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Floriography (n.) from Latin flos , flor—;
The language of flowers, sometimes called floriography, is a means of cryptological communication through the use or arrangement of flowers. Meaning has been attributed to flowers for thousands of years, and some form of floriography has been practiced in traditional cultures throughout Europe, Asia, and the Middle East. Interest in floriography soared in Victorian England and in the United States during the 19th century. Gifts of blooms, plants, and specific floral arrangements were used to send a coded message to the recipient, allowing the sender to express feelings which could not be spoken aloud in Victorian society.
February 14th, 8:00AM: Roses
The air is heady with blooming floral perfumes and pollen.
Zoro lifts a flower box of petunias onto a shelf. Every surface in the shop is laden with trays, boxes, and pots; the bouquets paper-packaged in magenta and red tissue up the front, crowding the entryway. The shop is fuller than on any other day of the year, though come sunset, it will be the emptiest it is all year. Valentine’s has that affect.
It wasn’t two minutes ago that Zoro had flipped the plastic sign in the window to display Yes, We’re Open in cursive green, and now the brass bell of the door chimes fervently.
Zoro dusts his slightly earthy hands on the front of his apron.
He peeks over two rows of displays to see who’s come in.
The man is around Zoro’s height, wind tousled hair winging over one eye, the other eye an exposed rainy sky, hooded but bright. A black fitted suit jacket stretches over squared shoulders and tapers to a slim waist. His shirt is periwinkle blue, and the collar flourishes open to reveal a pale slip of neck and chest. He leans over a freesia arrangement, more blonde hair falling in his face.
Zoro steps around the aisle end.
“Do you need help with anything?”
The man looks up at him.
There’s a beat of awkward silence.
“...Roses?”
A small frown quirks Zoro’s brow at the odd phrasing of question.
“What colour were you looking for?”
The man pushes hair out of one eye, straight posture shifting to a jutting, casual slouch, syrupy smile on his lips.
“Red, for love.”
“Right over there.” Zoro points a finger to the front quarter of the shop brimming with red roses, half of them bright rubied, the other dusty maroon. The rows of roses behind those host the palette of whites, pinks, and yellows.
The man doesn’t bother to thank him, and Zoro relocates himself behind the counter. He presses down the stack of paper receipts onto the pin, before thinking better of it, and dumping them all in the waste paper basket tucked by his feet. He notices a crushed petal on the ground that has escaped a cleaning.
Someone clears their throat.
Zoro looks up expecting to see the man’s face.
In actuality, only a small part of his face is visible, peering around one of the most decadent and ridiculous bouquets of ravishing red roses that the Shimotsuki Florist shop has to offer.
“Will it be just that, today?” Zoro asks.
The man snorts. “‘Just that’? Are you fucking with me? This thing is huge. I can’t carry another damn thing.”
Zoro resists the urge to turn taciturn in his next remark. He’s learnt to deal with way worse attitudes in his years of customer service.
He coughs a little and schools his voice into something light and polite. “It’s a habit to ask, sir. Anyway, that particular 25-rose bouquet will be ninety dollars, please.”
The man mutters something behind the arrangement.
It’s then propped on the counter, and Zoro lazily lifts the scanner and turns the arrangement to the side where he can get at the barcode. In the corner of his vision, the man pulls out his wallet.
Zoro returns the scanner and his eyes flick to the computer screen on his left, displaying the item number and price in yellow pixelated letters on a primitive green program.
“Big anniversary? Proposal?”
He’s not sure what it is—usually he’s not particularly conversational with customers—but he’s feeling amiable today, and not so tired.
“Ah, not exactly.” The man hands over his card for Zoro to swipe.
“Very special someone, though?” Zoro hands it back.
“She is indeed,” a dopey grin splits the man’s face ear to ear as he speaks.
“She’ll be happy with it. Would you like your receipt?”
He shakes his head.
Zoro tears the slip of paper from the little machine, and skewers it onto the receipt spindle.
“Have a nice day,” Zoro echoes from routine. And then, as an afterthought, “Come again.”
The man’s headed for the door across the shop, bouquet balanced in an arm. The other hand gives a wave, and then he disappears out of sight.
Zoro goes to turn the desk fan on, and steels himself for the steady flood of customers he knows will be coming.
His day is indeed relentless, and he spends a good half of it fetching pre-ordered bouquets from the back of the store when customers come to pick them up. He manages a five minute lunch break to wolf down two bowls of rice, but his feet get no rest, and he’s aching from standing and rushing about all day. When he finally reaches closing time he’s ready to pass out.
Upon reaching his apartment he flings his keys and phone onto the couch, heads straight to the fridge to grab a beer, and then rejoins his tossed possessions.
Despite his tired body, he feels almost restless. The fresh faces of people in love, people excited to see someone, people smiling to themselves as they chose a gift of flowers—they play in Zoro’s mind, the way you sometimes imagine yourself playing a video game as you fall asleep after playing the very same game all day.
Zoro’s not great with faces, but he remembers one quite well.
The face he can remember is the first customer’s. His jaw was particularly angular, his nose looked like it had been broken in the past, and then there was the eyebrow: a dartboard swirl. These oddities did nothing to diminish the man’s looks, if anything, he stood out in Zoro’s mind as raggedly handsome. Even if the eyebrow was weird, it was unique. Zoro liked unique faces. He wondered what the man was doing with his girlfriend right now, and if she’d appreciated the roses.
Zoro’s not a romantic, not by a long shot. Valentine’s day has never meant much to him. But at the end of the day, after seeing the fine threads of so many connections tugging from the smiles and gazes of people, he can’t help feeling restless.
