Prompted on tumblr to write: "Florist AU where Adrien is a florist and Marinette storms in and asks for an arrangement that says fuck you". TW: cursing
It's not a quiet day, but it's not overly busy either. The flower shop is bursting with colour thanks to spring finally breaking through the late winter chill, bringing with it some of Adrien's favourite blooms and a surge in business thanks to the sprinkling of holidays in the early months of the year.
With Valentine's Day behind them, Adrien is relying on birthdays and non-holiday based romantic gestures to tide him through until summer, and with blue skies starting to frequent Paris more everyone is feeling that bit happier, that bit kinder, and that bit more generous with their wallets. The day's takings are good enough, and with the sun still shining Adrien is ready to close up shop a bit early, maybe visit that little bakery across town who sells the best macarons, until the door of his shop flies open and his plans are instantly cancelled. The woman who enters the shop looks pissed, and Adrien closes the till and offers his best I'm-not-scared-of-you-I-promise smile.
"Good afternoon! How can I help you today?" he asks, wondering exactly why the woman, who is both terrifying and gorgeous in equal measure, looks like she's ready to set the town on fire. She walks up to the counter, her pink shoulder bag starting to slip onto her arm with the ferocity of her movements. She stops when she reaches Adrien, gripping the strap to heave it back onto her shoulder, and her frown lightens ever so slightly.
The woman meets Adrien's gaze, her eyes wide and blue and filled with steel. "Good afternoon," she says with a nod. "Do you have some kind of floral arrangement which says 'Fuck you'?"
Redness instantly colours Adrien's cheeks, purely from surprise; his reaction takes some of the anger from the woman's limbs, and she shakes her head. "Sorry to be blunt," she shrugs, her lips tugging into a shy grin. It's a quick reversal from the tempest who stormed through the door, her whole demeanour suddenly hesitant.
"No, no! It's no problem at all," Adrien replies. "It's an… unusual request. Doable! Just not, uh, a bouquet we have ready-made."
The woman nods. "But it could be made?"
"Absolutely! Let me think - one moment please, Miss…" Adrien trails off, allowing the sentence to not be a question, unless she wants to answer it
"Marinette," she replies, tucking her loose hair behind her ear.
"Marinette." It suits her, Adrien thinks; a very pretty name for a very pretty woman. "I'm Adrien." He smiles, and it's genuine – not the customer service one he wears all day. After all, formality is hardly needed for customers who request a 'Fuck You' bouquet the first time they enter the store.
He pulls out the notebook he keeps under the counter for the meaningful bouquets; the ones which are meant to convey more of a message than "you like flowers, right?" The previous pages are filled with concepts ranging from "I love you" to "Sorry my dog vomited on your carpet", but writing "Fuck you" on the top of the page is undoubtedly the most peculiar one he's had to plan.
Marinette rests an elbow on the counter, her loose hair falling across her shoulder as she arches over to glimpse the notes Adrien scribbles down. It's hard to make out upside down, but it doesn't take him long to finish the bullet point list he's started and flip it round to show her.
His writing, despite how quickly he made the notes, flows across the lines:
-geraniums (stupidity)
-foxglove (insincerity)
-meadowsweet (uselessness)
-yellow carnations (you have disappointed me)
-orange lilies (hatred)
"It would actually be a pretty gorgeous arrangement; bright colours, contrasting shapes, a really gorgeous contrast. When would you need it by?"
Marinette grins at the words on the page, and when she raises her head to direct it at him, Adrien is pretty sure his heart stops for a second. "That sounds amazing! Can it be done by next Saturday?"
Adrien nods. "Definitely! I just need a name for collection. I've got the first part, of course." He's not entirely sure why he winks, but Marinette's cheeks become tinted with pink and he's glad he did.
"Dupain-Cheng," she replies, and the look on Adrien's face clearly concerns her as she takes a step back from the counter.
