Chapter 4: Flowers
The key turned in the lock with a heavy, final click, a sound that never failed to make Angel’s heart stutter, a Pavlovian jolt of simultaneous anxiety and longing. He was already moving from the sofa, his book forgotten on the velvet cushion, as the apartment door swung inward.
Alexander Hawk filled the frame, backlit by the grim, grey light of the late afternoon hallway. He carried the chill of the outside world on his shoulders, in the damp sheen of his black leather jacket. Two heavy-looking grocery bags dangled from his fists, the plastic straining. His expression was its usual resting state of arrogant irritation, dark eyes scanning the room as if inspecting a barracks.
“It’s fucking raining,” he announced, his voice cutting through the gentle hum of the record player, which was mid-way through a languid trumpet solo. He kicked the door shut with his heel, the thud vibrating through the floorboards.
Angel was already there, a small, swift shadow. “Let me take your coat,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, the words practised and automatic. His fingers, quick and nervous, went to the zipper of Alex’s jacket before Alex could even shrug it off.
Alex let him, standing like a colossus allowing a sparrow to perch on him. He looked down, watching the top of Angel’s head, the waterfall of platinum curls that seemed to absorb the room’s low lamplight. A faint, possessive smirk touched his lips. “Shoulders are wet. Don’t drip on the floor, kitten.”
“I won’t,” Angel murmured, carefully peeling the heavy leather off Alex’s broad shoulders. The jacket smelled of cold air, cheap petrol, and the unique, spicy scent of Alex’s skin. Angel hugged it to his chest for a second, feeling the residual warmth from Alex’s body, before turning to hang it on the wrought-iron hook by the door. He moved precisely, ensuring it was centred.
When he turned back, Alex had toed off his heavy boots, leaving them in a disordered pile on the mat—Angel would straighten them later—and was walking toward the kitchen island, the bags crinkling. Angel followed, his socked feet silent on the polished concrete floor.
“The bags, baby,” Alex said, not looking back, already yanking open the refrigerator door. The cold light washed over his profile, highlighting the strong line of his jaw, the slight swell on his knuckles, a souvenir from a dispute days ago that Angel had gently cleaned and bandaged.
Angel hurried forward, his slender arms looping through the plastic handles. They were heavy, weighing him down on one side. He shuffled to the granite countertop and began the silent, methodical ritual of unpacking. Eggs, milk, the cheap, hearty bread Alex preferred, packets of minced beef, a bag of apples. He put everything in its designated place, a choreography learned through hissed corrections and approving silences.
Alex leaned against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, watching. His gaze was a physical weight on the nape of Angel’s neck. Angel could feel it, could sense the restless energy coiled in the room. It was in the way Alex tapped two fingers against his bicep, in the way his eyes tracked every movement Angel made.
The last item was a box of expensive tea, Angel’s favourite, a bergamot blend he’d mentioned in passing weeks ago. His fingers paused on the cardboard. He didn’t look up.
“See something you like, cunt?” Alex’s voice was a low rumble, closer than Angel expected.
Before Angel could answer, could even turn, the presence behind him solidified. Alex’s body caged him against the counter, his heat immediately suffusing Angel’s back. Large, rough hands landed on the granite on either side of Angel’s hips, trapping him completely. Angel went very still, his breath catching. The familiar, terrifying thrill licked up his spine.
“You did good with the bags,” Alex murmured, his mouth close to Angel’s ear. His breath stirred the fine hairs there. “Quiet. Efficient. Like a little ghost.”
Angel’s heart hammered against his ribs. He leaned back, just a fraction, into the solid wall of Alex’s chest. A silent plea for contact. “Thank you,” he whispered.
One of Alex’s hands left the counter. Angel heard a rustle, a crinkle of cellophane. He frowned, trying to listen over the sound of his own pulse. What had he missed in the bags?
“Look down,” Alex commanded, his voice dropping into that velvet-dark register that brooked no hesitation.
