Flowershop Boys: Melancholy Marigolds: A Contemporary M/M Romance

by Emilia Loft

  He’s still working up the courage to ask Devin to wear it with nothing else on underneath.

  “What are you still doing up?” Michael asks, setting aside thoughts of Devin naked in the apron for now. “We never stay open this late.”

  Devin shrugs. “I was waiting for you.” He pitches what rubbish he’s managed to sweep up into the bin on the side, and straightens up, before turning to tidy the front counter. It’s starting to look suspiciously like busywork, as if Devin’s not sure how to approach him anymore. As if he’s waiting for Michael to make the first move this time.

  “You didn’t have to,” Michael says. When Devin does another awkward half-lift of his shoulder, Michael holds up the carryout bag from the restaurant. “I got you pizza.” He shakes the bag a little, hearing a satisfying rattle from within. “Extra meat and cheese, the way you like it.” He holds it out like a peace offering. Advances toward Devin little by little, as he would a skittish animal.

  “Pizza,” Devin nods, standing stock-still. “Right. Yeah. How was dinner?” he asks tonelessly.

  It’s strange, this, because their conversations have never been this stilted before. Usually when one of them returns, the other will be waiting so they can immediately hug, and if no one’s around, they’ll kiss, and Devin’s mouth will be warm and soft and lovely against his. And if they haven’t been swept up in their passions—Michael still remembers the time Devin took him on the back table, and Michael accidentally swept a twelfth of their inventory to the ground while his mind was completely blanked out—they’ll talk about their day, the customers. Maybe the odd bit of gossip that’ll affect their business, like who’s getting married and who’s planning to have kids.

  “Dinner?” Michael pauses, caught in his lie. Clearly that excuse about making bouquet deliveries didn’t fly. “It was all right.” The tick tick tick of the clock behind them fills the silence, the dead air between them.

  “Is she nice? Everything you hoped for?”

  Michael looks up sharply. “She?”

  Devin rolls his eyes. “Please, you smell like eau de chocolat, what else am I supposed to think? Plus I saw her giving you her number.”

  “Devin.” Michael sets the bag down on the counter. He’s noticed the tight set of Devin’s jaw, the squaring of his shoulders, like he’s trying to stand strong against something. “It isn’t what you think—”

  “Hey, no,” Devin says, slapping him on the back, too clumsy and awkward both. “I’m just glad you’ve found someone.” His voice breaks on someone and Michael can see the apple of his throat move too prominently. The way Devin is swallowing, hard.

  “Devin, that’s not—” he tries, but Devin only pats him harder, like Michael’s a baby that’s choking and needs a sharp slap between the shoulder blades.

  “No, I get it. I do,” he says with this insincere smile, ugly in all its falseness, and Michael feels something crumple in his chest, tight, from the emotion he sees in him’s face. Of hurt, betrayal and everything else in between. “You’ll be with someone who can give you a proper life,” Devin nods. “Picket fence, dog, kids and all that.” He smiles, wider, unaware of the tear that’s escaped, a mutinous thing that rolls down his cheek into the chiseled line of his jaw. “Two point five kids; pretty sure that’s the average.”

  And this—this quiet acceptance—isn’t what Michael expected. He’d expected Devin to be angry, to be livid and spiteful, to be—

  He doesn’t know what he expected.

  Because Devin’s never thrown him against a wall, to breathe You’re mine, and no one else’s, never forcefully laid his claim where Michael didn’t want it, but he’s said I’m yours, in everything he does: from the way he’s given everything to support Michael’s dream, like his time and money, right down to the little things, like bringing packets of rare seeds home, and flowers to brighten Michael’s day.

  Devin’s always been the type to take what he wanted, to fight for what he wanted—in everything but this.

  He thinks I’ll leave him, Michael realizes, his heart twisting in his chest. He thinks he no longer has a place in my life. And the thing that breaks his heart most is that he can see Devin really will let him go, if this is what Michael wants. As if Michael’s happiness matters more than his own.

  He reaches for him then, clasps Devin’s face in his palms. “Stop it,” Michael says. “Stop it right now. That is not going to happen.”

