strays, bsd

─ BOUQUET, fyolai

fyodor dostoyevsky/nikolai gogol
08092023

★

5:30PM.

A second does not even pass before the wind chimes he hung above the door rings, alerting a new arrival. Sigma already knows who was it, not sparing a glance towards the customer because there was one and only one regular that visited without fail.

He only sighs and escapes to the backroom when he hears his co-worker's too gleeful greeting. Gogol does not spare him a glance either as Sigma hurriedly passes by, the bouquet his friend had been working on (he should chew him out for that later...) long forgotten when he sees a mop of black hair sticking out of the green foliage in his peripheral.

He could practically visualize Gogol's slightly pink face by just hearing the drawled out syllables through the wall.

Sigma would be okay with Gogol's crush ─ had it been little.

Growing up with Gogol, Sigma knew very well how easily swooned the latter was, be it a slightly nice gesture or the correct reaction he was looking for. Yet all of those crushes were all short-lived, barely lasting a week before Gogol loses all interest in them.

Dostoyevsky ─ his current crush (read: victim) ─ however, had already broken Gogol's best record (a week and a half) and the gushy rambles Sigma is subjected to seemed to only get longer and... increasing in infatuation. He came here once for a bouquet last month, and for some odd reason, continued to do so without fail, seemingly integrated into just buying the same bouquet into his schedule right after his evening classes ended.

Just yesterday had he realized Gogol had given the other a nickname, and now had been working the courage to talk outside the flowershop.

Which seemed normal ─ but Sigma knows better and Gogol is anything but normal. His friend had no shame, not a single ounce of nervousness or shyness in that awfully giraffe frame of his. For him to grow somewhat hesitant on a simple invitation...

His head snaps up from the potted plants when he hears Gogol shout at him to watch over the counter, and the same man comes rushing in the back room with his face the same color of the hybrid roses Sigma watered this morning.

"Sigmaaa..." Gogol whisper-cries.

"Don't even start," is all Sigma could say before he heads out, leaving his co-worker alone to panic by himself.

"Sigma!"

 ★

"Good afternoon, Dostoyevsky."

It's 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 flowers in the shop, whilst Dostoyevsky's eyes and hair barely shimmers under the sunlight, seemingly absorbing all light like a black hole. His clothes only seem to support this theory: dark and dressed coldly as if there wasn't a heatwave outside. The few hints of color would be the purple rings under his eyes and the worn-out bag slung over his shoulder (or not, its barely green anymore.)

Dostoyevsky only nods at him as a greeting before his eyes stare off into the order Sigma held. "You look tired."

"Gogol's the same shift as I am." Sigma clicks his tongue as he reaches for the ribbons and the tape dispenser beneath the counter.