Bleville Oneshots

i'll be right here (wishing the flowers were from you)

Dedicated to my favorite Bleville author– in fact, the one who got me shipping them in the first place. You're the best, Treadmillofanxiety!

Flowershop AU, 6k, Getting Together, Post-Hogwarts. Title from Taylor Swift's "Superman."

Briiing!

"Be with you in a minute!"

Neville tucks the last of the thin pine clippings into the wreath he has put together, threading them into the wire. He enjoys making wreaths as much as he enjoys putting together bouquets, but it's always nice to be able to do a wreath simply because he gets so many more orders for bouquets than he does wreaths.

Usually.

It's Christmas season now, and with it comes a wave of Christmas-y commissions.

His hands are a little bit sticky from the sap, and a pine needle, still green, sticks to his pointer finger, but he can't get it off without getting it stuck to another finger. He decides to leave it– he doesn't want to keep a customer waiting– and looks up from the counter quickly.

There's a man watching him, his mouth tipped up in amusement, and Neville recognises him right away– his close-cut hair, his arrogant posture, the way he dresses, all his clothing clinging to his lean frame. "Blaise?"

"Hello, Longbottom." Blaise leans against the counter, his movements smooth and sure. Neville feels more awkward than ever with Blaise watching him, and he reaches up to rub the back of his neck and then stops, because he's got sap on his fingertips.

Blaise's smirk widens. He knows how good he looks, with a jawline that could slice you open and his full lips just parted– he always knew how good he looked, even in school, and Neville had never felt more plain than when he was in Blaise Zabini's presence.

"You're here for your mother's Christmas wreath?" It happens to be the one Neville's working on, and Neville's stomach flutters anxiously– wasn't he told the week after next week? He was sure Mrs. Zabini had asked him to have it ready in two weeks. He looks up at Blaise, after trying to get the needle off of his finger again. "Did she want it by today?"

"It's our wreath," Blaise says, looking at the wreath on Neville's counter, "I still live with her." He grins. "Pretty inconvenient for a shag, though. I have to go to the bloke's place. Pain in the arse."

Neville smiles awkwardly, his stomach going warm and his heart stuttering in his chest. What is one even supposed to say in response to something like that? He brushes the needle against his sweater, but it refuses to come off.

"I think..." He sighs and sticks his hands in his pockets so he'll stop fiddling with it before Blaise outright laughs at him– it looks as if he's about to. "I think she said in two weeks, but I could be wrong."

Blaise snickers. "Calm down. I'm only here to see how it's coming along. She didn't mention it was you in the shop. I found out from the gardener. He says you're quite a name in the botanical communities."

"Oh."

Neville feels blood rise to his cheeks and he looks quickly down at the wreath he's been putting together– it looks dull right now, only green and a couple small pinecones, but the structure of it and the body– the branches– are the bulk of the work, and he's gotten that done. Still, holding it out feels strange, because to anyone who doesn't make wreaths, it'll look like nothing at all. He holds it out anyway, hoping to get Blaise to stop looking at him before he turns as red as the berries he's going to put on next.