Happy Holidays, jocondite!
To: jocondite
From: redsambuca
Title: One Way - Part 1
Rating: G? PG? Nothing particularly offensive or scandalous, here.
Characters: pre-slash Gerard/Frank, featuring members of MCR, Panic!, and FOB
Word Count: 4,440 (so far!)
Warnings: Um. AU?
Disclaimer: The story is mine, the characters are not. Bummer.
Summary: Gerard owns a flower shop in New Jersey. It's not all roses.
Notes: I'm so sorry to foist a WIP on you, but the plot spiraled out of control and this universe is turning into a monster. Rest assured that I'm working on it, and that I will make sure to bring it to your attention when the rest of it is posted. This entire universe will always be dedicated to you. My favorite things from your request were Frank/Gerard, AU, and banter. This is what I came up with. I hope you enjoy!
Caramel-colored wet spots appear all over the mountain of papers on Gerard's desk as he sits down, mug in hand. He curses and readjusts his grip, vainly attempting to keep his tea from sloshing all over his work. He succeeds only in sending more of the over-sugared liquid onto the pile of invoices, orders, pricing sheets, and dire warnings from collections agencies.
This latter category of paperwork gets shoved, still sopping, to the side as Gerard uses the corner of his bathrobe to mop tea off the other things. The important things. He chugs half of the lukewarm tea in one gulp and sets the mug down on top of the "Dear Mr. Way, this is your final warning"s, a safe distance from everything else.
He pulls a (slightly dampened) manila folder labeled "Tuesday" towards himself and flips it open. He picks through the papers inside, idly counting zip codes. Three orders for Belleville, four for Cedar Grove, two for University Heights, and one lonely yet particularly high-priced order for Brooklyn, which he'll have to remember to send out to a local florist in that area in the morning. On a slow day he'd have his driver make the trip for money like that, but he's got nine local orders already, and that's just the ones made in advance. There's no telling how many forgetful boyfriends will call him during the day, desperate for flowers. He definitely expects tomorrow to be busy, and besides, he doesn't even have a driver.
Fuck, he thinks, remembering. Today was Patrick's last day. He gave two weeks notice and everything, but Gerard simply hasn't had the time to hire anyone else. He posted a slapdash, poorly-punctuated ad on craigslist, but that's about it. The ad received more than a few responses, but Gerard has barely even looked at their emails, much less contacted any of the applicants.
Gerard pouts to himself, allowing for a moment of unmitigated self-pity. Patrick has been a fantastic driver. He never crushes the arrangements or breaks the vases, and he's punctual to a fault, always giving Gerard a call to let him know when he's stuck in traffic.
Then that fucking boyfriend of his has to go and open a cafe, stealing Patrick away to be a manager.
Gerard hopes for one vicious moment that the cafe burns to the ground, but he feels guilty (and more than a little silly) immediately. Pete's a good guy. He's always smiling, he treats Patrick like particularly precious gold, and he's got more business savvy in the tips of his fingers than Gerard has in his entire body. No doubt his cafe will be the most happening spot in Essex County by next month. Especially if he gets that beer and wine license he's gunning for.
Gerard makes note to ask Pete if he wants to send flowers over to the Division of Alcoholic Beverage Control office. Probably couldn't hurt.
=
By the time Gerard stomps down the stairs in the morning, drinking the day's first mug of tea, Ryan is already in the shop, sweeping. Or pretending to sweep, more like; he's sort of idly swishing the broom against the floor with one hand, the dustpan dangling loosely from the other.
"Okay, how the fuck did I manage to get here before you, dude? You live upstairs."
"Shut up, Ryan. And don't call me 'dude' at work, I've told you a million times. It's unprofessional."
"Yeah, yeah," says Ryan, sweeping in earnest now. Gerard flops down at his desk, nearly an identical copy of the one in his apartment upstairs, complete with ever-expanding pile of paperwork. He throws Tuesday's folder on top of the mess and immediately lets his forehead thunk down after it.
"Seriously, dude," begins Ryan, and Gerard chooses to ignore the continued misstep out of pure apathy, "what happened to you?"
Gerard sighs, loud and put-upon, before answering.
"I fell asleep at my desk again. Can't you tell by the imprints on my face?" Gerard sits up and points to each in turn. "Spiral notebook. Pencil. Stapler."
"No one could fall asleep on top of a fucking stapler," Ryan scoffs, dumping the now full dustpan into the trash.
"You'd be surprised," says Gerard.
The bell on the door jingles then and in strides a rather dapper mailman, or as dapper as a mailman can get while wearing the standard winter uniform and a pair of fuzzy black earmuffs. He's not quite whistling, but certainly walking with the kind of spring in his step usually thought impossible for postal workers.
"Morning, Gerard, Ryan!" he says, nodding at each of them in turn and holding out a rubber-banded stack of envelopes. Ryan takes it from him silently, nodding in return and utterly failing to conceal a blush. Gerard sees and rolls his eyes.
"Morning, Bob," he says, gulping down the last of his tea and idly sifting through his canister of teabags, trying to decide what to drink next. "Cold out there?"
"Not so bad, no," answers Bob, leaning down to sniff delicately at a nearby bucket of roses. "Well, Ray spent the morning complaining about it, but what does he know?"
Gerard laughs. "Maybe Ray should learn to ride in something other than lycra."
Bob shrugs. "That's what I tell him, but he insists that being aerodynamic is more important than being warm."
"That's why he's the best at what he does," say Gerard with a smile. "Tell him I said hi, will you?"
"Sure. Well, I'll see you gentleman tomorrow. Bye Ryan."
"Bye," whispers Ryan, still frozen in place, clutching the mail. As soon as Bob exits he whirls on Gerard, thrusting out the mail and demanding, "Who's Ray?"
"Oh my god!" trills Gerard gleefully. "You do have a crush on our mailman!"
"I don't!" says Ryan, looking scandalized. "I'm just curious!"
