Chapter Text
The show had ended in a blur of lights and sweat and noise. Whizzer Brown was still vibrating from it, from the roar of the crowd that had carried him like a wave. Now it was all dim streetlamps and the hum of a cooling amplifier somewhere behind him. He’d had one too many drinks at the bar down the street, because that was how you quieted the post-show silence—by drowning it.
He pushed through the alley door into the night air that smelled of rain and asphalt. The world tilted slightly; he laughed at it and kept walking. The small neon sign across the road—Bloom—glowed faint purple, and before he knew it, he’d leaned against its door to steady himself. It gave way with a chime.
The scent hit first: soil, green stems, sweetness. It was too gentle a place for someone like him. Then came a voice:
“Hey! We’re closed!”
Whizzer blinked at the man behind the counter.
Marvin was all sharp edges and tired, calm—rolled-up sleeves, an apron dusted with pollen, hair a soft, disorderly wave, eyes a color that shouldn’t belong to a man arranging daisies at midnight. He looked exasperated, not impressed.
“Sorry,” Whizzer said, trying to find the door again. “Didn’t see the sign.”
“You walked through it,” Marvin replied. He crossed his arms, assessing the intruder with the kind of look that stripped away charm and found whatever was left. “You can’t sleep here, rockstar. Try the street like the rest of them.”
Whizzer should’ve bristled, but instead he laughed—low and hoarse. “Goddamn,” he muttered under his breath, “he’s hot.”
Marvin caught the tone if not the words. “You’re drunk,” he said flatly. “Sit down before you take out a shelf.”
Whizzer obeyed, half for balance, half for the view. Marvin moved around the shop with quick, practiced precision, gathering stray stems and righting a vase he’d bumped. Whizzer watched the way his sleeves tightened around his forearms, the sure way he handled color.
“You always open for stray musicians?” Whizzer asked.
“Only the ones who crash into my livelihood.” Marvin’s tone softened, maybe because he saw the exhaustion under the swagger. He disappeared behind the counter, came back holding a small bundle. “Here.”
Lilacs. Pale violet and silver-green, tied with a bit of twine.
“Lilacs?” Whizzer echoed, blinking.
“They mean first love,” Marvin said simply. “Or the memory of it. Take them, and please—go sleep it off.”
Whizzer held the flowers as if they were made of glass. “That a business strategy?”
Marvin gave a short, humorless smile. “Call it pest control.” He opened the door and waited.
Outside, the rain had started again. Whizzer stepped into it, the bell above the door chiming behind him. He lit a cigarette, shielding the flame with his hand, and looked down at the lilacs cradled against his chest. They smelled like the shop—quiet, stubborn, alive.
He walked home through puddles, smoke curling around his grin. Maybe he’d bring the flowers back tomorrow. Maybe he’d see if the florist still looked at him that way—like trouble that needed sweeping out.
Either way, he thought, he’d found something worth the hangover.
Whizzer hadn’t meant to come back.
He’d said it to himself all morning, sprawled on a couch that wasn’t his, head pounding and throat dry, the lilacs from last night still sitting on the coffee table in a chipped glass of water. They were wilting already.
He stared at them for a long time — purple like bruises, soft and stupid.
“First love, huh,” he muttered, pulling at the petals with a finger. They smelled faintly of something he couldn’t name. Something clean, something that didn’t belong in the smoke of his apartment.
By noon, he was walking back to the flower shop.
He told himself it was to apologize, but he’d dressed too carefully for that — dark shirt, sunglasses, a little bit of that practiced swagger that cameras loved. He didn’t do apologies. He did charm, performance, control.
The bell above the door chimed again.
Marvin was on his knees arranging a display of white roses, and when he looked up, Whizzer felt his stomach flip in a way that had nothing to do with the hangover. The man looked… unreal. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, forearms dusted with pollen, mouth set in that same irritated line as last night.
Marvin stood up slowly, wiping his hands on his apron. “You have got to be kidding me.”
Whizzer smirked. “Miss me?”
“I was hoping you’d died of embarrassment.”
“I don’t die easy,” Whizzer said, leaning on the counter. “Thought I’d apologize. Properly, this time.”
Marvin gave him a look that could cut glass. “You being sober is already enough of an apology.”
Whizzer laughed — an easy, raspy sound that filled the space too quickly. “You really don’t like me, huh?”
“I don’t know you,” Marvin said. “But last night didn’t help your case.”
