#cesar gaviria x you

[the-hinky-panda]

The Florist: Part IV

It’s a mess, I didn’t have time to properly edit so please be forgiving! 

He’s taking up smoking again. 

Ana is passing through their living quarters and a blast of cold air hits her as she passes César’s personal office. She knows he’s already over at the Presidential Palace just a few blocks over from their temporary and sprawling residence, so she steps into his office to investigate the source of cold air. That is when she finds the window cracked open and the ashtray sitting on the windowsill. Unfortunately, she also sees the Christmas orchid drooping from the exposure to the cold. 

She shuts the window, empties the ashtray and puts it on the bookshelf before picking up the orchid and setting it carefully on a small table in one of the sunny sitting rooms. She goes about her day, planning a couple charity events, setting up appointments with planners and meeting with vendors. She’s in the middle of choosing a menu for an afternoon tea when she hears the unmistakable sound of a flower pot crashing to the floor. She excuses herself from the consultation with the caterer and makes her way back to the sunroom and sure enough, the Christmas orchid is in a pile of broken pottery and dirt on the highly polished hardwood floor. The poor maid is almost in tears when she sees Ana standing there. 

“I’m so sorry…I didn’t see…it’s not usually here…” 

Ana quickly schools her face and helps clean up the mess. “It’s my fault. I’m the one who moved it out of the office.” 

“Is the President going to be angry?” 

“No,” Ana smiles and shakes her head. “He won’t be angry at all.” 

That seems to soothe the maid. Even though César won’t be angry, he is going to feel something else: devastation. This was the orchid, the national flower of Colombia, that you had gifted him when he had won the Presidency. He had it in his personal office for the last three and a half years. It was beyond special to him, a symbol of your faith in him and his leadership. 

She runs her fingers over one of the white and pale pink petals, broken in the fall. He has suffered so many setbacks recently. Escobar’s escape from La Catedral, Colonel Carrillo’s death…Eduardo’s resignation. He’s losing hope, losing faith. She wants to fix this, give him hope and renew his strength. But as she stares at the decorative pieces of terracotta and bruised petals, she realizes she is no longer the person who can do that. 

But she knows who can. 

***

You have no idea what you’re doing. 

Ana had called you that afternoon and your heart had stopped. You couldn’t exactly pinpoint the specific fear you had but there were plenty. She’s changed her mind and wants to remain married. He’s changed his mind and wants to rebuild the marriage. Or something worse. An assassination attempt that left him hurt, wounded, or…

But it was none of those things. 

The Christmas orchid fell off a table and couldn’t be saved. That was all. It took you a few moments to slow your heart rate and find your voice. You had a selection of Christmas orchids in varying shades of pinks, purples, and whites.  But Ana requested one that has quite a bit of yellow to it. She also was very specific about the time you were to drop off the replacement. You had spent so much time trying to decide between three particular orchids that you were almost late to the Presidential residence. 

You’ve never actually been to the residence. The Palace you were much more familiar with since your shop was the one that provided flowers for any special occasions. You personally showed up for those occasions and arranged the flowers yourself, learning all the back doors and hidden hallways between banquet halls and conference rooms. You had never stepped foot past the security gate of the residence though. 

The Residence is much smaller than the Palace but no less imposing. You give your name at the front gate, provide your identification, and wait nervously for them to wave you through. You park your car in the driveway circle in front of the main entrance and retrieve the orchid from the passenger seat. You have to go through another round of security measures, metal detectors and a thorough inspection of the flower and decorative pot. Once you’ve passed that inspection, the house manager, a stern looking woman in a dark colored suit, leads you through expansive hallways, up ornate staircases, and finally to a large sitting room. 

César is sitting in one of the chairs, a book in hand and a tumbler of whiskey on the small end table next to him. He looks much like he did when you first laid eyes on him: dressed in a suit without the jacket, rolled up shirtsleeves and that soft sweep of black hair. You can see the wear on him though, the tired lines etched into his face, the threads of gray in his hair. The presidential term has not been easy on him. 

Your hands flex against the ceramic pot as you remember the feel of his hair slipping between your fingers. It’s been almost two years now since the gas explosion that destroyed your shop but prompted César’s confession. Two years of avoiding each other, staying away from each other to keep the media at bay. Two years of painstakingly rebuilding your business, focusing on that instead of the slow movement of time until you can actually be seen together, find some kind of normalcy. So far, everything has gone in your favor: the community had rallied around you and the media had stayed far away. Now, you just needed to keep it that way for one more year. 