"Oh, you do! You so do!" says Gerard, finally deciding on a sachet of Irish Breakfast, reaching over to flick on the electric kettle.
"Don't," say Ryan, sulkily.
"Do. Anyway, forget about it. Ray is his boyfriend."
Ryan's shoulders drop visibly, but he hastily tries to pretend they haven't. "Like I care. So Bob's dating some freakish stretchy-fabrics enthusiast. Big deal."
Gerard snorts. "He's a bike messenger, nimrod. You've probably seen him. Big hair? Powerful thighs?"
Ryan blanches slightly. "Does he deliver to the offices next door?"
"That's the one," answers Gerard. "And I can tell by the look on your face that you are already aware he could crush you like a bug. So don't even think about it."
"Wasn't thinking about it," mumbles Ryan, glaring at the floor. Gerard's cruel enthusiasm over Ryan's unrequited crush deflates slightly.
"Look," he starts in a soft voice, slowly turning left and right in his spinny desk chair, "I've known Bob since high school. He used to be the most miserable motherfucker you could imagine. Ray makes him happy. I've never seen him smile as much as he does now. It's kind of weird, actually."
Ryan nods, still not looking up. Gerard sighs.
"Come on. Cheer up, dude." Ryan glances up at that, looking mollified already. "Look at it this way. You could always go for a threesome."
Ryan meets Gerard's evil grin with a watery smile. "You think?"
"Why not?" says Gerard, turning to pour now-boiling water into his mug. "You never know. Now get to work, asshole. Those roses aren't going to strip themselves."
"Whatever, dude," sighs Ryan, skulking over to the roses.
"Do the yellow ones first!" Gerard calls after him. "And don't call me dude!"
=
The morning goes as usual, but by noon, Gerard is panicking. Pleading phone calls to Patrick for "just one more day! I swear!" have proven fruitless. By the third call Patrick sounds ready to concede, but then Pete grabs the phone from him, and shouts so loud Gerard has to hold the receiver several inches from his ear.
"NO WAY, MAN! Patrick is busy! You had two weeks to hire someone else, it's not his fault you suck! Deal with it!"
Gerard can hear Patrick's "no, Pete, give me the fucking phone back!" in the background.
"NO! Seriously, you know where this is going! He wants you for one day now, which turns into a week, which turns into my fucking cafe not having a manager! Oh and by the way, Gerard?" Pete says, speaking directly into the phone again. "Those flowers sound great. Send 'em on. Oh, and add a card... something about honor and civic duty and the importance of occasionally letting your hair down or some shit. I dunno, have Ryan write it. Thanks!" He hangs up.
Gerard stares at the phone for a moment, listening to the dial tone and wondering what the fuck he's going to do.
"I'm fucked," he says.
"You're fucked," replies Ryan from behind the workbench, assembling the twelfth as-yet-undelivered arrangement. It's quite nice, actually, orientated diagonally in a low green glass cube, tree fern and purple Monte Casino asters framing a cluster of pink and orange Gerbera daisies. Ryan's arrangements have gotten a lot better, and Gerard makes note to compliment him on it when he's not in the middle of losing his mind.
"What am I gonna do?" he asks despairingly of no one in particular, draining his fourth mug of Irish Breakfast.
Ryan just shrugs, setting the twelfth arrangement aside and immediately starting on the thirteenth. Gerard walks up to the workbench and glances over his shoulder at the order. It's for a congratulations basket in whites, yellows, and blues, with an "It's a boy!" mylar balloon attached. Gerard grimaces a little. He hates those fucking balloons. As far as he's concerned they're tacky as all hell, but he's not the one who buys flowers from his shop. If those damn balloons are what keeps the lights on, so be it.
"What's the total on that?" he asks Ryan, squinting at the order. Damn, he's getting old.
"Forty," says Ryan.
"Fuck! Including delivery?"
Ryan nods.
"Jesus Christ, do these people think flowers are free?" Gerard groans a little to himself, thinking. "Okay. Use white and yellow carnations and daisies with a little bit of leatherleaf and white asters. Then you can throw in a couple of delphinium for the blue, but for god's sake not too many, those things cost a fortune."
=
By 1pm, Gerard is utterly frantic. There are fifteen arrangements, and neither he nor Ryan knows how to drive, even if they did have a car to use. He's called all his friends and half his family, none of whom are available. His brother Mikey, a radio DJ on the midnight to 6am shift at the local alternative station, answered the phone with a sleepy grunt, laughed for a full minute when Gerard asked him to come deliver flowers, then hung up without a word. He's seriously considering getting a taxi to make the deliveries when the door on the bell jingles and in walks a small, heavily tattooed young man, dressed in a black hoodie and black jeans, toying nervously with his short, dark hair.
"Hi," says Gerard distractedly. "Need flowers? Ryan can help you."
Ryan gives the guy a small smile, which he returns, shaking his head. "No, actually. Uh, I'm Frank? Frank Iero?" He says his name like he's unsure that it's his. "I emailed you about the delivery driver position. You never got back to me but I was in the area so I figured I'd--"
Gerard leaps out of his chair.
"Did you come in your car?" he demands.
Frank nods.
"Can you start right now?"
After a moment Frank nods again, looking bewildered. Gerard just barely stops himself from busting a move. Ryan recognizes the I'm-trying-not-to-dance restraint and laughs loudly in the background. Frank's face falls slightly, and he looks around at Ryan, confused.
"Ignore him, I do," says Gerard quickly. ("Hey!" says Ryan.) "We are absolutely desperate. Have you delivered flowers before?"
Frank shakes his head, almost shyly.
"Never mind, I don't even care at this point," says Gerard hastily, waving his hands around. "Can you promise not to break anything?"
"Of course," says Frank, nodding.
"That's all I need. Here, we have a GPS you can use, so don't worry about maps or whatever. Normally I'm a lot more professional than this, but we really need to get these out. If you take these now I promise I'll pay you handsomely for the day, and we can discuss continued employment later tonight, okay?"
