Bellamy's Buds (Prologue)
Apr. 12th, 2012 11:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
million_starTitle: Bellamy's Buds (Prologue)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
millionstar
Pairing: Belldom, AU
Rating: Will vary, this chapter PG
Warnings: Language
Summary: Two talented designers. Two massive egos. Four nipples. (Sorry. I suck at summaries.)
Feedback: Is appreciated if you're so inclined, always, but please, just enjoy. :)
Disclaimer: I don't own Matt, Dom or Tom, no profit is being made & this is fiction.
Beta/Support: Thank you todolce_piccante & frisky_biscuit for their encouragement and support! They're the best! <3
Author's Note: It was only a matter of time until I had to put these two in the setting I know better than all others: a flower shop. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!
"And I've decided I simply must have hydrangeas in my bouquet."
"Ah. Excellent choice."
"Raspberry colored ones."
"Raspberry, got it."
"And lily of the valley."
"Miss, if I might-"
"And, oh, what are those flowers? You know, they're real long, and spiky and blue?"
"Perhaps you're referring to delphinium?"
"Yes!" the bride-to-be squealed, clapping her hands as she positively bounced in her seat opposite the designer. "Those too. That's what I want."
"Well, to be honest, I'm not sure that those three particular flowers will complement each other very well. You see, they're-"
"You listen to me," she said quietly, Matthew snickering internally at her lame attempt to sound threatening, "my daddy is going to pay you good money for these wedding flowers. And whatever I want, I get. So," she stood up, flicking her long red hair in his face, "figure it out, make it work, and earn your money. I'll be in touch, maybe. There's another shop in town I could go to, as I'm sure you're well aware."
If it had been any other customer he would have let them leave and would have done a dance of joy after they'd left. But no, this particular bride had to mention that other shop; after that, all bets were off. The urge to kill rising in his throat, he stood quickly as well, the prospect of losing what promised to be a large wedding account to the enemy spurring him into further action.
"Now, let's not be hasty, Miss Eames," he replied, gritting his teeth. "I will do what I can to make your day a memorable one. But when you consider the shapes of these blooms, putting them together in the form of a bridal bouquet may not be the best idea. It's a matter of asthetics, you see."
"Are you calling me stupid?"
"Of course not," he lied, putting on his best salesman's smile, "I'm just merely suggesting that we perhaps reapproach things from the beginning. Let me see if I can change your mind?"
She looked at him warily, then down at her empty seat. "Okay. I'll give you fifteen minutes."
* * * * *
"You must be losing your touch, Matt."
"Like fuck I am," Matthew replied confidently, his hands deftly arranging stems of protea, bird of paradise and ginger in a large glass vase.
Tom, Matthew's oldest friend, floral delivery specialist extraordinaire and professional bullshit artist, grinned. "You know where she was going when she left here."
"I don't care."
"Yes you do."
"She'll be back. That blond fucker will never quote her a lower price than I did. It's not gonna happen; he needs to bring in the big bucks to feed his ever-growing ego. It can't be cheap running all those vans with that stupid custom logo on them. Not to mention the t-shirts. Or the aprons." Matthew shuddered. "They wear aprons there, Thomas. Aprons, with horrible, hateful, fucking cheerful name tags and glitter. If I ever, and I mean ever present to my staff an apron with Bellamy's Buds embroidered on it in neon stitching, you have my permission to have me shot."
There was a time, when Matthew was a young boy, when the town he grew up in had five different florists. The oldest and most prestigious of them all was the one that Matthew's childhood was spent in, Bellamy's Buds. Founded by his grandfather, over the decades it had gained a loyal customer base as well as a reputation of excellence in design. Matthew had hated those early years; always being recruited to help work on busy holidays made him dread seeing holidays come at all. He would be made to deliver arrangements, clean buckets, or strip stems, depending on what his parents needed him to do. He was amazed at what a backbreaking, dirty job working in a florist could be.
It was something of a happy accident when Matthew discovered that he had natural design talent. It was an eye-opener for the Bellamys as a whole as well, and he found that he was beginning to enjoy the time spent at the shop more and more. When Matthew graduated from high school he knew instantly that he wanted to attend college locally to allow his parents to groom him to take over the business for himself some day. He'd worked hard in school, earning a degree in Botanical Studies, which hung proudly in his small office in the back of the shop.