The Presidential Palace had also contributed to your business rebuild and you took advantage of every proposal that came across your desk. You and César would catch each other’s eye when you dropped off floral arrangements at the Palace, nodding to each other when you passed on the sidewalk when he stopped by his home. The desire to reach out to him, take his hand, slip your arms around his waist and press yourself against him, was so great. You missed him, incredibly. You saw him more frequently on television now than in real life. You fall back on the phrase that has become your mantra lately: two years are done; there is only one more to go. 

“Here,” the house manager whispers, reaching for the pot, “I will take this.” 

“What? Why?” This is the closest you’ve been to him in months and you’re not ready to leave just yet. 

“The President-” 

“Will take it himself.” 

César has abandoned his book and is moving across the space towards you. A smile starts to blossom across your face but you tamper it down, especially when you see the tight, polite smile of César’s. It’s fake and has none of the warmth that it usually holds. It creates a pit in the bottom of your stomach, an uneasy feeling again. This meeting had been set up, Ana had known César would be here, and now you’re back to wondering why she would have arranged this. For you two to see each other? Spend time together? Surely not. He is still her husband after all. 

“Thank you for delivering a new orchid,” he says stiffly, carefully extracting the plant from your grip. “I appreciate you bringing it yourself.” 

You’re still trying to figure out what is happening when he nods at the house manager and retreats to his office. You’re so stunned at the brisk formality that it takes a firm shake of your elbow from your guide to pull you out of your shock. You follow her back down the staircase and through the hallways to the main lobby where she bids you a good evening and you’re promptly directed to the front door. Numbly you make your way to your car and get behind the wheel. That’s when it hits you, why you were asked to come this evening. 

You’re not fit for this world, for his world. You’ve never had a desire to be in any sort of a spotlight. You never wanted attention or recognition. You love your modest house on the quiet street, with your private backyard and sunroom filled with plants. You are not made of the steel that withstands the public eye and its judgment. You are not skilled at small talk and tailored clothing. That is what you’re certain Ana wanted to show you: you are too small and insignificant for César’s life. 

You manage to pull out of the driveway of the Presidential Residence before pulling over two blocks away to put your head down on your steering wheel and cry. 

***

The evening passed infinitely slowly. How many nights had he felt like three hours went by in five minutes? But not tonight. The clock seemed to move backwards for him this evening. Of course it didn’t help that the hurt look in your eyes plagued him every minute from the time you left to the time he did the same. He knew he had to wait for the staff change, the skeleton crew that came in for the night shift. He’s actually become quite good at slipping through the bars of the gilded cage for a brief taste of freedom. 

Eduardo would be most displeased, a thought that brings another pang of heartbreak. 

He feels so alone. Feeling the isolation of being a leader isn’t a surprise to him; he expected it and thought he had prepared himself for it. But now, staring down the last year of his term, he sees Ana making plans to return to the States and becoming increasingly more focused on her future. He had started to lean more on Eduardo, only now, Eduardo too is setting his sights on a new, albeit shaky, future.  

Which  brings him to his own future: you. He saw the look on your face when he treated you the same way he treated any guest who crossed paths with him in the living quarters of the Presidential Residence. But how could he treat you any differently, with staff wandering around with sharp eyes and even sharper tongues? There was only one more year left before this secrecy could be shaken off and he could interact with you with the openness you deserve. 

He parks his car behind his house, the sight of the dark windows  making him feel even more miserable. He wants to go back home. He wants to go back to a time when the name Pablo Escobar wasn’t on anyone’s radar, when he was teaching economics classes at the University, and helping draft programs that would help boost Colombia’s economy. He misses the simplicity of those days, the opportunity to feel bored on a Sunday afternoon and choose how to fill that time. 

Having gathered up enough courage, he reaches for the handle to open the car door when the sky decides to open and pour down cold, sharp drops of rain. But he’s already committed to being here and doesn’t want to waste any more time sitting in his car. It’s almost midnight, you’re most likely getting ready for bed and he wants to catch you before you fall asleep. Especially before you fall asleep thinking he’s changed his mind about you and your relationship. He knows that’s what you’re thinking, that it’s over for some reason or another. He can’t get the memory of the look in your eyes out of his mind and that’s what spurns him on, trying to get to your back door as quickly as possible. 

By the time he reaches the door to your sunroom, he’s already soaked through his clothes. He can feel the cold chill of the rain reaching all the way to his skin. There’s no overhang on your sunroom, no protection from the elements, so he’s forced to keep knocking on the glass-paned door until a light turns on inside the home. Surely you wouldn’t let him stay out here in the rain and the cold. Surely you knew that he had to put on that dismissive act back at the Presidential residence. But when you finally appear at the door and swing it open, your red, puffy eyes tell a different story. He expects you to just shut the door in his face, and for a moment, the thought seems to cross your mind. But your caring nature prevails and you step to the side to let him inside the back patio. 