He considers texting Perona, but she’s probably asleep right now, halfway across the world. And if she were awake, she’d probably make fun of him for being alone on Valentine’s— Oh, the aquatic plant life needs another of his kind?
It also crosses his mind that he could call Nami—she’s a fantastic drinking buddy—until he remembers she’s probably busy with her girlfriend, doing something special.
So Zoro turns on the TV. He finishes his box of beers. He eats a single serve of rice and steamed broccoli, and goes to bed early.
One month and one day later—March 13th, 11:35AM: Hyacinths (And Pansies)
It’s been almost a month since the man with the curly eyebrow and attitude came strolling into the shop. Zoro had wondered a few times if he’d ever drop by again, or if he’d be gone forever like many of the strangers who wandered in and out of the florist’s.
It wasn’t like Zoro was into him or anything, but he felt a strange sort of impression from the guy, the way main characters always stand out when you first see them in a movie. Zoro was a side character, who felt a passing fancy, a strange inclination to pay attention to a story that wasn’t his.
It almost seems surreal when the man wanders into the shop again.
Zoro hides behind the shelves of pansies he’s watering and hopes that Koshiro will help the man out instead, so he’ll be spared. Odd, that after all his curiosity, he’d rather not get involved.
The man wanders down the aisle across from Zoro, and stops when he hears the faint pouring of the watering can.
Shit, now he has to say something.
“Can I help you with anything?”
Smoke blue eyes peer at him over the top of purple pansies.
“I was just wondering if there’s a flower to say ‘I’m sorry.’”
Zoro sets down the can. He feels sort of silly talking to the man through a stand of flowers.
“Uhm... well, there’s white tulips, which symbolize forgiveness. Though that can go both ways… There’s also purple hyacinths… which mean I’m sorry, please forgive me, and also symbolize sorrow.”
“Do you have any of those?”
“I think so. I’ll go check for you.”
“Thank you.”
The man seems a lot more subdued today, Zoro reflects. He trots off to the back, where they have a small walk in refrigerator, for the plants that like it cooler. Hyacinth is a perennial, living up to two years when kept at a chilled temperature, so they store them in here. Two pots of them sit in the corner on a middle shelf, and Zoro slides one into his hands before returning to the storefront.
The man is waiting at the counter for him. Zoro props the pot on the surface.
“It’s pretty,” he remarks.
Zoro also takes a moment to regard the flower. The leaves at it’s base are straight and of medium width, pointing up like a picket fence of swords. Its flowers are clustered like small stars, deep purple in the centre and with snow white edges.
“Yeah.”
“I’ll take it.”
“They like water in dry spells only, so try to keep it from condensation and moisture. If you have it alive for long enough, cut back flower stalks in spring.”
“Alright. How much?”
Zoro turns the pot and scans the barcode.
“Thirty-five.”
The man hands him cash this time. Zoro files it into the register, passing him back five dollars in change.
“Would you like a bag for the pot? It’s got a bit of dirt on the base.” Wouldn’t want it to get on the seat of whatever pristine car you probably drive.
“Yeah, thanks.”
He’s not sure why—maybe the departure of the man seems impending and Zoro’s no closer to knowing anything about him, or maybe he’s bored—but as he slips the pot into two plastic bags for safety, eyes trained on the flowers, a question forms on his lips.
“Is it a sorry to the same girl?”
The man flushes a little, an uncharacteristically sheepish expression crossing his features.
“Ah, no. A different girl.”
Zoro rephrases what he’d said a month ago.
“I hope she’ll like it.”
“I hope so too,” he murmurs, accepting the bag.
“Have a nice day.”
“You too.”
The man’s back turns on Zoro.
“Come again.”
Pansy, scientific species name Viola tricolor;
Symbolic meaning: Thoughts (according to Ophelia of Hamlet,) sometimes referring to "lover's thoughts." The pansy flower was used to convey things such as I’m feeling amorous towards you, I am thinking of you , I have thoughts of you or I’m missing you, but always it was about one person thinking of another.
17 days later—March 30th, 10:30AM: Camellias
It’s just after Zoro’s finished laying a tray of cacti in plastic cups out in the sun when the man comes in for the third time.
Zoro waits silently behind the counter while he watches him select a bouquet of white flowers, wrapped in shimmering blue sheer material and tied with a silk bow.
“Just that today?”
The man nods.
As Zoro scans the bouquet in a routine fashion, the man leans his elbows on the counter, suit jacket sleeves making sharp angles.
“Do these ones have a meaning?”
Zoro feels his brows peak a little in surprise, but he keeps his voice casual. He studies the flowers, little half moon petals emanating in waves from the snow bud in the centre. White camellias.
“You’re adorable.”
The man stiffens a little. “I—what?”
Zoro realises his mistake too late. He can feel his own cheeks heat up simultaneously as he watches a flush creep into the blonde’s face. He coughs a little to clear his throat.
“The flowers—white camellias—they mean ‘you’re adorable.’ Though I think they also symbolise purity.”
“Oh,” the man relaxes again, looking off to the side. “Right, right. Perfect then.”
Zoro checks the computer.
“Twenty bucks.”
The man hands him his card, and Zoro swipes it. Zoro watches long, steady fingers tap in the keys, before realising it’s rude to stare at somebody putting in their pin and snapping his gaze away.
“So, she forgave you?”
That sheepish look flits across the man’s face. “Um, not exactly. She appreciated the flowers though.” He scoops up the bouquet as he tucks away his wallet, smiling brilliantly at Zoro. “These are for another lovely lady.”
Zoro wishes he had someone to exchange a secret withering stare with. Nami, maybe.
“I hope she likes them. Have a nice day, come again.”