That had been four years ago.
Now his parents were retired and Bellamy's Buds was all his. Things had been going wonderfully, the business was growing, which was a minor miracle considering the current state of the economy. All of the other florists in town had dried up and went out of business, so Bellamy's Buds stayed busy filling the demand that their absence created. He had a wonderful design staff and employees, and was doing what he absolutely loved for a living.
And at heart of all his success was the knowledge that he was the best around at what he did.
The best. Some called it arrogance; Matthew saw it as confidence.
Then, out of the blue last year, a new shop established itself in town, just two blocks away.
Designs By Dominic.
"What's wrong with aprons?" Tom grinned.
"You know my stance on apron-wearing designers. They can't be trusted."
"Even if the designer in question is a hot, blond stud?"
"Ah, but you're forgetting that he's also an arrogant, conceited asshole."
"So much anger, Matthew. It's unbecoming, you apron hater."
Matthew slammed his knife down on the countertop, his eyes squeezed shut in frustration. "Tom?"
"Yeah?"
"It's ready for delivery."
Because his eyes were closed he couldn't see Tom's cheeky smile. "On it, boss. Catch you later!"
"I wouldn't touch him with a ten-foot pole," Matthew yelled at Tom's retreating form.
"Hehe, you said 'pole'," was Tom's only reply.
* * * *
Two blocks away, in a small, cozy room decorated in a lush, tropical motif, a young man and woman sat across from each other at a fancy table. Their laughter (hers haughty, his sycophantic) filled the room, mingling with the soft strains of classical music playing in the background. An immaculately groomed white poodle had made herself comfortable on the chair in the corner, the rhinestones on her collar glistening in the late afternoon sunlight.
"Of course it's no problem, dear girl. You just let me take care of everything. This is your wedding and I am going to make it a day that you will never, ever forget, I promise you that." He poured Miss Eames another mimosa and put on his most dazzling smile.
"I just don't understand why the guy at Bellamy's was so unhelpful! He was insufferable, actually," she huffed with a pout.
"Really?" he murmured soothingly, "That's simply shocking. I think that some designers are afraid to take risks, you know? And, more's the pity." He shook his head dramatically. "It makes me wonder if dear Matthew is off his game. But you don't need to worry now that you've found me."
"Do I need to make a down payment?"
"Darling, I'm afraid I require payment in full up front," he said in a smooth tone, offering her another appetizer, "that's just my policy."
"It is? Isn't that unorthodox?"
"I'm unorthodox, not to mention the best around, sweetheart. Believe me, I'm worth it. You won't be sorry."
"Okay, that's not a problem, my daddy will be in touch."
She selected a dainty watercress sandwich that was in the shape of a tulip and he wanted to roll his eyes at her predictability. But he maintained his outer persona, one of Superior Floral Designer On A Mission To Make Matthew Bellamy's Life As Unpleasant As Possible, and smiled.
He managed to get through the rest of the consultation without incident; he was exceedingly thankful for that, because he didn't want to be late for his yoga class. By the time the bride-to-be had left he'd managed to talk her into spending about 30% more than what Matthew had initially quoted her.
When she had gone, he leaned against the locked door of his flower shop and punched the air with a victorious grin.
"Suck on that, Bellamy."
His small staff was already gone for the day and he hummed happily as he counted the money in the register and turned out the lights.
"Caspia! Come on, sweet baby girl!"
The small bell on the poodle's collar jingled loudly as the dog trotted dutifully to her owner, who scooped her into his arms and kissed the top of her fluffy head. He found himself wondering again how she would look with pale pink highlights dyed into her hair.
He usually left the shop via the alley that ran along side it but tonight he was feeling especially combative, so he eased slowly down Main Street in his convertible, Caspia nestled in the passenger's seat on her pink plaid blanket. He positively frothed at the mouth when he spotted his prey locking the front door of Bellamy's Buds, a small mountain of paperwork tucked beneath his arm.
His foot hit the brake harder and he slowed to a crawl, willing the man to look in his direction. After seven seconds he got his wish and Matthew had raised his head, the two of them locking eyes. The brunet didn't budge or flinch, instead he simply continued to maintain eye contact with the man in the convertible, his expression murderous, eyes narrowed.