Angel obeyed, lowering his gaze from the apple in his hand to the space in front of him on the counter. A bouquet of flowers lay there, where a moment before there had been only clean granite. They were wild and imperfect, a burst of colour against the cool stone: deep purple irises, sprigs of white baby’s breath, a few brave, crimson peonies. They were wrapped in brown paper, tied with twine. They were the most beautiful thing Angel had ever seen.
A sound escaped him—a tiny, choked gasp that transformed into a high, pure squeal of delight. He dropped the apple. It rolled, unnoticed, toward the sink. He spun within the cage of Alex’s arms, his face transformed, eyes wide and shining with stunned joy.
“Alex!” he breathed, his hands fluttering up, unsure whether to touch the flowers or the man who brought them.
Alex was looking at him with an expression of intense, smug satisfaction. The arrogance was still there, but it was softened by something else, something fiercely proprietary. He enjoyed this—the power to shatter Angel’s quiet anxiety with a simple, brutal act of beauty.
“For me?” Angel asked, even though it was absurd. There was no one else.
“No, for the fucking cat we don’t have,” Alex scoffed, but there was no bite to it. He picked up the bouquet and shoved it gently against Angel’s chest. “Take ‘em. They’re yours.”
Angel gathered them to himself, burying his nose in the petals. They smelled of green stems and fragile, sweet perfume, a scent utterly alien in their apartment of leather and spice. He looked up at Alex, his vision blurring with sudden, hot tears. “They’re perfect. How did you… when did you…?”
“Saw them at the stall by the station. The old woman looked pitiful sitting in the rain.” Alex shrugged, as if explaining he’d stomped on a bug. His eyes, however, never left Angel’s face, drinking in the reaction. “Figured you’d make a scene. You’re making a scene.”
“I love them,” Angel said, the words fervent, a vow. “I love you.”
A muscle flexed in Alex’s jaw. The raw sentimentality always did that to him—agitated him, pleased him. He grunted. “Yeah, yeah. Get a vase or something. They’ll die on the counter.”
Angel didn’t move. He was tethered, held by the gravity in Alex’s dark eyes. The flowers between them were a fragrant shield, a peace offering from a warrior. Slowly, Angel went up on his tiptoes. Even at his full, precarious extension, the top of his head only just reached Alex’s chin. He tilted his face up, an offering.
Alex let him hang there for a suspended second, letting the demand of the gesture hang in the air. Then, with a sound that was almost a sigh, he bent down. He bent so far, his back curving, his head dipping. It was a monumental capitulation, this giant lowering himself to meet his tiny worshipper.
Their lips met. Alex’s were cool from the outside air, firm and demanding. Angel’s were soft, parting instantly in surrender. The kiss was not gentle. It was a claiming, a reassertion of the natural order. Alex’s hand came up to cup the back of Angel’s head, fingers tangling in the silk of his hair, holding him steady for the invasion of his tongue. The taste of him—of coffee and winter and Alex—flooded Angel’s senses. The flowers, crushed lightly between their bodies, released a stronger burst of perfume.
Angel melted into it, into him, the world narrowing to the pressure of that mouth, the grip in his hair, the solidity of the chest against his. He was lightheaded, floating, anchored only by Alex’s hold.
Finally, Alex pulled back, just an inch. His breath was warm on Angel’s wet lips. “You’re crying,” he stated, his thumb brushing away a traitorous tear that had escaped.
“Happy,” Angel whispered, his voice wrecked.
“You’re a mess over some weeds.” But Alex kissed him again, briefly, a hard, sealing press. “Vase. Now. Then finish putting the shit away. I’m hungry.”
The spell was broken, but the atmosphere in the apartment had irrevocably changed. The shadows from the lamp seemed softer, the jazz from the record player more poignant. Angel, clutching his flowers, danced to the cupboard. He found a simple glass vase, filled it at the sink, his movements graceful, effervescent. He arranged the stems with meticulous care, his fingers gentle on the delicate petals.
Alex watched him from the kitchen island, having pulled out a beer. He took a long swallow, his eyes following Angel’s every shift. The silent, domestic ballet soothed something restless in him.
“What do you want for dinner?” Angel asked, his back turned as he centred the vase on the small table by the window.