Eight days later—April 7th, 3:20PM: Hibiscus and Mallow
Zoro is hungry for his name.
He’s taken to calling him curly or blondie in his head, but it’s not really enough.
However, tasting his name would only leave him wanting more. Zoro’s never exactly been buddy-buddy with any of their regular customers; Koshiro is always the one to make conversation with a few of the older regulars.
But the man sweeps in not a week later, in a white shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a packet of cigarettes tucked into the front pocket. He buys an arrangement wrapped in egg shell white tissue.
“I suppose these ones have meanings too?”
Zoro hands him back two dollars in change, peering at the bouquet.
“The five-petaled, open flowers with the stalks protruding are hibiscus. They represent an acknowledgement of delicate beauty and rarity. The similar, smaller ones with streaks are mallows, and they mean you’re consumed by love.”
“Hm.” The man blinks at the bouquet thoughtfully, and then smiles a rather dopey smile that makes his nostrils flare. He looks ridiculous.
“Let me guess,” Zoro spikes the man’s receipt onto the stack without bothering to ask. “For a different lady?”
The expression of mild embarrassment Zoro receives from the man is really growing on him.
“None of your business,” he sniffs.
“So that’s a yes.”
“Shut it, mossy.”
Zoro’s mouth falls open a little at that. “Mossy?”
“You heard me!”
A hand is carded through Zoro’s hair without thinking and he narrows his eyes at the man.
“Better than curly.”
“Excuse me?!”
The man’s leaning over the counter now, their faces have drawn close together, expressions mirrored, getting in each other's spaces.
He seems to realise the awkwardness of their proximity, and he pulls himself back.
“You’ll be lucky if I come back here, with crap customer service like that.”
Zoro lets out a huff. “You started it.”
“I did not!”
A voice wavers from the back of the shop and Zoro stiffens.
“Is everything okay out there? Zoro?”
In the next moment, Koshiro is poking through the flaps of the door to the back, circular glasses perched on a long nose, concerned expression settling on his usually calm face.
“Everything’s fine, dad. Nothing to worry about.”
Zoro shoots the man a look. His face is rather deadpan, eyes lidded lazily. Could that be the hint of a smirk? He looks back to his father.
Koshiro pushes his glasses up his nose and smooths his hands down his apron, a set of movements as familiar to Zoro as are the backs of his own hands.
“Alright then.” Koshiro smiles. “Call me if you need anything.”
Zoro gives him a nod and watches him disappear. He turns back to the man, who looks increasingly more amused by this.
“Zoro, huh?”
“What about my name?”
“Nothin’. So, that’s your dad? You guys don’t look very alike.”
“He’s not my biological father.”
The one curled eyebrow Zoro can see shoots up. “Oh. Ah.” The man’s smug smile has erased and he seems oddly thrown for a loop. “That was stupid of me to assume he was. I’m sorry.”
Zoro is taken aback. “You don’t have to be sorry. Most people make that assumption.”
“I know, but, I should know better.” A fine frown line etches his brow. “The man who raised me isn’t blood related to me either.”
It is Zoro’s turn to raise his eyebrows. “Oh.”
There’s a beat where Zoro almost swallows his words. But he doesn’t.
“What’s your name?”
“What?”
Zoro frowns. “What do you mean ‘What?’ You have a name, don’t you? And you know mine now.”
The man rolls his eyes.
“I don’t see why it matters.”
After a few sufficiently suffocating moments of silence, Zoro clears his throat and buries his hopes under 6 feet of dirt in the back of his mind.
“Well, I hope she likes the flowers.”
The man’s eyes are elsewhere, but he nods. There’s a ghost of the flushed, sheepish expression on his face, but Zoro can’t imagine why.
“Have a nice afternoon.”
“You too.”
Zoro swallows. “Come again.”
A hand is waved.
Just when Zoro thinks he’s out of range and gone, a voice carries back to him at the last second.
“It’s Sanji, by the way.”
Footsteps slap away rather hurriedly. Zoro feels a smile grow on his lips all by itself, and he can’t stop it.
14 days later—April 21st, 12:20PM: Orchids
“What about these ones,” Sanji gestures to the elegant flowers poised in their little pot, propped on the counter. “What do they mean?”
Zoro doesn’t bother inspecting the flower. He hands Sanji back his card.
“They’re orchids. They represent love, beauty, and strength; a refined lady.”
Sanji makes that sickeningly sweet expression again which makes his mouth and nose look stupid.
“Just the right flower for my sweet mellorine!”
“Your what now, curly?”
The lovestruck expressed is sapped from Sanji’s face and he glares at Zoro with equal fervour and flush.
“I think you’re mispronouncing Sanji, plant boy.”
Zoro growls. “Plant boy? ”
“Oh, I’m sorry, would you prefer flower boy?”
Zoro crumples the receipt in his hand and drops it unceremoniously into the waste paper bin at his feet. He is most definitely not blushing. And if he was, he would hope his darker skin dusted it down well enough.
“Whatever, dart-brow. Go take your flowers to your melon-thingie. Bet you’ll be buying a different girl flowers next week anyways.”
Sanji prickles at that.
“For your information, these are for my therapist, the lovely Robin, who I buy flowers for every month when I go to see her! So I will be buying her more! And—”
He seems to cut off when his brain catches up to his mouth, realising he’s sprouting rather personal information to a florist he barely knows.
Zoro doesn’t feel awkward that the other man goes to see a therapist, but rather the discomfort comes from the way Sanji’s suddenly opened up a personal part of himself, and Zoro has no words to smooth it over and convey that it’s no big deal.
“Well then,” he keeps his expression casual. “I hope she enjoys the flowers.”