Dominic merely grinned, flipping Matthew the middle finger as he sped off.
Author:
millionstarPairing: Belldom, AU
Rating: Will vary, this chapter PG
Warnings: Language
Summary: Two talented designers. Two massive egos. Four nipples. (Sorry. I suck at summaries.)
Feedback: Is appreciated if you're so inclined, always, but please, just enjoy. :)
Disclaimer: I don't own Matt, Dom or Tom, no profit is being made & this is fiction.
Beta/Support: Thank you to
dolce_piccante & frisky_biscuit for their encouragement and support! They're the best! <3 Author's Note: It was only a matter of time until I had to put these two in the setting I know better than all others: a flower shop. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!
"And I've decided I simply must have hydrangeas in my bouquet."
"Ah. Excellent choice."
"Raspberry colored ones."
"Raspberry, got it."
"And lily of the valley."
"Miss, if I might-"
"And, oh, what are those flowers? You know, they're real long, and spiky and blue?"
"Perhaps you're referring to delphinium?"
"Yes!" the bride-to-be squealed, clapping her hands as she positively bounced in her seat opposite the designer. "Those too. That's what I want."
"Well, to be honest, I'm not sure that those three particular flowers will complement each other very well. You see, they're-"
"You listen to me," she said quietly, Matthew snickering internally at her lame attempt to sound threatening, "my daddy is going to pay you good money for these wedding flowers. And whatever I want, I get. So," she stood up, flicking her long red hair in his face, "figure it out, make it work, and earn your money. I'll be in touch, maybe. There's another shop in town I could go to, as I'm sure you're well aware."
If it had been any other customer he would have let them leave and would have done a dance of joy after they'd left. But no, this particular bride had to mention that other shop; after that, all bets were off. The urge to kill rising in his throat, he stood quickly as well, the prospect of losing what promised to be a large wedding account to the enemy spurring him into further action.
"Now, let's not be hasty, Miss Eames," he replied, gritting his teeth. "I will do what I can to make your day a memorable one. But when you consider the shapes of these blooms, putting them together in the form of a bridal bouquet may not be the best idea. It's a matter of asthetics, you see."
"Are you calling me stupid?"
"Of course not," he lied, putting on his best salesman's smile, "I'm just merely suggesting that we perhaps reapproach things from the beginning. Let me see if I can change your mind?"
She looked at him warily, then down at her empty seat. "Okay. I'll give you fifteen minutes."
"You must be losing your touch, Matt."
"Like fuck I am," Matthew replied confidently, his hands deftly arranging stems of protea, bird of paradise and ginger in a large glass vase.
Tom, Matthew's oldest friend, floral delivery specialist extraordinaire and professional bullshit artist, grinned. "You know where she was going when she left here."
"I don't care."
"Yes you do."
"She'll be back. That blond fucker will never quote her a lower price than I did. It's not gonna happen; he needs to bring in the big bucks to feed his ever-growing ego. It can't be cheap running all those vans with that stupid custom logo on them. Not to mention the t-shirts. Or the aprons." Matthew shuddered. "They wear aprons there, Thomas. Aprons, with horrible, hateful, fucking cheerful name tags and glitter. If I ever, and I mean ever present to my staff an apron with Bellamy's Buds embroidered on it in neon stitching, you have my permission to have me shot."
There was a time, when Matthew was a young boy, when the town he grew up in had five different florists. The oldest and most prestigious of them all was the one that Matthew's childhood was spent in, Bellamy's Buds. Founded by his grandfather, over the decades it had gained a loyal customer base as well as a reputation of excellence in design. Matthew had hated those early years; always being recruited to help work on busy holidays made him dread seeing holidays come at all. He would be made to deliver arrangements, clean buckets, or strip stems, depending on what his parents needed him to do. He was amazed at what a backbreaking, dirty job working in a florist could be.
It was something of a happy accident when Matthew discovered that he had natural design talent. It was an eye-opener for the Bellamys as a whole as well, and he found that he was beginning to enjoy the time spent at the shop more and more. When Matthew graduated from high school he knew instantly that he wanted to attend college locally to allow his parents to groom him to take over the business for himself some day. He'd worked hard in school, earning a degree in Botanical Studies, which hung proudly in his small office in the back of the shop.