  The words seem to trigger something in Devin, and instead of one tear, there are two, then twin rivulets streaming down his face, and Michael feels something break inside him, because Devin doesn’t do this; Devin doesn’t cry. He’s always the strong one, always has been, but this time Michael’s the one who’s done this to him. The one who’s hurt him so utterly and deeply.

  “Devin,” he says, trying to kiss the tears away as fast as they can fall. “Nothing happened at dinner. This life of mine you’ve imagined into being, with a woman? It won’t happen. That’s not what I want.”

  “What do you want, then?” Devin says, trying to scowl, as though looking irritated will cancel out his sorrow. He manages to look like a scowling kitten, but Michael suspects now’s not the right time to share that.

  “You,” says Michael, smoothing out the furrow in Devin’s brow with his thumb. “I want you.”

  And even that’s inadequate, because what he means is I want you, and the life we have, and the home we share above this little shop. I want our creaky bed and sleepy kisses in the morning and your breakfasts of scrambled eggs and half-cooked bacon. I want to spend days in the sunlight with you, in our shop, or anywhere, as long as we’re together. I want the way you curl around me at night, like you’re my shield, my protector, my lionheart, and I want it all forever, if only you want it too but he can’t get his mouth to work, can’t say what Devin needs to hear, to tell him what’s in his heart.

  Devin laughs, bitter, and pushes him away. “You say that now, but who’s to say you won’t change your mind later? Maybe you’ll get married, and bring your wife and kids to live with us upstairs.” He sucks in a breath of realization. “Oh. But there won’t be an ‘us’ by then, will there? That’s it—I’ll just have to go.”

  At the mention of upstairs, Michael thinks of the home Devin’s built for him above the shop. Of the way he’d said It’s ours, like it was their new beginning, like they were a new couple and it was their starting homestead.

  Then he remembers Devin’s earnest Will you have me?

  It’s the moment he realizes, the moment he berates himself for being such a fool. That Devin wasn’t asking Will you have me for right now, wasn’t asking for the next day, the next year; he was asking Will you have me, for good or ill, in sickness or in health, for all the days of our lives? But he can’t ask the way everyone else does, with ring and bended knee, so he asks with a flat above the flower shop, and breakfasts in bed, and little favors like opening the shop in the mornings so Michael can sleep in.

  The thought of that stuns Michael where he stands, and all he can breathe is, “Oh, Devin.” Draws him forward, to kiss him again and again, pressing lips to his brow and cheeks and lips. “Forgive me, I didn’t see—I didn’t know—”

  But for all that, he can still see Devin doesn’t believe him: there’s doubt and fear in his eyes, like he thinks Michael will give him up, even after all they’ve been through together. Will trade him for a wife and kids and a picket fence, for the chance to be normal and average and all the things Michael should want, but never has. So he says the words he’s been holding back all this time, for nothing, when he should have said them all along; the words that would have given Devin the reassurance that he is wanted, he is treasured, he is precious.

  “I love you,” he says, pressing his face into Devin’s neck and looping his arms around Devin’s waist, tight. “I love you, and don’t you forget it, because it’s you, it’s only ever been you, and I’m sorry I hurt you, I’m sorry I was mad, because I’d been working on that arrangement
for you for weeks, for your birthday, and it’s gone, but it doesn’t matter, because I have you and the flowers don’t matter, just, please, Devin, please, don’t go because I can’t bear to be without you, don’t go somewhere I can’t follow—”

  “Slow down, slow down,” Devin says, drawing back and tipping Michael’s chin up. “Didn’t I say I would never leave you behind? That I would never—”

  Michael’s voice nearly breaks at that. “You still remember. You promised. You promised,” is all he can say, useless.

  Devin shakes his head, as if he’s caught something else in Michael’s litany of words. “The arrangement—is that what this is all about? Oh, Michael,” he says, folding Michael into his arms. “I’m so sorry; you made it for me.” Devin huffs a laugh, short, relieved. “I should’ve known. It was beautiful.” He slides his fingers into the base of Michael’s neck, into his hair. “So beautiful. But not,” he murmurs into Michael’s mouth, “as beautiful as you are, when you walk in the sunlight, watering our flowers. When you hum to yourself as you arrange them to perfection, row upon row of effortless precision, and beauty, and color. When you sing to—”

  “Enough,” sputters Michael, laughing. “If you tell anyone I sing to the plants, I’ll kill you myself.” But it touches something deep in his heart, that Devin’s noticed these things. That he loves the little things about Michael, too. “Idiots,” he laughs again, pressing his forehead against Devin’s. “We’re both idiots.”

