had seen them before.
“Gallagher.” he breathed, words sounding like a sigh, the memory of a much younger man, a boy, Ian Gallagher, his sister’s friend in school, the one Mickey had almost come out for because he was so beautiful, the freckles along his jaw were ones Mickey ached to kiss, to trace with his lips. Ian had been good and kind. Too good for Mickey.
Ian grinned sheepishly, “Hey Mickey.” He gave Mickey a small wave, a blush starting to build in his pale cheeks.
Mickey grinned, his tongue slicking over his teeth appreciating the puberty that Ian had gone through over the years since he had seen him last, “Haven’t seen you since you were a shrimpy little dork hanging out with my sister.” He was the furthest thing from being little and shrimpy now.
Tall, no longer reaching just under his nose. His hair no longer hanging in his face like a shaggy puppy. He had filled out where once was scrawny lanky limbs muscles now sprouted, sculpted and defined against his tight shirt and apron. As Mickey took in all the changes of the person he used to know he felt a thrumming in his chest.
Ian laughed, the sound making Mickey long to be able to make Ian make that sound again and again, “and I haven’t seen you since you were a little neighborhood thug beating up kids for weed money.” He said giving Mickey a little smirk.
Mickey laughed thinking back to when he would show up on playgrounds and under bleachers exchanging dimebags for dollars, “Yeah, those were the days.”
They stood there a moment looking at each other, Mickey wondered what Ian was seeing when he looked at him. Was he seeing some washed up drug dealing thug, or something more?
“So, uh, a something to say fuck you in flowers….” Ian asked rubbing his hands together his eyebrows tilting upward.
Mickey looked at Ian, his mouth unable to keep from smiling, the charm that Ian had had on him as a kid was still as magnetic.
“I think I have some things that might work, you wanna hang out here til I’m finished or come back later?” Ian gestured behind him with his thumb pointing towards a back room.
“I’ll just hang out here,” Mickey said, his eyes flicking around the storefront, taking it in for the first time, it wasn’t too bad of a place, for being on the West Side anyway.
“Okay cool, let me double check my inventory and then let you know what I think I can do.” Ian grinned. He grabbed the cart and pushed it around the counter and headed towards the room he had thumbed to.
Leaving Mickey there to look around by himself, reminiscing.