Franks nods yet again.
"Fabulous. Okay, well, Ryan will help you pack these into boxes so nothing tips over in your car. I'll print out a run sheet so you can get signatures, okay?"
"Sure," says Frank. "No problem, dude." Ryan beams at him, and Gerard just flops down at his desk and switches on his printer, feeling his lungs draw in much needed oxygen for what feels like the first time all day.
=
"How'd you think he's doing?" Ryan asks, walking around the shop, lazily tipping the nozzle of a green plastic watering can into various potted plants.
Gerard looks up from his computer, pretending to be slightly annoyed by the interruption, but actually relieved by it. All he'd been doing was staring at his bank balance, eyes increasingly glazed with each passing minute, wondering whether or not to start transferring funds from his (not terribly impressive) personal savings to the shop's (decidedly unimpressive) checking account.
"Dunno," he answers truthfully, stretching his arms above his head and leaning back slightly in his chair. "I bet he's doing well, actually. He seems... stable. I'm not even gonna hold it against him if he breaks something. I mean, it's his first time."
Ryan nods, still watering. "Stable," he repeats with a small snort. His usual monotone sometimes make it hard to know what he's thinking. Gerard hopes he'll elaborate, but he doesn't.
=
Ryan leaves around 3, as usual. He offers to stay if he's still needed, but Gerard waves him off. There's no more orders for the day. Now it's just a matter of waiting for Frank to return.
Gerard sips meditatively at his tea (chamomile mint this time; it's been a long day) and curses his lack of foresight at not getting Frank's cell phone number before he left. He'd like to call and see how Frank is doing, ask if he's had any trouble, that kind of thing. It's all about running his business responsibly. Definitely not in any way about Gerard's desire to know the phone numbers of cute boys.
Gerard rolls his eyes at himself and shuffles his chair closer to the desk. As long as he's waiting, he figures he might as well actually do something about the whole 'running his business responsibly' crap. He (reluctantly) pulls a basket full of dampened, dirt-streaked, hopelessly-crumpled receipts toward himself and starts picking through them.
He's got about half of them smoothed out and arranged in vaguely chronological order, when the bell jingles and Frank strolls through the door. Gerard's head whips around to the clock, expecting to find that he's lost several hours to the Evil Overhead Overlord of Receipts, but not so. It's only 3:30.
"Frank!" Gerard calls, pushing away from the desk. "You're just in time! I was about to call Spencer."
"Spencer?" asks Frank, busy brushing invisible (though not necessarily nonexistent) dirt off his black jeans.
"He's the bookkeeper," Gerard says, gesturing to his desk just as Frank comes closer to look, "He comes in once a week and does his best to keep me from going out of business." Gerard shrugs. "As you can see, I don't make it easy for him. Which is why you're just in time. He yells every time I call, and I don't actually feel like getting yelled at."
Frank raises his eyebrows at the mess and shrugs sympathetically, but says no more. Gerard wonders if he's holding back out of nervousness, or if he just doesn't give a rat's ass about Gerard's poor budgeting skills. Gerard assumes the latter.
"So..." begins Gerard, with a touch of awkwardness. "How'd it go?"
Frank brightens slightly. "Great! I mean, I think. Did I take too long?"
Gerard is aghast. "Frank, I was just about to ask you what the hell you did to get back here so fast. It would have taken Patrick at least three hours to deliver everything you took." He narrows his eyes at Frank, only semi-joking. "You didn't chuck them all in a dumpster or anything, did you?"
Frank laughs. "Shockingly, no." He shrugs. "I just... I know my way around here, is all. I didn't actually use this, I hope that's cool," he says, handing over Gerard's GPS.
Gerard nods appreciatively, taking it from him. "It's more than cool, actually. I'm impressed."
He smiles at Frank, who smiles faintly back. Gerard only notices the moment has gone on slightly too long when Frank starts to fidget.
"Oh, um," says Gerard, fighting not to blush, and probably failing. "So, nothing broke? No spills, no problems like that?"
"Nope," says Frank, shaking his head. "I was extra careful."
"Well then. That's all there is to it, I guess. So, uh... do you want to work for me?"
Gerard just barely restrains himself from crossing his fingers, and then stops himself from whooping when Frank shyly nods.
"Well, you're hired! I'll pay you $7.50 an hour plus mileage, for gas. Is that cool?"
Frank nods quickly like it's more than he was expecting.
"Generally we have the first batch of arrangements ready by 11 so that's a good time for you to come in. Usually you could be done by 4 but I can't guarantee that 'cause it varies. But basically we'll need you 11 to 4, Monday through Friday. Cool?"
Gerard notes with dismay that Frank's face is falling slightly.
"Problem?"
"Oh! No, no. I mean... maybe. It's just that I was sort of hoping for more hours. More like 30 to 40 a week." He stops talking, but looks like he wants to go on. Gerard waits, looking at him expectantly.
"I kinda... need the money," Franks says finally.
"Oh," says Gerard, not sure what he'd been expecting. (Hoping for?) "Well, I guess, I mean, if you wanted... you could come in at 10 and help Ryan for an hour before you deliver. That's still only 30 hours, though, but it's the best I can do."
"No!" says Frank hastily. "No, that's great, I'd love to."
"Awesome," say Gerard, grinning. "Well... see you tomorrow?"
"Definitely," says Frank. They look at one another for several more seconds before Frank finally turns with an awkward little wave and leaves.
Gerard stands for a moment in the middle of his shop, gazing after Frank's retreating form. His eyes fall to the tiled floor, streaked with dirt and small puddles of water. Gerard knows that for all his inherent laziness, Ryan really does try to keep the place looking nice. It's hardly his fault that it's impossible to keep a white tiled floor clean in a flower shop. Gerard toys briefly with the idea of mopping, but he knows full well that the floor will be an even worse mess by mid-morning the next day. It feels too much like fighting a losing battle, something Gerard feels constantly mired in these days, up to his armpits in bills and slowly sinking under the pressure of running a business all by himself.
