He hated Francis the moment he walked into his shop, all glossy hair and perfect clothes, and floating, lilting voice, and goddamn, did his wallet really match his shoes? He was charm and grace and French-ness personified; everything Arthur loathed and secretly longed to be. This hate only intensified when he ordered a dozen red roses ("Fucking cliché." Arthur mutters as he arranged the flowers into a nest of greenery and baby's breath.)

Francis, however, felt the opposite on their first meeting. Yes, the florist was uncouth and rude, and barely attractive, but when Francis first walked in, he caught him whispering poetry to the daisies, and it was quite possibly the most charming thing Francis had ever witnessed.

It wasn't love then; in reality, it wasn't anything even close. It was just… a curiosity. Simply that. Simply something that Francis found lovely; something he tucked away into the back drawer of his mind, kept as a secret pleasure. He'd pull the image out and air it on occasion; cradling the memory against his cheek as a precious thing. It was precious, and he intended to keep it that way. He would never take it out too often or think on it too long, because then it would stop being special. But sometimes it would sneak out unbidden, and the memory would clutch at his heart and rattle his ribcage; completely taking him by surprise and my god, he was completely fucked if the simple idea of a man whispering Cummings to flowers could get such a rise out of him.

He started to stop by the flower shop before every date, and although he only ever buys a simple bouquet of roses, he sees the most beautiful arrangements go by. Today Arthur's has twine dangling from his mouth; completely concentrated on the flowers in his hands; irises and miniature sunflowers and gardenias (how is that even possible, they're too far north for gardenias, and besides that, it's too late in the year) and tiny forget me nots, all tucked into leatherleaf and surrounded by old copies of The Times.