“You made that stew last week. The beef one. Make that again.”
“It takes a few hours,” Angel said, turning, a slight, worried crease between his brows. “You’ll be really hungry.”
Alex’s gaze darkened. “I can wait. I’ll find something to do.” The implication was clear, a promise that thrummed in the air between them. He pushed off the counter and walked over to the sofa, slumping down onto it. He picked up Angel’s discarded book, scowled at the cover, and tossed it aside. “Just get started. And bring me a beer.”
Angel moved, a flurry of quiet efficiency. He fetched a second beer, opened it, and placed it on the coaster on the side table within Alex’s reach. His fingers briefly grazed Alex’s, a fleeting connection. Then he was back in the kitchen, pulling out the heavy pot, gathering onions, carrots, the packet of beef.
As he began to chop, the steady, rhythmic thock-thock-thock of the knife on the board joining the music, he was hyper-aware of Alex’s presence filling the living room. He could feel his gaze like a touch. The memory of the morning—the brutal, blissful awakening, the soreness that still lingered in his muscles—was a warm, secret ache inside him. The flowers on the table were its echo, its beautiful, public counterpart.
“You gonna stare at those all night or cook?” Alex’s voice floated over, laced with amusement.
“I can do both,” Angel said, a rare, tiny spark of defiance in his soft reply. He glanced over his shoulder, a shy smile touching his lips.
Alex just shook his head, a ghost of a smirk on his face, and took another drink. He let the silence stretch, filled only by the sounds of Angel’s cooking and the melancholic trumpet. This was the heart of it, Angel realized. The violence and the flowers. The commands and the quiet moments of observance. The way Alex could shatter him and, in the very next breath, put him back together with a careless, breathtaking tenderness that was somehow more possessive than the shattering had ever been.
He browned the meat, the savoury smell filling the apartment, layering over the scent of flowers and candle wax. He felt, rather than saw, Alex get up and come to stand in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame, just watching him work. Angel didn’t turn around. He just let himself be seen, known, owned in this most mundane of acts.
“You need to stir that more,” Alex grunted eventually. “It’s sticking.”
Angel jumped, startled from his reverie. “Oh. Sorry.” He stirred frantically.
“Relax, kitten. It’s just food.” Alex walked up behind him, not touching him, just looking over his shoulder into the pot. His proximity was a brand. “Smells good.”
“It’ll be better this time. I have fresh thyme now.”
“Whatever you say, chef.”
Angel’s heart swelled. He added the stock, the bay leaf, the precious thyme. He lowered the heat to a simmer and set the lid on, angling it just so. Then he wiped his hands on a cloth and finally turned around. Alex was still there, close, his dark eyes unreadable.
“It has to cook for at least two and a half hours,” Angel said softly, looking up at him.
“I know what I said.” Alex’s hand came up, his fingers—the ones that could bruise and brand—traced the line of Angel’s jaw with a shocking tenderness. “Come here.”
He didn’t pull Angel to the bedroom. He led him to the sofa. He sat first, sprawling back into the corner, then patted the space between his thighs on the cushions. A silent order.
Angel went, folding himself into that space, his back against Alex’s chest. Alex’s arms came around him, heavy and warm, one hand splayed on Angel’s flat stomach, pulling him close. With his other hand, Alex reached for the remote and turned the record player up a little, the smooth bassline thrumming through the speaker beside them.
They sat like that, in the dim, lamplight pool, as the sky outside turned from grey to indigo to black. The stew bubbled quietly in the kitchen, its rich aroma promising warmth and sustenance. The flowers on the table were a dark, elegant silhouette against the window.
Angel’s breathing slowed, syncing with the rise and fall of Alex’s chest behind him. He felt the press of Alex’s lips against the crown of his head.
“You’re mine,” Alex murmured into his hair, the words not a question, not a reassurance, but a simple, immutable fact, as true as the coming night.
Angel closed his eyes, letting the words, the heat, the music, and the scent of beef and peonies wash over him. He nestled deeper into the embrace, into the possession.
“Yes, Daddy,” he whispered into the quiet, dark room. “Always.”