It seemed like such a good idea, a year ago, to buy the shop. There he was, fresh from college, clutching a supposedly 'useless' art degree and slowly squandering a meager inheritance from a dead Great Aunt on his living expenses. The previous owner had wanted to retire, and to Gerard it seemed an opportunity too good to waste. Gerard was able to buy a fiscally-sound, well-established business, and he'd picked up floral arranging quickly enough. It wasn't his preferred medium, but it was still art as far as he was concerned.
At the time it had felt like being handed his own private island; a self-sustaining, endlessly abundant tropical paradise. But now, strangled by bills and terrified of the responsibilities already on his shoulders, it feels more like a small pile of sand in his cupped palms, swish-sliding through his fingers to scatter pointlessly on the still dirty white tiled floor.
=
The world looks just a little rosier after another cup of tea, but not so much so that Gerard is able to convince himself to get more work done in the shop. He locks up and retreats to his tiny upstairs apartment, shedding his shoes and his pants as soon as he gets through the door. He tosses Wednesday's orders folder onto his desk and tugs on a pair of flannel sleep pants and his bathrobe, conveniently located right next to his front door where he left them in a crumpled pile earlier.
He slumps into his desk chair immediately and sighs. He doesn't want to do any more work, but he knows that his morning will go much more smoothly if he writes tomorrow's cards tonight. He pulls the folder closer and flips it open.
Two birthdays, two funerals, one anniversary and one 'just because'. The latter makes him smile. He opens the desk drawer and tugs out the small plastic box that houses his cards and envelopes. Writing cards is sometimes, secretly, one of Gerard's favorite parts of the job.
"To... the... most... amazing... woman... I... know," Gerard says aloud as he writes. "Just... because... you... looked... so... beautiful... this... morning."
There's no name, but Gerard figures it's a pretty safe bet that the woman will know who sent it.
Sighing slightly, he stuffs the card into an envelope and addresses it. Only a few more to go and then he can get some sleep. He rolls his writing wrist and flexes his fingers around the pen, the nice one that never smudges, not even on the smooth, almost slick surface of the cards. He sets the pen to a fresh card, this time for one of the birthdays. This one needs to say "Happy Birthday, Magda! Have a graet day! Love, Jimmi." Gerard dutifully sets down the message, careful to replicate the spelling exactly. He always copies every word as it appears, even seemingly obvious typos. He's not above indulging a good fantasy, even one in which mob bosses and international spies use his flower deliveries to send secret messages to one another. He's just not going to be responsible for 'correcting' a typo and sending some poor sap to sleep with the fishes. No one needs that on their conscience.
The phone on Gerard's desk trills suddenly, and he gropes for it blindly, eyes still on the card.
"Hello?" he mumbles, balancing the phone on his shoulder as he stuffs the card into an envelope.
"Hey," says a calm voice, and Gerard winces.
"Hey Spence."
There's silence for a second, and Gerard winces again.
"So, uh... how's... things?" he tries.
"Oh. Been better, been worse, I guess," says Spencer, which is pretty much is answer every time Gerard asks that question. He's just that kind of guy. "Listen, we need to talk."
Gerard sighs.
"I know."
"Well, good. Because I looked over all the stuff you faxed me, and man, the numbers just don't add up."
"I know," Gerard says again, swiping an open palm down his face wearily.
"Man, you say that, but I don't think you really get it. This is bad. You're in the red and it's only getting worse. If you don't find some way to stop the bleeding..."
"Is there a way?" asks Gerard desperately, allowing himself to feel a tiny spark of hope, "Do you have some kind of magical accounting trick up your sleeve?"
"Yeah," says Spencer. "It's called tax fraud. And it's less of a trick, more a serious transgression of applicable laws. And a unspeakable smear on the oath of honor I took as an accountant, to boot."
"Dude, you're a bookkeeper."
"Fuck you."
Despite the words, Gerard can hear the smirk in Spencer's voice, and he only wishes he had the energy to find anything amusing at the moment.
"So what are you telling me, Spence?"
Spencer pauses before answering.
"I'm telling you that things aren't looking good for One Way Flowers & Gifts."
Gerard lets his head thunk down on his desk, but he manages to keep his voice steady as he replies.
"Okay."
=
Gerard really, really needs to stop falling asleep at his desk. He shakes a stray envelope out of his hair and sits up sharply. He's getting way too old for this shit.
When he gets downstairs fifteen minutes later, cup of vanilla chai in one hand and the day's folder in the other, Ryan is already there. So is Frank.
Gerard answers their "good mornings" with a nod of his head, quirking one corner of his mouth upward in response to Frank's cheery smile. He hopes it will suffice. He's already having trouble looking them in the eye, and he's sure it'll only get worse. How can he talk with them, laugh with them, work with them, and not tell them that their jobs are in danger?
Nay, more than in danger. Dead in the water. Gerard told Spencer not to apply to renew his lease in January. Just about a month left, now, before the shop will be closing doors. And he just hired Frank. Frank who needs money, Frank who is an even better driver than Patrick, Frank who is probably the cutest guy Gerard's ever met...
Gerard inhales sharply and drains his tea in one gulp, whirling around immediately to set the electric kettle on for another cup.
"Are you okay?" Ryan asks, sounding genuinely concerned, and only then does Gerard realize how heavily he's breathing. Frank has stopped sweeping, eyes darting curiously back and forth between Gerard and Ryan. Ryan has a rose in one hand and a stripper in the other, frozen in his task of ridding them of thorns and excess foliage.
"I'm fine," Gerard wheezes, then clears his throat. "Fine. I just, uh... I think I'm coming down with something."
Ryan resumes his work, and so too resume the soft, papery sounds of leaves fluttering to the ground, only to be swept up immediately by Frank.
"Drink some Airborne or something, man. We can't afford for you to get sick this close to the holiday rush," says Ryan.
"No. We definitely can't," says Gerard.
