Page 32 of Pansies

“Chasing me down like a psychotwice. Even though I explicitly asked you not to.”

“Yeah. All of it. Everything. Except being with you that night. You can regret it if you want and turn it into this big mistake in your head. But I can’t, and I won’t, because it was, y’know, really good.”

For a moment, Fen just stared at him. There was a streak of pink over the ridge of his cheekbones that Alfie wanted to lick up like sherbet. Then Fen looked away and began to clean the stems and tatters of cellophane from the countertop, his hands not quite steady. “‘Really good,’ was it? That must have been life changing for you.”

“Oh come on. You know I’m not good with words and shit. It was”—Alfie made a helpless flaily gesture—“great. And you were…”

Fen’s spring-day eyes flicked back to his, only it wasn’t a nice spring day, it was one of those chilly ones, where the wind bit right through you. “What? What was I?”

“B-beautiful. I know I didn’t deserve to be with you after…because of…because of what I did. But you let me. You needed it just as much as I did.”

“Well, you’re wrong,” Fen told him too quickly, far too quickly. “I don’t need anything from you.”

“You sure about that?”

The wire cutters slipped from between Fen’s fingers with aclunk. “God, you never change do you, you cocky piece of shit? You think the whole world is yours for the taking just because you’re Alfie fucking Bell. But I’m not. Not again. Not anymore. So why don’t you take your fifteen-years-too-late crisis of conscience and get the hell out of my flower shop.”

Fen had gone pale and taut and trembly, and it was familiar in all the wrong ways. Alfie wasn’t sure if he was remembering the Rattler or some deeper bit of the past—the other times Fen might have stared up at him with that same mixture of anger and fear—or if he was remembering something else entirely. Fen in pleasure, his body sleek and tight and shuddering for Alfie.

Suddenly, Fen slumped over, and for a horrible second, Alfie thought he might be crying. But then realised he was laughing. Sort of, anyway. It sounded rusty and a little wild. Could probably just as well have been sobbing.

“You alreet?” Alfie asked.

Fen blinked, lashes glimmering, and nodded. “Y-yes. I just…I just—” Another burst of laughter shook him. “I just realised how utterly r-ridiculous I sound. You can’t really order someone out of a flower shop and keep your dignity.”

He had a point. It was kind of funny. He risked a grin.

“Don’t you smile at me, Alfie Bell.”

Impossible. “You started it.”

Fen put a hand to his mouth, covering its softness. “This isn’t… You’re not… Oh, why won’t you leave?”

Because there was something there. He could feel it—tender and full of promise—under the hurt. Problem was, he didn’t know how he was supposed to explain that to Fen or convince him to take a chance on it. To believe that Alfie could bringhim something good instead of bad, when he had absolutely no reason to trust Alfie at all.

So he found himself leaning across the counter, offering a different kind of answer. A deep tremor ran through Fen’s whole body, like he wanted to pull away and press close at the same time. But he didn’t pull away. Which meant Alfie was close enough to feel the unsteady ripple of Fen’s breath against his lips as Alfie whispered, “Because of this.”

Fen’s eyes had closed, leaving his face open and full of longing. “This isn’t anything.”

“Liar.”

Alfie kissed him. Very lightly. Slowly enough that Fen could have stopped him. The tight set of his mouth yielded the moment Alfie touched him, and he moaned softly, breathlessly, though it was barely a touch at all. His hands clenched on the countertop, a circle of white skin appearing beneath the band of green wire he still wore on his finger.

Something was fucking with the focus settings on Alfie’s world. Flowers blurred at the corners of his eyes. He noticed, suddenly, the way the shop smelled. Cool and sweet, like Fen’s skin. And there was singing coming from the speakers, something sweet and weird about the joys of maidenhood.

But everything else was pinned on a single, simple kiss. His whole existence: a song, a scent, and Fen’s mouth, not quite opening, but not closed either, a whisper of warmth, and the clinging tenderness of the exposed arch at the top of his upper lip.

Alfie drew back, just enough to shape words. “See.”

“No.” Fen’s eyes snapped open again, pale and cold behind his glasses. “No. That doesn’t count.”

“Why?”

“Because”—the words came out slowly, but very precisely,like they were razor blades and Fen wanted to hurt him with them—“I don’t like you. You’re a bully.”

“Iwasa bully. Now I’m just someone trying to say sorry.”

Fen’s fingers skittered clumsily through the debris in front of him. “With your mouth?”

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