"Not – Dupain-Cheng, as in the bakery? The one a few streets down?" Adrien practically gasps. As Marinette nods slowly, almost carefully, Adrien clasps his hands in front of his chest. "I love that bakery. You do the best patisserie in Paris, I swear! It's edible art!"
Marinette smiles, no longer looking like she's about to flee from the shop. "That would be my father's bakery. He's the best – I help in the kitchen, but I'm still learning."
"That's amazing," Adrien says, and by now the pink on Marinette's cheeks has become full blown fuscia. "I wish I had talent like that."
Marinette raises an eyebrow, slowly turning her head around the shelves of flowers. "I think you're pretty talented yourself, Adrien. Your flowers are pretty spectacular." She nods at the notebook laying open between them. "I can't wait to see the end result."
Adrien shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans, looking down at his scribbles. "Me neither," he confesses. "It'll be interesting, if nothing else." He pauses, then with a shrug, asks "Why a 'Fuck you' bouquet, if you don't mind me asking?"
The tension which had dissipated from Marinette seems to appear in her shoulders with the question, but she doesn't avoid it; she's been a whirlwind of emotions since she walked in, but so far she's an honest one.
"I've got to attend the birthday of someone I really, really don't like," she admits. "Papa and I are making the cake, and we were invited to attend afterwards by the host. I have to bring the birthday girl some flowers as a gift from us, but while I figured they had to be pretty, I thought maybe they could be pretty and also say 'hey, fuck you'."
Adrien nods. "Fair enough," he says. "Well, I'll do my best to make you a gorgeous bouquet seething with hatred?"
A giggle escapes Marinette, and her nose crinkles with the sound. It's in that second that Adrien falls for the whirlwind girl who wants to buy a hatred bouquet.
Saturday eventually comes, and Adrien will only admit to his mirror that he's made a real effort for his work outfit today. The jeans are a staple, but he wears the dark green shirt which Nino swears brings out his eyes, the sleeves rolled to his elbow, over a plain black t-shirt which isn't particularly fancy, but suits him.
He'll admit to anyone, however, that he's outdone himself with the bouquet for Marinette. Vibrant and bursting with colour, it's placed on the countertop in full view of the customer's that enter, and he gets more compliments on it than on any previous display centrepiece he's had.
The day ticks by slowly, and he's distracting himself with a game on his phone when the door opens slowly. He sees the glint of blue-black hair in his peripheral vision and practically throws his phone down as he straightens up from his position leaning over the counter.
It's with some disappointment that he realises it's not Marinette who has entered, but the woman has a striking resemblance to her. It only takes Adrien about seven seconds to put two and two together, but the older woman reaches him with a polite smile by the time he's realised she's most likely Marinette's mother. His conclusion is confirmed when Sabine introduces herself, and apologises for Marinette's absence as she hands over a card to pay for the bouquet.
"There was an emergency with the cake, and my husband needed Marinette's assistance," she says as Adrien waits for the receipt from the card machine to fully roll out. "She sends her apologies – she was very much hoping to thank you herself."
Sabine's tone is gentle, soft, and Adrien can only smile politely back.
"It's not a problem. I really hope she likes the flowers," he replies, ripping the small strip of paper off the machine and wrapping the credit card in it before handing it back.
"She will." A glimmer of amusement flashes through Sabine's eyes as she takes the receipt and card. "It's a beautiful way to say 'Fuck you', after all."
Adrien's mouth drops open, and Sabine's laugh is the same as Marinette's. Adrien blinks as Sabine slides the card back into her purse. She grabs a box, wrapped in pale pink paper and wrapped with a violet bow, and places it on the counter by the till.
"Marinette wanted me to give you these. She said they aren't as pretty as yours, but that she wanted to try out your talent."
Adrien is still too shocked by hearing Sabine swear to respond, and just about manages to wave goodbye when she takes the bouquet and walks out of the door.
When Adrien opens the box later, a variety of cookies have been carefully stacked, each one iced and painted with a different flower.