END OF PART ONE.
From: redsambuca
Title: One Way - Part 1
Rating: G? PG? Nothing particularly offensive or scandalous, here.
Characters: pre-slash Gerard/Frank, featuring members of MCR, Panic!, and FOB
Word Count: 4,440 (so far!)
Warnings: Um. AU?
Disclaimer: The story is mine, the characters are not. Bummer.
Summary: Gerard owns a flower shop in New Jersey. It's not all roses.
Notes: I'm so sorry to foist a WIP on you, but the plot spiraled out of control and this universe is turning into a monster. Rest assured that I'm working on it, and that I will make sure to bring it to your attention when the rest of it is posted. This entire universe will always be dedicated to you. My favorite things from your request were Frank/Gerard, AU, and banter. This is what I came up with. I hope you enjoy!
Caramel-colored wet spots appear all over the mountain of papers on Gerard's desk as he sits down, mug in hand. He curses and readjusts his grip, vainly attempting to keep his tea from sloshing all over his work. He succeeds only in sending more of the over-sugared liquid onto the pile of invoices, orders, pricing sheets, and dire warnings from collections agencies.
This latter category of paperwork gets shoved, still sopping, to the side as Gerard uses the corner of his bathrobe to mop tea off the other things. The important things. He chugs half of the lukewarm tea in one gulp and sets the mug down on top of the "Dear Mr. Way, this is your final warning"s, a safe distance from everything else.
He pulls a (slightly dampened) manila folder labeled "Tuesday" towards himself and flips it open. He picks through the papers inside, idly counting zip codes. Three orders for Belleville, four for Cedar Grove, two for University Heights, and one lonely yet particularly high-priced order for Brooklyn, which he'll have to remember to send out to a local florist in that area in the morning. On a slow day he'd have his driver make the trip for money like that, but he's got nine local orders already, and that's just the ones made in advance. There's no telling how many forgetful boyfriends will call him during the day, desperate for flowers. He definitely expects tomorrow to be busy, and besides, he doesn't even have a driver.
Fuck, he thinks, remembering. Today was Patrick's last day. He gave two weeks notice and everything, but Gerard simply hasn't had the time to hire anyone else. He posted a slapdash, poorly-punctuated ad on craigslist, but that's about it. The ad received more than a few responses, but Gerard has barely even looked at their emails, much less contacted any of the applicants.
Gerard pouts to himself, allowing for a moment of unmitigated self-pity. Patrick has been a fantastic driver. He never crushes the arrangements or breaks the vases, and he's punctual to a fault, always giving Gerard a call to let him know when he's stuck in traffic.
Then that fucking boyfriend of his has to go and open a cafe, stealing Patrick away to be a manager.
Gerard hopes for one vicious moment that the cafe burns to the ground, but he feels guilty (and more than a little silly) immediately. Pete's a good guy. He's always smiling, he treats Patrick like particularly precious gold, and he's got more business savvy in the tips of his fingers than Gerard has in his entire body. No doubt his cafe will be the most happening spot in Essex County by next month. Especially if he gets that beer and wine license he's gunning for.
Gerard makes note to ask Pete if he wants to send flowers over to the Division of Alcoholic Beverage Control office. Probably couldn't hurt.
=
By the time Gerard stomps down the stairs in the morning, drinking the day's first mug of tea, Ryan is already in the shop, sweeping. Or pretending to sweep, more like; he's sort of idly swishing the broom against the floor with one hand, the dustpan dangling loosely from the other.
"Okay, how the fuck did I manage to get here before you, dude? You live upstairs."
"Shut up, Ryan. And don't call me 'dude' at work, I've told you a million times. It's unprofessional."
"Yeah, yeah," says Ryan, sweeping in earnest now. Gerard flops down at his desk, nearly an identical copy of the one in his apartment upstairs, complete with ever-expanding pile of paperwork. He throws Tuesday's folder on top of the mess and immediately lets his forehead thunk down after it.
"Seriously, dude," begins Ryan, and Gerard chooses to ignore the continued misstep out of pure apathy, "what happened to you?"
Gerard sighs, loud and put-upon, before answering.
"I fell asleep at my desk again. Can't you tell by the imprints on my face?" Gerard sits up and points to each in turn. "Spiral notebook. Pencil. Stapler."
"No one could fall asleep on top of a fucking stapler," Ryan scoffs, dumping the now full dustpan into the trash.
"You'd be surprised," says Gerard.
The bell on the door jingles then and in strides a rather dapper mailman, or as dapper as a mailman can get while wearing the standard winter uniform and a pair of fuzzy black earmuffs. He's not quite whistling, but certainly walking with the kind of spring in his step usually thought impossible for postal workers.
"Morning, Gerard, Ryan!" he says, nodding at each of them in turn and holding out a rubber-banded stack of envelopes. Ryan takes it from him silently, nodding in return and utterly failing to conceal a blush. Gerard sees and rolls his eyes.
"Morning, Bob," he says, gulping down the last of his tea and idly sifting through his canister of teabags, trying to decide what to drink next. "Cold out there?"
"Not so bad, no," answers Bob, leaning down to sniff delicately at a nearby bucket of roses. "Well, Ray spent the morning complaining about it, but what does he know?"
Gerard laughs. "Maybe Ray should learn to ride in something other than lycra."
Bob shrugs. "That's what I tell him, but he insists that being aerodynamic is more important than being warm."
"That's why he's the best at what he does," say Gerard with a smile. "Tell him I said hi, will you?"
"Sure. Well, I'll see you gentleman tomorrow. Bye Ryan."
"Bye," whispers Ryan, still frozen in place, clutching the mail. As soon as Bob exits he whirls on Gerard, thrusting out the mail and demanding, "Who's Ray?"
"Oh my god!" trills Gerard gleefully. "You do have a crush on our mailman!"
"I don't!" says Ryan, looking scandalized. "I'm just curious!"