  “I’m sorry,” Devin whispers, again and again, into the shell of Michael’s ear, the hollow of his throat, the curve of his lips. Makes promise after promise, to be more careful, to ask before selling things. “The arrangement you made for me, you must’ve worked so hard on that. Michael, I’m so —”

  Michael loops his arms around Devin’s neck, shushing him with a kiss, long and slow and deep. “I’ll be better at labeling things too,” Michael promises. He breathes in, once, trying to work up the nerve to bring up his other request. “While we’re at it, could you …” Stop flirting with our customers, he can’t say. Even if it doesn’t mean anything.

  There must be something in the way his face flushes, though, or the way his eyes dart away, and damn it Michael needs to stop wearing his heart on his sleeve, because Devin draws him up for a softer, sweeter kiss.

  “Michael,” he says, gentle. “What happens down at the flower shop—that’s just business. You know that, don’t you?” He nudges his nose against Michael’s when Michael doesn’t respond. “You know that I’m yours, don’t you?”

  “Mmhn,” Michael mumbles, which is no answer at all. It’s a selfish request he’s making, and he knows it; whatever Devin does, he does it for the shop. For them. Still, it doesn’t make it any easier to meet Devin’s eyes.

  Devin presses more kisses, lingering and soft, to Michael’s eyelids, as he cups Michael’s cheeks in his hands. “I can see it bothers you, though,” he says. “So I’ll stop.” He wags a finger in Michael’s face, teasing. “And in return, you won’t go around dating our customers?”

  “It was only the one time,” Michael says mulishly. “And I didn’t even mean to. I was just trying to be like you, when it happened—”

  “Michael,” Devin says. He squeezes Michael’s hip, reproachful. “Promise.” There’s something darker in his voice and surer in his grip that sends a tremor of anticipation skittering down Michael’s spine.

  “All right, all right, I promise,” Michael laughs. It’s good, this, to know that Devin’s regained his spark. That he won’t just roll over and accept it if Michael’s somehow taken from him. That they’re being honest with each other and communicating.

  They stand there together, silent, simply breathing each other’s air. Share their affections through wordless warmth, and soft, stroking touches, to hair and neck and hip.

  “Are we okay, then?” Michael asks finally.

  Devin sucks in a soft breath. Kisses the tip of Michael’s nose. “We’re…we’re okay.” Then, with a grin too wide to be anything innocent, he tugs Michael to the door, toward their homey flat above. “And if you’d like, we can be more than okay.”

  “And you said I was the insatiable one,” Michael snorts, but he lets Devin herd him upstairs into what he’s realized is, effectively, their very own love nest. The thought of that makes him laugh; makes him twine his hand into Devin’s and kiss him hard, because Devin’s anticipated his

  —their needs just like he has those people in their shop, and for this, Michael’s never been more grateful than now.

  * * *

  They manage to make it up the stairs, both wound into a breathless mess of rumpled shirts and half-unzipped jeans, and as soon as Devin’s kicked the door closed behind them, he crowds Michael backward. Kisses him hard, again and again, until he’s driven Michael into their bedroom.

  Michael falls back onto their bed, the impact driving the air from his lungs, and Devin lands on top of him, unsteady, his hands tangled in Michael’s hair, lips pressing a fierce trail of kisses to mouth and jaw and throat.

  He’s forced to stop briefly, to undo the buttons that’ll expose Michael’s chest, but the moment Devin reaches skin, he returns with full fervor, mouthing hungrily at Michael’s nipples. Sucks the pert nubs, eager, until they’ve reddened into blushing cherry peaks. Bites rose-red bruises into the line of Michael’s sternum, belly, down past his navel, harder and far more in number than the one or two Devin usually leaves.