Sanji blinks a bit, and the tension escapes Zoro as he sees the man relax, scooping up the pot with dextrous hands.
“Have a nice day.”
“You too,” Sanji calls over his shoulder. “See you next time.”
For some reason Zoro is unable to form words in the next few moments, and then the opportunity has passed.
12 days later—May 3rd, 1:11PM: Calla Lilies
“I’m curious, humour me.”
“Hmm?” Sanji turns to the side a little, peeling his gaze from the tiny Venus Fly trap he was looking at.
“You’re in here at any time of the day buying flowers for women.” Zoro taps in the code for the arrangement. “What do you do for a job? Twenty-five, by the way.”
Sanji snorts. “I’m a chef.”
Zoro accepts the notes he’s passed and tucks them into the register. “A chef that never works during the day?”
“Precisely. I’m actually the sous-chef of a pretty high end restaurant downtown,” Sanji picks up his bouquet. “We have a six month waiting list and we only open after 8.”
“Well, shit. I haven’t been charging you enough for flowers. That bouquet’s actually forty-five, my mistake.”
Sanji rolls his eyes, and then slides them to the flowers: long stalked and tapered to a conical swirl, white like a meringue, with a dusted yellow stigma nestled inside. “Calla lilies, right?”
Zoro nods, and grunts affirmatively.
“What do these represent?”
“Magnificent and overwhelming beauty—that’s from the Victorian language of flowers. And er, there was a different meaning from the Christian religion. Purity, I think.”
“Hm, lovely.”
Sanji sounds genuinely sincere when he says this, a change from his usual sarcastic drip.
A smile quirks the corners of Zoro’s mouth. It’s unusual for anyone to be interested in the meanings of different flowers, but it seems to have become standard for Sanji to ask.
“I’ll see you later, then.”
Sanji nods, and turns on his heel, still a little transfixed on the flowers.
“Oi, Sanji.”
The blonde stops and turns.
“Do you wear that stupid tall chef’s hat?”
“Fuck off, flower boy.”
9 days later—May 12th, 2:20PM: Carnation, Dahlia, and Zinnia
“So, how about these ones?”
An umbrella is tucked under Sanji’s arm, and his shoes have brought little puddles of spring rainwater into the shop.
Zoro looks at the bouquet, a colourful arrangement of broad, open flowers, layered like intricate three dimensional origami, and wonderfully symmetrical.
“The red ones, the carnations, represent deep romantic love and passion. They can also mean admiration, or, my heart aches for you. The white and maroon fringed ones are dahlias, and they represent elegance and dignity. The orange ones are zinnias, and they mean lasting affection, thoughts of an absent friend, daily remembrance, and—”
“You know a lot about flowers.” Sanji is looking right at him, too closely.
Zoro feels himself blush.
“...I like plant symbolism. I’ve been working as a florist since I was seventeen, but I’ve been helping Koshiro with the flowers since I was little.”
“Hm.” Sanji’s eyes drift to the bouquet. “I do have an eye for these, don’t I?” He grins. “It must be my innate romantic nature, helping me pick the most flattering bouquets.”
Zoro rolls his eyes. “Whatever, love-cook. It’s twenty four bucks and 80 cents.”
“Have twenty five and keep the change, moss head.”
8 days later—May 20th, 11:20AM: Foxglove, Lobelia, and Orange Lilies
Sanji looks tired.
Zoro’s seen him look tired before, but it’s quite apparent today, in the way a shadow of stubble lines his jaw and dark fingerprints sit under his eyes. He’s wearing a navy cotton t-shirt and black jeans, a paper coffee cup in his hand. The smell of cigarettes is strong on him today, tobacco mixing with the sweet aroma of flowers.
He storms into the front of the store, zeroes his eyes in on Zoro, and strides over to him.
Scratch that.
Sanji looks pissed.
“Um, can I help—”
“How do I say fuck you with a flower?”
Zoro swallows. His hands are raised a little, incase Sanji had had any ideas about throwing himself at Zoro.
“Pardon?”
“Passive-aggressively. How do I say fuck you, passive-aggressively, in a flower bouquet?”
Zoro thinks for a moment.
“I guess… orange lilies, for hatred. Or lobelia, for malevolence. And then foxgloves for insincerity.”
“Great. Do you have all those flowers?”
“...I’ll go check.”
They do, in fact, have all those flowers. Zoro pokes his head out of the slips of the door and sees Sanji standing by a shelf of decorative pots, arms crossed, expression sour as he stares off into space.
“So, do you want a bouquet of these things? Custom bouquets cost extra.”
“Yeah. And whatever, I don’t really care about paying extra.”
“Mmmk.” Zoro disappears again, making quick work of snipping the flowers he needs, diagonally across the stem so as not to crush the xylem. They’ll live longer if they can still absorb water, if they even end up in a vase. He sweeps the collected flowers out to the front of the store, laying them out on the counter.
For some reason, he likes the way Sanji watches his movements closely as he begins to collect and arrange the flowers in his hands.
“Must be nice not caring about extra costs,” Zoro says, with no real intent. He likes to fill the space the words when Sanji is here; he doesn’t feel closed in or closed off, the cook has a robust presence. ”With an extra twenty bucks I could eat something other than rice and vegetables every night,” Zoro snorts.
Sanji’s eyes snap up to his. “You eat rice and vegetables every night?”
“Well, not every night. Sometimes I have fish. Often I have miso with it. But yeah, my main meal is rice and steamed veges. It’s easy, it’s cheap… I don’t have much time to cook or to eat.”
Sanji’s lips are quirking, turning to form a frown.
“What about breakfast?”
“Uh, toast, eggs. Rice.” He shrugs.