"Oh, you do! You so do!" says Gerard, finally deciding on a sachet of Irish Breakfast, reaching over to flick on the electric kettle.
"Don't," say Ryan, sulkily.
"Do. Anyway, forget about it. Ray is his boyfriend."
Ryan's shoulders drop visibly, but he hastily tries to pretend they haven't. "Like I care. So Bob's dating some freakish stretchy-fabrics enthusiast. Big deal."
Gerard snorts. "He's a bike messenger, nimrod. You've probably seen him. Big hair? Powerful thighs?"
Ryan blanches slightly. "Does he deliver to the offices next door?"
"That's the one," answers Gerard. "And I can tell by the look on your face that you are already aware he could crush you like a bug. So don't even think about it."
"Wasn't thinking about it," mumbles Ryan, glaring at the floor. Gerard's cruel enthusiasm over Ryan's unrequited crush deflates slightly.
"Look," he starts in a soft voice, slowly turning left and right in his spinny desk chair, "I've known Bob since high school. He used to be the most miserable motherfucker you could imagine. Ray makes him happy. I've never seen him smile as much as he does now. It's kind of weird, actually."
Ryan nods, still not looking up. Gerard sighs.
"Come on. Cheer up, dude." Ryan glances up at that, looking mollified already. "Look at it this way. You could always go for a threesome."
Ryan meets Gerard's evil grin with a watery smile. "You think?"
"Why not?" says Gerard, turning to pour now-boiling water into his mug. "You never know. Now get to work, asshole. Those roses aren't going to strip themselves."
"Whatever, dude," sighs Ryan, skulking over to the roses.
"Do the yellow ones first!" Gerard calls after him. "And don't call me dude!"
=
The morning goes as usual, but by noon, Gerard is panicking. Pleading phone calls to Patrick for "just one more day! I swear!" have proven fruitless. By the third call Patrick sounds ready to concede, but then Pete grabs the phone from him, and shouts so loud Gerard has to hold the receiver several inches from his ear.
"NO WAY, MAN! Patrick is busy! You had two weeks to hire someone else, it's not his fault you suck! Deal with it!"
Gerard can hear Patrick's "no, Pete, give me the fucking phone back!" in the background.
"NO! Seriously, you know where this is going! He wants you for one day now, which turns into a week, which turns into my fucking cafe not having a manager! Oh and by the way, Gerard?" Pete says, speaking directly into the phone again. "Those flowers sound great. Send 'em on. Oh, and add a card... something about honor and civic duty and the importance of occasionally letting your hair down or some shit. I dunno, have Ryan write it. Thanks!" He hangs up.
Gerard stares at the phone for a moment, listening to the dial tone and wondering what the fuck he's going to do.
"I'm fucked," he says.
"You're fucked," replies Ryan from behind the workbench, assembling the twelfth as-yet-undelivered arrangement. It's quite nice, actually, orientated diagonally in a low green glass cube, tree fern and purple Monte Casino asters framing a cluster of pink and orange Gerbera daisies. Ryan's arrangements have gotten a lot better, and Gerard makes note to compliment him on it when he's not in the middle of losing his mind.
"What am I gonna do?" he asks despairingly of no one in particular, draining his fourth mug of Irish Breakfast.
Ryan just shrugs, setting the twelfth arrangement aside and immediately starting on the thirteenth. Gerard walks up to the workbench and glances over his shoulder at the order. It's for a congratulations basket in whites, yellows, and blues, with an "It's a boy!" mylar balloon attached. Gerard grimaces a little. He hates those fucking balloons. As far as he's concerned they're tacky as all hell, but he's not the one who buys flowers from his shop. If those damn balloons are what keeps the lights on, so be it.
"What's the total on that?" he asks Ryan, squinting at the order. Damn, he's getting old.
"Forty," says Ryan.
"Fuck! Including delivery?"
Ryan nods.
"Jesus Christ, do these people think flowers are free?" Gerard groans a little to himself, thinking. "Okay. Use white and yellow carnations and daisies with a little bit of leatherleaf and white asters. Then you can throw in a couple of delphinium for the blue, but for god's sake not too many, those things cost a fortune."
=
By 1pm, Gerard is utterly frantic. There are fifteen arrangements, and neither he nor Ryan knows how to drive, even if they did have a car to use. He's called all his friends and half his family, none of whom are available. His brother Mikey, a radio DJ on the midnight to 6am shift at the local alternative station, answered the phone with a sleepy grunt, laughed for a full minute when Gerard asked him to come deliver flowers, then hung up without a word. He's seriously considering getting a taxi to make the deliveries when the door on the bell jingles and in walks a small, heavily tattooed young man, dressed in a black hoodie and black jeans, toying nervously with his short, dark hair.
"Hi," says Gerard distractedly. "Need flowers? Ryan can help you."
Ryan gives the guy a small smile, which he returns, shaking his head. "No, actually. Uh, I'm Frank? Frank Iero?" He says his name like he's unsure that it's his. "I emailed you about the delivery driver position. You never got back to me but I was in the area so I figured I'd--"
Gerard leaps out of his chair.
"Did you come in your car?" he demands.
Frank nods.
"Can you start right now?"
After a moment Frank nods again, looking bewildered. Gerard just barely stops himself from busting a move. Ryan recognizes the I'm-trying-not-to-dance restraint and laughs loudly in the background. Frank's face falls slightly, and he looks around at Ryan, confused.
"Ignore him, I do," says Gerard quickly. ("Hey!" says Ryan.) "We are absolutely desperate. Have you delivered flowers before?"
Frank shakes his head, almost shyly.
"Never mind, I don't even care at this point," says Gerard hastily, waving his hands around. "Can you promise not to break anything?"
"Of course," says Frank, nodding.
"That's all I need. Here, we have a GPS you can use, so don't worry about maps or whatever. Normally I'm a lot more professional than this, but we really need to get these out. If you take these now I promise I'll pay you handsomely for the day, and we can discuss continued employment later tonight, okay?"
Franks nods yet again.