That had been four years ago.
Now his parents were retired and Bellamy's Buds was all his. Things had been going wonderfully, the business was growing, which was a minor miracle considering the current state of the economy. All of the other florists in town had dried up and went out of business, so Bellamy's Buds stayed busy filling the demand that their absence created. He had a wonderful design staff and employees, and was doing what he absolutely loved for a living.
And at heart of all his success was the knowledge that he was the best around at what he did.
The best. Some called it arrogance; Matthew saw it as confidence.
Then, out of the blue last year, a new shop established itself in town, just two blocks away.
Designs By Dominic.
"What's wrong with aprons?" Tom grinned.
"You know my stance on apron-wearing designers. They can't be trusted."
"Even if the designer in question is a hot, blond stud?"
"Ah, but you're forgetting that he's also an arrogant, conceited asshole."
"So much anger, Matthew. It's unbecoming, you apron hater."
Matthew slammed his knife down on the countertop, his eyes squeezed shut in frustration. "Tom?"
"Yeah?"
"It's ready for delivery."
Because his eyes were closed he couldn't see Tom's cheeky smile. "On it, boss. Catch you later!"
"I wouldn't touch him with a ten-foot pole," Matthew yelled at Tom's retreating form.
"Hehe, you said 'pole'," was Tom's only reply.
Two blocks away, in a small, cozy room decorated in a lush, tropical motif, a young man and woman sat across from each other at a fancy table. Their laughter (hers haughty, his sycophantic) filled the room, mingling with the soft strains of classical music playing in the background. An immaculately groomed white poodle had made herself comfortable on the chair in the corner, the rhinestones on her collar glistening in the late afternoon sunlight.
"Of course it's no problem, dear girl. You just let me take care of everything. This is your wedding and I am going to make it a day that you will never, ever forget, I promise you that." He poured Miss Eames another mimosa and put on his most dazzling smile.
"I just don't understand why the guy at Bellamy's was so unhelpful! He was insufferable, actually," she huffed with a pout.
"Really?" he murmured soothingly, "That's simply shocking. I think that some designers are afraid to take risks, you know? And, more's the pity." He shook his head dramatically. "It makes me wonder if dear Matthew is off his game. But you don't need to worry now that you've found me."
"Do I need to make a down payment?"
"Darling, I'm afraid I require payment in full up front," he said in a smooth tone, offering her another appetizer, "that's just my policy."
"It is? Isn't that unorthodox?"
"I'm unorthodox, not to mention the best around, sweetheart. Believe me, I'm worth it. You won't be sorry."
"Okay, that's not a problem, my daddy will be in touch."
She selected a dainty watercress sandwich that was in the shape of a tulip and he wanted to roll his eyes at her predictability. But he maintained his outer persona, one of Superior Floral Designer On A Mission To Make Matthew Bellamy's Life As Unpleasant As Possible, and smiled.
He managed to get through the rest of the consultation without incident; he was exceedingly thankful for that, because he didn't want to be late for his yoga class. By the time the bride-to-be had left he'd managed to talk her into spending about 30% more than what Matthew had initially quoted her.
When she had gone, he leaned against the locked door of his flower shop and punched the air with a victorious grin.
"Suck on that, Bellamy."
His small staff was already gone for the day and he hummed happily as he counted the money in the register and turned out the lights.
"Caspia! Come on, sweet baby girl!"
The small bell on the poodle's collar jingled loudly as the dog trotted dutifully to her owner, who scooped her into his arms and kissed the top of her fluffy head. He found himself wondering again how she would look with pale pink highlights dyed into her hair.
He usually left the shop via the alley that ran along side it but tonight he was feeling especially combative, so he eased slowly down Main Street in his convertible, Caspia nestled in the passenger's seat on her pink plaid blanket. He positively frothed at the mouth when he spotted his prey locking the front door of Bellamy's Buds, a small mountain of paperwork tucked beneath his arm.
His foot hit the brake harder and he slowed to a crawl, willing the man to look in his direction. After seven seconds he got his wish and Matthew had raised his head, the two of them locking eyes. The brunet didn't budge or flinch, instead he simply continued to maintain eye contact with the man in the convertible, his expression murderous, eyes narrowed.
Dominic merely grinned, flipping Matthew the middle finger as he sped off.