“Lunch?”
“If I can fit in a lunch break or two I have rice, sometimes sandwiches. Koshiro goes to get us coffee or tea sometimes.”
Sanji’s frown deepens.
Zoro huffs, and flexes an arm; as if to show off his adequate bulk. “Look, I’m perfectly healthy, curly.” A strange expression Zoro can’t catch or decipher flits across Sanji’s features so quickly he may have imagined it. “Oh, and what colour do you want the tissue and ribbon to be for this bouquet? Maybe a purple, to contrast the orange and pinks?”
Sanji coughs a little. “Purple sounds fine.”
Zoro carefully removes his hand and wraps the bouquet in the tissue, before tying it mid-stems with a thick bow. The arrangement actually looks quite striking; the foxgloves like drooping bells mottled inside their delicate mouths, the orange lilies like open stars, the lobeila blooming in the cracks, curled and fuzzed like moths but with the delicate dark wings of butterflies, powdered and shining.
“Looks good,” Zoro says.
“Yeah.”
Sanji isn’t looking at the bouquet, but Zoro doesn’t notice that.
“So, this’ll be forty-five. By the way, do I want to know?” Zoro glances at the angry little bouquet and it’s hidden message, wondering what poor fool pissed someone like Sanji off.
Sanji hands him his card, glowering. “You do not want to know.”
Zoro laughs.
“And yet, I do. But you can keep your secrets.”
“And you can keep the receipt.”
10 days later—May 30th, 1:20PM: Aloe
“...What’s this?”
Sanji lets go of the container, forcing Zoro to take him from it, rather than letting it fall the the floor.
“It’s a square of braised pork belly with parsnip and pumpkin puree, roast garlic, and steamed buttered carrots.” Sanji sniffs and looks away. “Leftovers, from the restaurant last night.”
Zoro feels the tips of his ears burn a little.
“What is this, charity?”
“Fuck off, flower boy. They’re scraps at best. Do me a favour and relieve me of them.”
Zoro’s upper lip curls, but he places the container on the counter. The bottom of it is warm.
“Are you gonna buy anything, or did you come here just for that?”
“Of course I didn’t come here just for that. I—” Sanji glances at the small stand of succulents beside the stack of gardening magazines, “—wanted an aloe vera.”
“Did you.”
“Yes, yes I did.” Sanji indignantly picks up a little aloe cactus. “They’re great for burns. If you burn yourself in the kitchen, you just cut a bit off and apply it all over.”
“Burn yourself often, cook?”
“No!” Sanji hands him the cactus to scan. “But, it’s better to be safe than sorry.”
“Mmm.” Zoro hums his half hearted agreement and glances at the screen. “Six bucks.”
Sanji hands it to him in cash.
“Would you like a bag?”
“I’m fine without.”
Zoro holds out the little plastic cupped aloe for Sanji, who takes it from him, while sliding his wallet into his pocket. The tip of Sanji’s middle finger brushes Zoro’s knuckle.
He wonders how he can touch living things all day, and still have his heartbeat accelerated when he makes the smallest sliver of contact with Sanji’s skin.
Still he wonders what the meaning behind any of their interactions could be. What every minute movement or gesture or word could be trying to say.
As he’s done countless times before, Zoro reflects that people are not as simple as flowers.
3 days later—June 2nd, 2:55PM: Rush Daffodils
A pair of sunglasses are perched on Sanji’s head and it’s the first time Zoro’s seen him wear a pair of shorts. They’re beige cargo shorts, matched with a salmon pink button up and rather ugly shoes that look sort of like Tom’s.
“Moss brain? Hello? Earth to moss brain.”
“Wha’?”
“Oh, so there is someone in there.”
“Shut your mouth, curly.”
Sanji appears to bite down an insult.
“So,” Zoro leans on the counter. “What can I help you with today? Buying more flowers for ladies?”
Sanji shrugs, glancing around at the bouquets in buckets and trays on racks.
“What flower do you suggest? One that looks nice, of course.”
Zoro takes a little more time to consider than he would for other customers. He doesn’t want to offer Sanji any old flower that’s aesthetically pleasing, he wants it to have some meaning, even if he squashes that desire down to mean nothing itself.
The colour yellow comes to his mind, and he follows it from there.
“How about, rush daffodils?”
“Rush daffodils?”
“Narcissus jonquilla. They’re just finishing coming out of bloom, they flower in late spring and smell nice too. I’ll show you them.”
Zoro picks a pot of the sunny yellow flowers from the back, stalks elegant and imperial in the way they stretch, petal mouths ruffled like yolk-yellow skirts mid twirl. He takes them back out and sets them on the counter for Sanji to see.
The cook scrutinises them for a few moments, peering harder at the flowers than need be.
“What do these mean?”
Zoro wishes that the heat traveling up his chest to his cheeks would stop.
“Er, I think they might mean…” The burn that paints out his cheekbones does not stop. “‘Return my affection.’”
Sanji’s eyebrows raise and the corners of his mouth go a little slack.
Zoro feels like he has made a gravely transparent mistake, but he’s just as surprised at himself.
“How much,” Sanji’s voice is a little rough, a little higher than usual.
“Thirty-five for the pot.”
“I’ll take them.”
There’s something in the way he says it that sounds to Zoro like the no matter what price he named, Sanji would’ve replied the same.
15 days later—June 17th, 3:45PM: Ambrosia
Sanji hasn’t come in for about two weeks now.
After having the smell of cigarettes and cologne, the sight of straw blonde hair, and the sound of Sanji’s snap or sarcasm assault Zoro’s refined senses every few days, two weeks without seeing the man is sore.
Zoro tries not to think about his absence, but his absence itself is a presence.