"Fabulous. Okay, well, Ryan will help you pack these into boxes so nothing tips over in your car. I'll print out a run sheet so you can get signatures, okay?"
"Sure," says Frank. "No problem, dude." Ryan beams at him, and Gerard just flops down at his desk and switches on his printer, feeling his lungs draw in much needed oxygen for what feels like the first time all day.
=
"How'd you think he's doing?" Ryan asks, walking around the shop, lazily tipping the nozzle of a green plastic watering can into various potted plants.
Gerard looks up from his computer, pretending to be slightly annoyed by the interruption, but actually relieved by it. All he'd been doing was staring at his bank balance, eyes increasingly glazed with each passing minute, wondering whether or not to start transferring funds from his (not terribly impressive) personal savings to the shop's (decidedly unimpressive) checking account.
"Dunno," he answers truthfully, stretching his arms above his head and leaning back slightly in his chair. "I bet he's doing well, actually. He seems... stable. I'm not even gonna hold it against him if he breaks something. I mean, it's his first time."
Ryan nods, still watering. "Stable," he repeats with a small snort. His usual monotone sometimes make it hard to know what he's thinking. Gerard hopes he'll elaborate, but he doesn't.
=
Ryan leaves around 3, as usual. He offers to stay if he's still needed, but Gerard waves him off. There's no more orders for the day. Now it's just a matter of waiting for Frank to return.
Gerard sips meditatively at his tea (chamomile mint this time; it's been a long day) and curses his lack of foresight at not getting Frank's cell phone number before he left. He'd like to call and see how Frank is doing, ask if he's had any trouble, that kind of thing. It's all about running his business responsibly. Definitely not in any way about Gerard's desire to know the phone numbers of cute boys.
Gerard rolls his eyes at himself and shuffles his chair closer to the desk. As long as he's waiting, he figures he might as well actually do something about the whole 'running his business responsibly' crap. He (reluctantly) pulls a basket full of dampened, dirt-streaked, hopelessly-crumpled receipts toward himself and starts picking through them.
He's got about half of them smoothed out and arranged in vaguely chronological order, when the bell jingles and Frank strolls through the door. Gerard's head whips around to the clock, expecting to find that he's lost several hours to the Evil Overhead Overlord of Receipts, but not so. It's only 3:30.
"Frank!" Gerard calls, pushing away from the desk. "You're just in time! I was about to call Spencer."
"Spencer?" asks Frank, busy brushing invisible (though not necessarily nonexistent) dirt off his black jeans.
"He's the bookkeeper," Gerard says, gesturing to his desk just as Frank comes closer to look, "He comes in once a week and does his best to keep me from going out of business." Gerard shrugs. "As you can see, I don't make it easy for him. Which is why you're just in time. He yells every time I call, and I don't actually feel like getting yelled at."
Frank raises his eyebrows at the mess and shrugs sympathetically, but says no more. Gerard wonders if he's holding back out of nervousness, or if he just doesn't give a rat's ass about Gerard's poor budgeting skills. Gerard assumes the latter.
"So..." begins Gerard, with a touch of awkwardness. "How'd it go?"
Frank brightens slightly. "Great! I mean, I think. Did I take too long?"
Gerard is aghast. "Frank, I was just about to ask you what the hell you did to get back here so fast. It would have taken Patrick at least three hours to deliver everything you took." He narrows his eyes at Frank, only semi-joking. "You didn't chuck them all in a dumpster or anything, did you?"
Frank laughs. "Shockingly, no." He shrugs. "I just... I know my way around here, is all. I didn't actually use this, I hope that's cool," he says, handing over Gerard's GPS.
Gerard nods appreciatively, taking it from him. "It's more than cool, actually. I'm impressed."
He smiles at Frank, who smiles faintly back. Gerard only notices the moment has gone on slightly too long when Frank starts to fidget.
"Oh, um," says Gerard, fighting not to blush, and probably failing. "So, nothing broke? No spills, no problems like that?"
"Nope," says Frank, shaking his head. "I was extra careful."
"Well then. That's all there is to it, I guess. So, uh... do you want to work for me?"
Gerard just barely restrains himself from crossing his fingers, and then stops himself from whooping when Frank shyly nods.
"Well, you're hired! I'll pay you $7.50 an hour plus mileage, for gas. Is that cool?"
Frank nods quickly like it's more than he was expecting.
"Generally we have the first batch of arrangements ready by 11 so that's a good time for you to come in. Usually you could be done by 4 but I can't guarantee that 'cause it varies. But basically we'll need you 11 to 4, Monday through Friday. Cool?"
Gerard notes with dismay that Frank's face is falling slightly.
"Problem?"
"Oh! No, no. I mean... maybe. It's just that I was sort of hoping for more hours. More like 30 to 40 a week." He stops talking, but looks like he wants to go on. Gerard waits, looking at him expectantly.
"I kinda... need the money," Franks says finally.
"Oh," says Gerard, not sure what he'd been expecting. (Hoping for?) "Well, I guess, I mean, if you wanted... you could come in at 10 and help Ryan for an hour before you deliver. That's still only 30 hours, though, but it's the best I can do."
"No!" says Frank hastily. "No, that's great, I'd love to."
"Awesome," say Gerard, grinning. "Well... see you tomorrow?"
"Definitely," says Frank. They look at one another for several more seconds before Frank finally turns with an awkward little wave and leaves.
Gerard stands for a moment in the middle of his shop, gazing after Frank's retreating form. His eyes fall to the tiled floor, streaked with dirt and small puddles of water. Gerard knows that for all his inherent laziness, Ryan really does try to keep the place looking nice. It's hardly his fault that it's impossible to keep a white tiled floor clean in a flower shop. Gerard toys briefly with the idea of mopping, but he knows full well that the floor will be an even worse mess by mid-morning the next day. It feels too much like fighting a losing battle, something Gerard feels constantly mired in these days, up to his armpits in bills and slowly sinking under the pressure of running a business all by himself.