Edible art, indeed.
Chloé's birthday is always a grand event, and usually a bit over the top for Adrien. But she's his oldest friend, and if that means putting on a tuxedo and making small talk with people he doesn't know, then that's what he'll do. Besides, it's her 25th, and given the fuss she made for his birthday, Adrien knows Chloé will not take this event lightly.
So he closes his shop, carries the biscuits home as if they're precious cargo (and, in all fairness, Dupain-Cheng biscuits are precious), eats most of them, gets dressed to the nines, and then puts his umbrella up against the rain and makes the journey to the hotel ballroom Chloé has hired for the evening.
It's impressive, Adrien can't deny; the ballroom is decadently lit with candles and glimmering chandeliers, the light catching every diamond in the room's facets, tiny sparkles bouncing across the walls from jewellery and dresses alike. Even the champagne seems to glitter, the gold liquid matching the birthday girl's favourite colour.
It's glamourous, and whilst Adrien doesn't feel out of place, it's not the kind of event he has ever really enjoyed. He's zoning out of a conversation with some diplomat or another, Chloé's arm twined through his – they've always attended these events together, it's tradition at this point, but these days it feels different, feels wrong somehow – and is gazing around the room when the flower collection catches his eye.
They're pretty bouquets (although Adrien takes a bit of pride in that the bouquet he'd made for Chloé is definitely better than most) but there's one which really catches his eye.
It's hard not to notice; amongst the yellows everyone has bought Chloé, one bouquet has a mix of red, orange, white and light purple in amongst the pale gold carnations, and he knows immediately that he sent that bouquet off with Sabine Dupain-Cheng earlier.
His first thought is that he should probably be offended on Chloé's behalf; however, he's known her long enough to be aware that more than a few people would probably want to send her a similar bouquet. He's her friend, not an idiot. But it's the second thought which overtakes the first like a tidal wave: if the bouquet is here, so is Marinette.
Within a minute he's excused himself from Chloé and the conversation, and is a man on a mission; as he moves through the crowded room, his eyes find the lavishly decorated cake, and wonders how someone makes four tiers covered in golden roses look so stunning instead of tacky. His turn around the room doesn't result in finding Marinette, however, and he wonders if he's being overdramatic. He doesn't really need to be searching her out here; surely he could visit the bakery, if only to thank her for the biscuits? He makes his way over to the cake, wanting to admire it more closely, and decides to keep an eye out for Marinette without actively searching for her.
He's wondering how many of the hundreds of roses Marinette piped, and what exactly constitutes a cake emergency, when Chloé comes up to him and drags him back into the fold.
It only takes half an hour for Adrien to reach his social limit; he makes sure Chloé is happy, because even exhausted he won't leave his friend on her birthday without knowing she's alright with him doing so. And whilst 'happy' may not be the right word, she is steered into another conversation with a politician and Adrien knows his presence is no longer required.
He says his goodbyes to those he met, and makes sure to thank Chloé's father for inviting him. It is a short goodbye – the Mayor is in the midst of speaking to a large man with a moustache, and Adrien does not want to intrude on their friendly conversation.
Social requirements satisfied, Adrien makes his way out of the ballroom and out of the hotel.
The rain is still falling outside, so Adrien grabs his umbrella from the stand by the entrance before walking through the sliding glass doors. And there, whether by luck or fate or a combination of the two, is Marinette. And Adrien knows he didn't see her in the ballroom, because he couldn't have missed her, even with her hair wrapped in a neat top bun instead of loose and shoulder length, especially in a deep blue evening gown instead of jeans and a jacket.
She stands just under the canopy of the entrance, arms crossed in an attempt to keep the chill off her bare arms; a last burst of winter has curled into the spring air, so whilst it's not exactly cold, the rain and clouds mean there's a bite to the breeze, and spaghetti straps have little power against such a force. Adrien shrugs off his jacket, draping it over his forearm as he walks over to Marinette
He clears his throat when he's behind her in an attempt to not scare her.