And then, the bastard strides in one afternoon like nothing happened, and dumps a container of takeaway on the counter.
“It’s penne arrabiata. Leftovers.”
Zoro wants to rip at Sanji, to ask him where he’s been, why he disappeared, how he can stroll in here so casually like his little vacation didn’t hurt Zoro.
But, all he says is “Thank you,” in a quiet, smooth tone.
Sanji rubs a hand over his face, opens his mouth, and Zoro wonders if something truthful and explanatory is going to come out of his mouth—
“Do you—”
Zoro raises his eyebrows and Sanji’s caught mid sentence, suddenly looking anywhere but Zoro’s face.
“Doyousellambrosia?”
“What?”
Sanji coughs, relaxes his body. “Do you sell ambrosia?”
“Oh. Uh, I think we have one or two of the plants in the back…”
Sanji stays silent, so Zoro continues. “I’ll go grab one, if you’d like?”
Sanji nods, and Zoro goes to retrieve the plastic holed planted filled with ambrosia, the delicate desaturated green plant thin and leafed with chunky edges.
He deposits it for Sanji’s observation on the counter.
“They aren’t that pretty, as a conventional plant...”
Sanji’s staring at him oddly. “I, uh, want it for my vegetable garden.”
“It’s a weed, you know? Technically.”
“I’ll keep it from spreading. You can use it for insect bites, or make it into a tea for cramps or nausea.”
“Oh.” Zoro scratches the back of his head. “I didn’t know that.”
“So, how much?”
Zoro scans the barcode. “Fifteen.”
Sanji hands him the cash, and then Zoro bags it so that the dirt covered planter won’t make a mess. Sanji takes the bag from him.
“Well, thanks.”
“Thank you, for the food.”
“No problem.”
Sanji steps away, and the tiniest wave of fear tugs Zoro’s gut.
“I’ll see you soon?”
The cook stops and turns a little.
“Yeah.”
It’s only after he’s left that Zoro realises Sanji didn’t ask if ambrosia had a meaning.
Ambrosia, or Ragweed, from the Greek: ἀμβροσία;
Symbolic meaning: Reciprocated love. The Victorian interpretation is ‘love that is returned or given back to you’ – it’s a requited love spawned by a pure love.
1 day later—June 18th, 11:15AM: Arum, Azalea, Starflower, Geranium, Clovenlip toadflax
Sanji catches him by surprise.
Zoro’s mind is far off when the man makes his presence known, and he’s startled a bit, though not very visibly.
The cook’s mouth is a hard line and his fine hair is rather tousled, but still arranged over one of his eyes.
“Can I help you?”
It takes Sanji a moment to answer.
“Ah, yes, you can. I’d like a custom bouquet.”
“Sure,” Zoro sets down the packet of fertiliser he was about to open. “Any idea what you want on it?”
A curious look creeps onto Sanji’s face, and he begins to go a little pink. He clears his throat.
“I do, yeah. I’m assuming you have azaleas and geraniums?”
“We do, yeah.”
“What about arum—black calla lilies?”
“Think so.”
“And starflower?”
“Borage? Uh, we might. I’ll check.”
He checks, and they do, in fact, have borage in the herb section. He informs Sanji of this.
“Great. Uh, could I have a bouquet of those?”
“Sure. So it was azalea, geranium, borage, and um…”
“Black calla lilies. Oh, and clovenlip toadflax?”
“Right. Ah, I’m sure we have a big planter box of that in the back. Won’t be a minute.”
Zoro quickly gets to gathering the things up, forgetting Sanji standing awkwardly off to the side. He picks the azaleas first; delicate little white flowers with pink spatters on the inner petals, like the broken blood vessels of a bruise. It’s second nature to recall their scientific name, their preferred environment and care, and their symbolic meaning. Temperance, elegance, abundance, a fragile passion still developing.
He selects geraniums next. Hardy little five petaled flowers in shades of veined white, pink, and purple. Gentility, determination.
Two feature black calla lilies are chosen, their alternate name of priest’s hood suiting them well: a tall, near-black curled petal like a billowing hood. Ardour, fervour.
Next he carefully selects the borage, a thin herb with star shaped flowers of pale blue and purple, looking they grow in the galaxy. The name starflower fits them well. The herb means courage, and hope.
The last component of the bouquet is the clovenlip toadflax, Linaria bipartita. He carefully snips off some stalks, the ornamental little buds at the top like pearls. He can recall the image of one of his books, The Language Of Flowers: Traditional Victorian Meanings, the dog-eared pages of it, the diagram of Linaria bipartita, the meaning of the herb in little ink letters: “Please notice my love/feelings for you.”
His hands aren’t as steady as usual when he wraps the bouquet.
He wonders if it’s a new girl that Sanji’s giving this to. It would seem so, if he intentionally chose the flowers, which Zoro is certain he did. The message of the bouquet, if you were to translate it, is much deeper than some passing fancy, so he must like her very much. The strange mix of flowers and herbs bunched together is a wild in a surprisingly beautiful fashion. Combining and decoding the individual meanings, the bouquet says this: My passion for you is new, fragile, and ardent, a growing love. My feelings are fervent, I want you to notice them, and I have to be brave to say this.
“What colour would you like the wrapping?” Zoro murmurs.
Sanji doesn’t move, still closely following Zoro’s every movement.
“Green, please.”
Zoro steadies his hands to fold the tissue around the bouquet, and slowly ties a wrap around the middle, a deep green bow of velvet.
“That’s gonna be sixty-five.”
Sanji readily hands him the notes, which Zoro files into the register. He pins the receipt, and hands the bouquet over to Sanji, who takes it in two cupping hands.