It seemed like such a good idea, a year ago, to buy the shop. There he was, fresh from college, clutching a supposedly 'useless' art degree and slowly squandering a meager inheritance from a dead Great Aunt on his living expenses. The previous owner had wanted to retire, and to Gerard it seemed an opportunity too good to waste. Gerard was able to buy a fiscally-sound, well-established business, and he'd picked up floral arranging quickly enough. It wasn't his preferred medium, but it was still art as far as he was concerned.
At the time it had felt like being handed his own private island; a self-sustaining, endlessly abundant tropical paradise. But now, strangled by bills and terrified of the responsibilities already on his shoulders, it feels more like a small pile of sand in his cupped palms, swish-sliding through his fingers to scatter pointlessly on the still dirty white tiled floor.
=
The world looks just a little rosier after another cup of tea, but not so much so that Gerard is able to convince himself to get more work done in the shop. He locks up and retreats to his tiny upstairs apartment, shedding his shoes and his pants as soon as he gets through the door. He tosses Wednesday's orders folder onto his desk and tugs on a pair of flannel sleep pants and his bathrobe, conveniently located right next to his front door where he left them in a crumpled pile earlier.
He slumps into his desk chair immediately and sighs. He doesn't want to do any more work, but he knows that his morning will go much more smoothly if he writes tomorrow's cards tonight. He pulls the folder closer and flips it open.
Two birthdays, two funerals, one anniversary and one 'just because'. The latter makes him smile. He opens the desk drawer and tugs out the small plastic box that houses his cards and envelopes. Writing cards is sometimes, secretly, one of Gerard's favorite parts of the job.
"To... the... most... amazing... woman... I... know," Gerard says aloud as he writes. "Just... because... you... looked... so... beautiful... this... morning."
There's no name, but Gerard figures it's a pretty safe bet that the woman will know who sent it.
Sighing slightly, he stuffs the card into an envelope and addresses it. Only a few more to go and then he can get some sleep. He rolls his writing wrist and flexes his fingers around the pen, the nice one that never smudges, not even on the smooth, almost slick surface of the cards. He sets the pen to a fresh card, this time for one of the birthdays. This one needs to say "Happy Birthday, Magda! Have a graet day! Love, Jimmi." Gerard dutifully sets down the message, careful to replicate the spelling exactly. He always copies every word as it appears, even seemingly obvious typos. He's not above indulging a good fantasy, even one in which mob bosses and international spies use his flower deliveries to send secret messages to one another. He's just not going to be responsible for 'correcting' a typo and sending some poor sap to sleep with the fishes. No one needs that on their conscience.
The phone on Gerard's desk trills suddenly, and he gropes for it blindly, eyes still on the card.
"Hello?" he mumbles, balancing the phone on his shoulder as he stuffs the card into an envelope.
"Hey," says a calm voice, and Gerard winces.
"Hey Spence."
There's silence for a second, and Gerard winces again.
"So, uh... how's... things?" he tries.
"Oh. Been better, been worse, I guess," says Spencer, which is pretty much is answer every time Gerard asks that question. He's just that kind of guy. "Listen, we need to talk."
Gerard sighs.
"I know."
"Well, good. Because I looked over all the stuff you faxed me, and man, the numbers just don't add up."
"I know," Gerard says again, swiping an open palm down his face wearily.
"Man, you say that, but I don't think you really get it. This is bad. You're in the red and it's only getting worse. If you don't find some way to stop the bleeding..."
"Is there a way?" asks Gerard desperately, allowing himself to feel a tiny spark of hope, "Do you have some kind of magical accounting trick up your sleeve?"
"Yeah," says Spencer. "It's called tax fraud. And it's less of a trick, more a serious transgression of applicable laws. And a unspeakable smear on the oath of honor I took as an accountant, to boot."
"Dude, you're a bookkeeper."
"Fuck you."
Despite the words, Gerard can hear the smirk in Spencer's voice, and he only wishes he had the energy to find anything amusing at the moment.
"So what are you telling me, Spence?"
Spencer pauses before answering.
"I'm telling you that things aren't looking good for One Way Flowers & Gifts."
Gerard lets his head thunk down on his desk, but he manages to keep his voice steady as he replies.
"Okay."
=
Gerard really, really needs to stop falling asleep at his desk. He shakes a stray envelope out of his hair and sits up sharply. He's getting way too old for this shit.
When he gets downstairs fifteen minutes later, cup of vanilla chai in one hand and the day's folder in the other, Ryan is already there. So is Frank.
Gerard answers their "good mornings" with a nod of his head, quirking one corner of his mouth upward in response to Frank's cheery smile. He hopes it will suffice. He's already having trouble looking them in the eye, and he's sure it'll only get worse. How can he talk with them, laugh with them, work with them, and not tell them that their jobs are in danger?
Nay, more than in danger. Dead in the water. Gerard told Spencer not to apply to renew his lease in January. Just about a month left, now, before the shop will be closing doors. And he just hired Frank. Frank who needs money, Frank who is an even better driver than Patrick, Frank who is probably the cutest guy Gerard's ever met...
Gerard inhales sharply and drains his tea in one gulp, whirling around immediately to set the electric kettle on for another cup.
"Are you okay?" Ryan asks, sounding genuinely concerned, and only then does Gerard realize how heavily he's breathing. Frank has stopped sweeping, eyes darting curiously back and forth between Gerard and Ryan. Ryan has a rose in one hand and a stripper in the other, frozen in his task of ridding them of thorns and excess foliage.
"I'm fine," Gerard wheezes, then clears his throat. "Fine. I just, uh... I think I'm coming down with something."
Ryan resumes his work, and so too resume the soft, papery sounds of leaves fluttering to the ground, only to be swept up immediately by Frank.
"Drink some Airborne or something, man. We can't afford for you to get sick this close to the holiday rush," says Ryan.
"No. We definitely can't," says Gerard.
END OF PART ONE.