He went back to arranging flowers, movements neat and deliberate. Whizzer watched him, fascinated by the precision — how his fingers handled the stems like they were something alive.
“So what do lilacs really mean?” Whizzer asked after a while.
Marvin didn’t look up. “I told you.”
“You said first love.”
“And memory,” Marvin said, voice low now. “The kind that sticks even when you wish it didn’t.”
Something in Whizzer’s chest twisted — not pain, exactly, but recognition. He leaned forward on the counter. “You always talk like that, or are you trying to make me fall in love with you?”
Marvin shot him a glare so sharp it could draw blood. “You’d fall in love with your reflection before anyone else.”
Whizzer grinned. “Maybe. But my reflection doesn’t scold me and hand me flowers.”
“Get out,” Marvin said.
“Buying something counts as staying, right?”
Marvin sighed and turned toward him. “Fine. What do you want?”
Whizzer looked around like he was seriously considering it. “Something that lasts longer than one night.”
Marvin blinked, and for a fraction of a second — just one — Whizzer saw his jaw tighten, saw his eyes soften before he looked away.
“You’re out of your mind,” Marvin muttered, but his voice wasn’t as sharp now. He turned, picked out a single stem — camellia, white, the symbol of admiration, and thrust it toward him. “Here. This one’s honest.”
Whizzer took it, fingers brushing Marvin’s. The contact was brief, electric.
He paid — overpaid, really — and as he left, Marvin didn’t stop him this time.
Outside, Whizzer lit a cigarette and tucked the flower behind his ear. The lilacs were still waiting at home, but this one felt different.
He didn’t even realize he was grinning until someone stopped him on the street for a photo.
That night, Whizzer’s hotel room looked like a storm had passed through — bottles, clothes, a guitar pick lost in the sheets. The after-show party had bled into the morning, but he’d slipped away before anyone noticed. Fame gave him freedom, or at least the illusion of it.
He was sprawled on the couch, phone in hand, half-listening as his drummer, Kent, babbled about tomorrow’s rehearsal. Whizzer wasn’t hearing a word. He was staring at the flower he’d brought back from the shop — the camellia, now lying on the nightstand in a glass of water.
Kent noticed. “You get that from a fan?”
Whizzer smirked, lazy and proud. “Something like that. The guy who runs that flower shop down on Lennox. Real looker. Pretty eyes, mean mouth.”
Kent laughed. “You and your taste in trouble.”
“He’s not trouble,” Whizzer said, lighting a cigarette and watching the smoke curl. “He’s—” He paused, tried to find the right word, and failed. “—different.”
“Different how?”
Whizzer shrugged, grinning like he didn’t care. “Didn’t want me. That’s all. I’ll change that.”
Kent whistled. “Another conquest, huh?”
Whizzer let the smirk settle back on his face, but there was something restless behind it. “Something like that,” he said again, though he wasn’t sure if he believed it. He poured himself another drink, and the lilacs on his table caught the lamplight — the purple gone darker with time.
He told himself he’d sleep with Marvin and move on.
He told himself that twice.
He didn’t sleep.
Meanwhile, the shop was brighter than usual the next morning. Cordelia was already there, bouncing from the counter to the storage room, humming off-key and nearly tripping over a bucket.
“You’re not gonna believe what I saw on the news,” she said, bursting through the doorway. “Whizzer Brown! Actual, real Whizzer Brown — the one with the album and the—” she made a vague rockstar gesture with her hands “—he was seen right here on Lennox last night!”
Marvin didn’t look up from the register. “Tragic.”
“Tragic? You’re telling me if Whizzer Brown walked into your store, you wouldn’t faint?”
Marvin gave her a flat look. “He did. I didn’t.”
Cordelia froze, jaw dropping. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish.”
“Oh my God,” she gasped, clutching her chest. “Do you have any idea how famous he is? How many people would kill to have him show up drunk in their store?”
Marvin snorted. “Well, they can have him. He’s loud, smells like whiskey, and thinks charisma is a personality trait.”
Cordelia ignored him, pacing dramatically. “You are so ungrateful. Some of us would marry a man for less.”
“I’m not ‘some of us.’” Marvin turned away, fussing with a vase that didn’t need fixing. “He was just some drunk. That’s all.”
But later, when the rush of customers had died down and Cordelia was out back singing to herself, Marvin caught sight of one lilac stem that had fallen from last night’s bouquet. He picked it up, thumb brushing the petals, soft and still fragrant.
He set it aside, telling himself it was only for display.
Only, he didn’t put it back with the others.