“I hope she likes them.”
Sanji doesn’t miss a beat in saying, “He’s a he.”
Zoro, however, does miss a beat.
“I hope he likes them.”
Sanji leans forward on the counter, blue eyes open as the skies. He gently extends the bouquet toward Zoro, faces of the flowers tilting toward him.
“Do you?”
It feels like the bottom of Zoro’s heart drops out.
His whole body feels warm, electrified. Standing there dumbstruck, he can only let his cheeks fill as a blush blazes across them and spreads to the tips of his ears.
His hand acts of it’s own accord, reaching out and taking the bouquet, bringing it back to hold gingerly close to his body.
“I do like them.” His voice is low, quiet.
Sanji’s eyes are searching him. His mouth opens, and a flush freckles up his chest.
“I—I have to go, I’m sorry Zoro, I have an appointment that I just now remembered—”
Before Zoro can catch him, Sanji is out of the shop in a flash, gone as quickly as petals in frost or the smell of a rose in a vase.
1 day later—June 19th, 10:45PM: N/A
Zoro nearly drops a pot of bellflowers when Sanji comes striding in, heading straight for him. He clutches the baked clay pot in soil dusted hands, and freezes.
Sanji’s eyes blaze at him, blue glaring into gold. His one visible brow is furrowed, and pink lips like petals part.
Nothing escapes.
Zoro reflects that he looks rather silly and goldfish-like, opening and closing his mouth like that.
Just as Zoro himself is about to say something, Sanji holds up a finger in a wait gesture and marches out of the shop as quickly as he came in.
Zoro stands there rather dumbfounded. It feels like déjà vu.
About half a minute later, Sanji comes pacing back in, eyes fixed on the floor this time. He stops in front of Zoro.
“Do you wanna—would you maybe like—will you go on a date with me?”
It is a very close call, but Zoro thankfully does not drop the pot he is holding.
“...Wha’?”
“A date, asshole. You know, when two people who…” Sanji blushes then, and Zoro feels like he’s been smacked in the face with a wad of money, “who like each other… go and… do something together.”
Zoro swallows. He can feel his face warm, too, so he pretends Sanji isn’t blushing.
“I would… like that.”
The tense posture leaves Sanji’s shoulders immediately. His brows relax in a still-surprised sort of fashion. A beat of silence passes.
“When do you close?”
“At 9.”
“I’ll see you then?”
“Okay.”
Zoro hides his smiles from customers behind flower arrangements all day.
Same day, June 18th, 9:05PM: Purple Lilacs
Zoro pretends not to be nervous as he locks the shop and turns to Sanji. Neither of them wear jackets; even the early summer nights are warm enough not to need them.
“So, where are you taking me?”
Sanji has a paper grocery bag in his hands. “You’ll see. We can walk there from here.”
They talk as they walk.
“You didn’t bring something from your restaurant?”
“I did. I just only had this bag to put stuff in.”
“What did you bring?”
“You’ll see.”
They cross over the street, the sidewalk well lit, and over a canal on a small stone bridge. Zoro’s fairly sure they’re heading in the direction of the city’s central park.
“Don’t you have work tonight?”
Sanji smiles. “I took a night off. I never have holidays, so the old man was glad of it, I think.”
“Your dad’s in charge?”
Sanji’s nose is wrinkled. “Ah, yeah. Geezer’s the head chef, for now.”
This makes Zoro laugh.
“And you want to be the head chef?”
Sanji looks at a statue they pass on the pathway, bronze glazed stare and laurel wreathed head.
“I guess.”
Zoro waits, hoping he will elaborate, and his silence seems to pull it from Sanji.
“What I’d really like to have is my own restaurant. Don’t get me wrong, I love the Baratie,” they turn a bend, heading away from the part of the park Zoro usually visits. “But I want to open my own place some day. Make a five-star place all by myself, maybe one that only serves seafood.”
“You like seafood.”
“I do, fish particularly.”
“Well, I have my flowers, you have your fish.” Zoro smiles at his feet, ever so subtly. “I think you should do it.”
Sanji laughs. “I may well. Ah! There it is.”
Lamplight illuminates the green grass verging the path they follow, and Sanji’s exclamation makes Zoro look up.
They’ve turned a bend around a small crop of trees, and a gazebo has come into view. The pavilion's wood is painted white, with natural accents. Roses twine up its pillars and beds of purple lilacs are planted in a circle around it. The air has a sweet smell that reminds Zoro of home.
They approach the gazebo and step up its two little stairs. Sanji gestures to the centre of the hexagonal space, and so Zoro sits.
Sanji takes a seat opposite him, cross legged, and begins to pile out a small picnic between them. There’s a long, fresh baguette, a block of cheese, and fruit skewers; melon and pineapple and grape. The last thing to be unloaded is a bottle of red wine.
“Don’t tell me you have wine glasses in there too, cook.”
Sanji sniffs. “Unfortunately,” he says as he dips his hand in once more, “I only have paper cups.”
Zoro snorts.
He doesn’t care.
The food tastes fantastic.
Sanji chastises Zoro for drinking too much of the wine too quickly, and not appreciating the taste. Zoro laughs when Sanji chokes on his wine, after Zoro inserts an entire fruit skewer into his mouth and eats it in one bite. He listens carefully as Sanji explains what kind of cheese it is, Gruyere, and that it pairs well with the wine—a Zinfandel.
It’s nearly ten when they part, Sanji at the gate of the park closest to Shimotsuki Florist’s, where his car is parked and where Zoro walks home from.
Zoro wonders what the wine would have tasted like on Sanji’s tongue.