It doesn't work.
She practically leaps into the air, and spins around to face him, the skirt of her dress twirling around her calves as she does so. Seeing him, her face lights up, and Adrien's smile instantly matches hers.
"Adrien," she whispers; something about the evening is quiet, in spite of the rainfall, and she seems hesitant to break it.
"Hi," he says. "I was hoping I'd bump into you. The cake looks wonderful."
Her smile widens further, and Adrien is rewarded with the delicate pink flush across her cheeks. There is no counter between them this time, and Adrien is close enough to notice the smattering of freckles across her nose even in the dim canopy lighting.
"Thank you! Thank you so much" she replies, speaking quickly. She sounds nervous, Adrien thinks, but can't imagine why. "I saw you earlier, but didn't want to disturb you while you were – while you were with Chloé." Her smile falls a little. "Is she having a good birthday?"
Adrien nods. "There's a mass gathering of people here in her honour. She's in her element," he says with a laugh.
Marinette wraps her arms around herself again, taking a step back, perilously close to where the canopy's protection from the rain ends. "I'm glad." She takes a deep breath, her gaze dropping to the floor before looking Adrien straight in the eye. "Adrien, I'm so sorry. The flowers were stunning, but I'd never have asked you to do them if I'd know you were seeing Chloé. That must have been so uncomfortable for you to realise, I'm so sorry!"
Adrien nearly drops his umbrella.
"Wait, what? No. No no no no no," he says. "I'm not seeing Chloé! She's an old friend! Why would you think we're together?"
Marinette raises an eyebrow. "The fact you spent the whole night with linked arms like you were her date?"
"…Fair enough," he replies. "But that's… that's not romantic. I promise – just friends with Chloé!" Adrien waves his hands in front of him, seeming to forget he's holding an umbrella which nearly hits a man walking past. Marinette bites her lip, and he's not sure if she's holding back a laugh or is just uncomfortable. Adrien exhales, resting the tip of the umbrella on the ground. "Really. We're just friends."
The pause seems to stretch out between them, even though it only lasts a few seconds. Marinette nods again.
"Okay. But I'm still sorry for asking for a 'Fuck you' bouquet for your friend."
Adrien shrugs. "I'd like to ask the reason for it, but maybe that's a story for another time?"
"Definitely," Marinette agrees.
"Can I ask why you're out here instead of inside, at least?"
Marinette digs into her clutch, silver complimenting her midnight blue dress, and pulls out her phone. Switching on the screen, she shows Adrien a taxi order which is twenty minutes away.
"It's been showing twenty minutes for an hour. We were meant to leave earlier but Papa is enjoying himself, so I thought I'd make my way back on my own." She gestures to the canopy, sighing. "I guess I live here until my taxi shows up."
Adrien looks at the goosebumps which have spread over Marinette's arms, and then at the rain which coating the word outside their little shelter.
"I mean – if the taxi is taking that long – I could walk you home? If you wanted, that is?" Adrien asks, trying to keep his voice steady. Marinette blinks rapidly, the grip on her clutch tightening as she nods.
"Yes! I mean, yes. That would be nice. I don't live far - if it wouldn't be inconvenient, that is?"
Adrien smiles, and unfurls his jacket from across his arm, carefully negotiating it and the umbrella so he can place it over Marinette's bare shoulders.
Not at all," he says, watching as Marinette tugs the lapels of the jacket closer to her, and opens the umbrella once he leaves the threshold of the canopy, standing into the rain.
He holds out his hand, droplets hitting his palm as he offers it to Marinette. She presses her palm into his and laughs as she quickly steps from the canopy into the umbrella's tiny sanctuary. Adrien releases her hand so he can hold the umbrella between them, making sure to cover her fully, but she softly curls her fingers around his elbow so they stay close.
It feels right as they begin the walk home.