  And maybe it’s that Devin’s never fought for him in this sense before, never staked his claim on Michael like this, so much and so desperately, but it sparks something in Michael—the way Devin dares now to mark him, to bruise him, in a way that declares how much Michael is his in the way that he is Michael’s—and he surges forward, dragging Devin into him for a kiss. Pushes him back against the bed, pressing Devin’s shoulders down until he’s flush against the mattress, and straddles Devin’s hips.

  “Let me, too,” Michael hisses, because it’s not fair for Devin to be the only one to mark his property. His territory.

  With a nod, Devin lies back. Cedes control to Michael, though his hands don’t leave Michael’s hips, still stroking, petting, greedy.

  Michael doesn’t even bother with the buttons on Devin’s shirt, just slips his hands beneath, inverting it as he goes, and pulls it over Devin’s head. Lays his own path of bruises in the wake of his kisses, wine-dark marks that stipple the column of Devin’s throat. The ridge of his collarbone. The curve of his shoulder. Michael smirks as he draws back, darkly satisfied that any interloper will see them. Will know Devin is his.

  Devin seems to sense his intent, and presses fingers against the marks he’s made on Michael in return. “Mine,” he whispers. The pads of his fingers brush against Michael’s chest and trail lightly over his belly, before bearing down, hard. Like eagle’s talons, dark and possessive.

  “Yours,” Michael nods, relishing the dig of Devin’s fingers into skin. He lays his own hand along the trail on Devin’s pale skin. Sinks nails just the right amount of sharp into the junction between neck and shoulder. “Mine.”

  Devin hums, pleased. “Yours,” he agrees.

  And with this mutual affirmation, Michael returns to blazing a trail of hot, hungry kisses over Devin’s chest and belly. Urges Devin’s hips up and tugs his jeans off, to stroke Devin’s cock, teasing, through the thin cotton of his boxers. Draws it out, slow, and touches his tongue to it, licking away the perfect pearl of precome that’s beaded at the tip.

  “Michael, wait,” Devin breathes. He reaches for Michael, as if to reciprocate, because it’s usually an equal exchange between them, more or less, but Michael presses him back to the bed firmly.

  “There’ll be time for that later,” he says. “Right now, this is all for you.” This is for Devin’s pleasure only, to show him how much, how deeply Michael feels for him. To reassure him of the depth of Michael’s affection.

  He laves his tongue along the underside of Devin’s cock,
tracing a vein, teasing, as he licks a warm, wet stripe along the shaft. Swirls his tongue over the tip, relishing Devin’s groan, the insistent wriggle of his hips, before taking all of Devin into his mouth.

  “Michael,” Devin groans, mashing a hand into Michael’s hair, his fingers tugging just the right amount of hard. It takes only another swipe of Michael’s tongue at the slit before Devin’s fingers tighten, nearly painful in his hair. “Wait,” he gasps, “not yet. I don’t—I want to, inside you, Michael, please—”

  Taking his meaning, Michael slips his mouth off Devin’s cock and shifts his way back into Devin’s arms. “Yes,” he whispers, his breath hot against Devin’s ear, as he gives voice to his desires, the murmur of them low and wet and filthy. “Want you inside me.”

  He presses a close-mouthed kiss to Devin’s lips, before kicking off his own jeans. Lets Devin wrench his boxers from his hips, then grinds his half-hard cock against Devin’s, already at full hardness. Dips his fingers into the precome that’s started pooling on Devin’s belly, mixed with his own, and slicks Devin’s cock with it.

  “Want you to come inside me,” Michael whispers, fierce. He guides Devin to his entrance, relishing the slow, satisfying slide as him fills him, stretches him, until he’s feeling too open, exposed, and raw. Until the sweet ache in his hips and ass more than he can bear. “Devin,” he says, helpless, biting down on a whimper. “It’s too much, I can’t—”

  He’s been too eager for this, thinking they could do without the lube, without fingers to ease the way first. Damn it.

  Devin rubs Michael’s back, gentle, warming him. Lets his fingers trace small, relaxing circles into each knob of Michael’s spine. “It’s okay,” he says. “Take your time.” He soothes a hand over the line of Michael’s hip as he presses soft, fluttering kisses to Michael’s eyelids, his lips. Lets Michael lie unmoving in his arms, to catch his breath, allowing him the time he needs to rest, to let his body adjust before they start to move.