Purple Lilacs, scientific species name Syringa vulgaris;
Symbolic meaning: First emotion of love. In Victorian times, giving a lilac meant that that the giver is trying to remind the receiver of a first love.
5 weeks, 2 days later—July 25th, Saturday, 12:00PM: Daisies
Zoro is lying on his back on a shallow hill, soft grass beneath him and sun warming his front. His hands are tucked behind his head, and the breeze ruffles the open collar of his shirt.
He feels a hard shoe toe his ribs, and opens his eyes to snap at whoever is messing with him—
Only to be greeted with the grinning face of his boyfriend.
Boyfriend. It still sounds so new, and so strange to say, even in his head.
“Looking for a fight, curly?”
Sanji just sneers a little, in a devilish but childish way. He sits himself down by Zoro.
“So, you actually got here first. I was sure you’d get lost and be abysmally late.”
“I come to the park a lot, actually, so I know my way around.” Zoro props himself on his elbows. “It’s a nice park.”
Sanji looks around, eyeing the nearby trees, the small lake in the distance, and the families on picnic blankets in both the sun and shade. Daises like snowflakes dot the grass.
“It is.” He looks down, and something in his eyes quickens Zoro’s pulse. He feels like there’s so many messages behind the intensity of the stare focused on him; but there’s no guidebook to tell him what they mean.
He’s about to say something, but Sanji just leans down, and pecks him on the mouth.
It’s brief. It’s warm.
Zoro feels like he could run a mile.
He grins at the other man, who smiles back in the purest way.
“Shall we go for a walk?”
Daisies, family name Asteraceae;
Symbolic meaning: General—innocence, loyal love, purity, faith, cheer, simplicity; or, dissembling as in Shakespeare's Hamlet. Red—Beauty unknown to possessor.
A week later, roughly six months after their first meeting—August 1st, Sunday, 11:55PM: N/A
Sanji sets his empty wine glass down on the floor by Zoro’s couch. A blazing anticipation runs up Zoro’s body as the man moves closer, and their torsos press together; Zoro lying on the couch, Sanji settling over him. A hand of Zoro’s comes up to Sanji’s side without thinking, instinctually. His fingers ghost over the leather of the cook's belt, the skin of his hip, and the cotton of his t-shirt as it rides up.
Sanji speaks in a contented sigh.
“You know, the first time I saw you, I thought you were gorgeous. I didn’t know what to say.”
“If I remember right, you said “...Roses?”” Zoro chuckles low, speaking in almost a whisper. “What an idiot.”
“I was dumbstruck, what can I say?”
It’s rare for Sanji not to rise to Zoro’s provocations. It seems he’s in a particularly romantic mood.
“Don’t say anything,” Zoro whispers.
Sanji obliges him, and leans in to kiss him, their lips meeting in harmony.
Everything can be said with the way Sanji moves against him, the way Zoro holds Sanji to himself, the two entwining each other, sighs of breath decorating silence.
One month, two weeks and six days later—September 21st, Friday, 10:43PM: N/A
Zoro rubs his thumb over the back of Sanji’s hand, the rest of his fingers linked in between Sanji’s longer, slimmer fingers.
“Say, when you do open your restaurant, what will you call it?”
Sanji’s head rests comfortably against Zoro’s shoulder, and when he murmurs against Zoro’s chest, the florist can feel his smile.
“‘All blue.’”
Exactly 3 years after their first meeting—February 14th, Sunday, 11:43AM: Red and White Roses
The wedding is really something to behold.
White pavilions, arches, and tents are set up like a fairground or a fairy tale, even perhaps a horse racing pitch. Tables stretch like white chocolate blocks, the most decadent and impressive cake you’ve ever seen—a gift from Zeff—occupying the largest of them. Red and pink streamers loop around anything that towers upward, and blue balloons are tied like bouquets to totem poles. The guests mill around and laugh, enjoying the after ceremony. Zoro can spot Nami and Vivi, in fanciful mermaid train dresses like they’re straight out of My Fair Lady, he can see Sanji’s therapist, Robin, talking with her date—A blue-haired man with broad shoulders, standing out like a sore thumb in a Hawaiian shirt and board shorts (though Zoro can’t see why that’s a problem, he himself has been reluctantly forced into a tuxedo.) Luffy is ravaging the chicken drumsticks, and Perona is hastily stopping Chopper from sticking his hand into the chocolate fountain, guiding him over to the strawberry sticks as she berates him.
Zoro looks to his left, tuning back in to the conversation. Sanji is by his side, his arm around Zoro’s waist.
Zoro doesn’t recognise the guest he’s speaking to, but he smiles at her a little. Sanji insists that he be polite to everyone, especially the ladies, even if Zoro doesn’t know half of them. She congratulates them again, and then her date appears by her side, and they excuse themselves.
Alone again for a moment, Sanji presses a gentle kiss to Zoro’s jaw.
Zoro has studied Sanji’s language long enough to know what this kind of kiss means: I’m so unbelievably happy right now, and I love you so much.
“Let’s move around, shall we?”
Zoro shrugs. “If you want.”
Sanji just rolls his eyes at his husband, and they move around, following the white painted flower boxes that create a circle around the area. Sanji and Nami had done most—actually, all—of the wedding planning, except for one detail: the flowers. The flowers had been left up to Zoro, and he’d been happy to pick them out.
Sanji hums at them now, glancing down at the box they're passing.
“Red roses with white roses.”
“Mm.” Zoro flicks his eyes down to the open smiling flowers bursting forth from the box. “Do you know what they mean?”
Sanji grins, as if the possibility of him not knowing was amusing.
“United.”
Zoro’s hand finds Sanji’s again, and their fingers entwine like roots, holding them together so naturally.