“Let me get a towel,” you murmur before leaving him to drip on the terracotta tile. He feels like an overwatered plant. You’re gone for a while and he wonders if you’ve just left him to drip dry. If you really did think that his brush off was sincere today, then he can’t blame you for that. But you do come back, with three towels and some dry clothes. You drop one of the towels over his head and start to vigorously rub his hair before pulling the towel down and wrapping it around his neck. The corners of your mouth quirk up slightly as you use your fingers to comb through his tousled hair and restore some neatness to it. 

“Why are you here, César?” 

He is a man of words, always has been, but at the moment, he can’t come up with one. The more time that passes, the longer the silence stretches, the more your face hardens. He needs to do something that a politician never is supposed to do: speak off the cuff. 

“I had to show you something.” 

You still look disheartened but with a touch of curiosity now. He pulls the damp card out of his pocket, relieved to see Ana’s slanted, loopy handwriting didn’t smudge in the rain. He hands it to you and watches as your tired eyes read the short note. 

I’m terribly sorry about your orchid. I did request a new one, yellow this time. She’ll know why. It’ll be dropped off at 5:30. 

Your brow furrows and you hand the note back to him. “I don’t understand. She’s apologizing about the orchid and telling you what time the new one is going to be dropped off.” 

He closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath. You understand the need for secrecy, of staying out of the media’s grasp, but you don’t have any idea of the lengths that he has to go to in order for that to happen. You understand the situation in practicality, not in method. He should have realized this sooner. “It’s written in code, mi amor.” 

You flinch at the term of endearment, but it’s lightning quick. “I still don’t understand.” 

“I accidentally left the window in my office open and the original orchid started to wilt. Ana moved it to the sun room to try to warm it up when a staff member knocked it over.” 

“Ana told me that already.” 

“Did she tell you why the window was open?” 

You shook your head and crossed your arms. “No. Why?” 

“I was smoking, something I only do on occasion, when things get…overwhelming.” 

“I can think of worse vices. But what does this have to do with the note?” 

You’re listening to him. You’re engaging in the conversation. He has some hope now that this may end favorably. “When she apologizes about the orchid, she’s saying she’s sorry about missing the signs of how…unhappy I’ve been lately.” 

Understanding breaks across your face. “The note is written in code.” 

“Yes. This is her way of telling me she’s sorry for not being there for me but she called someone who could be, who could offer support and comfort.” 

“Me,” your voice breaks on the word, tears glassing your eyes. 

“You.” He frowns slightly. “But I don’t understand the meaning of the color yellow. I know flowers have specific meanings, but do the colors carry meaning as well?” 

“They do, yes.” Another wave of understanding hits you and you cover your face with your hands. “Oh my God, I’m so stupid!” 

“Why?” 

“Yellow, she was very specific about the orchid having yellow on it. The color yellow stands for friendship and joy, but it can also mean new beginnings. I had thought…” 

He takes one of your hands and pulls it away from your face. He’s still soaking wet so instead of hugging you, he presses a kiss to your palm. “What did you think?” 

You sigh, weary and defeated. “I thought she asked me to come there this evening to show me that, that I don’t fit in with that world. Everything is so big and ornate and-” 

“Cold, lonely. Isolating.” He holds up the note. “We can’t even write notes to each other stating what we really mean in case someone gives it over to the media. It’s a prison and I can not wait to get out of it.” 

“So you weren’t giving me the brush off?” 

“God, no. I was trying to keep control of myself so Señora Fernandez wouldn’t get any information to pass to her journalist son. She is the biggest gossip on my staff.” 

You give him a surprised look. “That mean looking woman in the suit?” 

“Biggest gossip.” 

A laugh, small and shaky, finds its way out of your mouth. “So this isn’t over?” 

He can’t help but smile. He feels like he can breathe again, that his world has completely righted itself once more. He’s still dripping rainwater on your tile, his clothes are still wet and cold but he just can’t help himself. He pulls you closer to him and you don’t hesitate to twine your arms around his neck. “Over? We haven’t even begun yet.”

[the-hinky-panda]

What do you think reader and the former president gaviria are up to after he finishes his term? 🥰

You hated Sundays.

The floral shop was always closed on Sundays. You would go to church, say your prayers, exchange pleasantries with the parishioners, and head out into the afternoon. Most of your friends had families that they spent their time with but you always walked back to an empty house and tried to fill your time until it was Monday morning and your regular schedule started again.

But that was then. Now, you looked forward to Sundays.

César Gaviria, the former President of Colombia, has now taken up residence in your home. He has been teaching economics and political science classes at the University. Sundays are different for you now that his life out of the public eye has begun.

It has been raining all day, a slow, steady and slightly chilly showering of Bogotá. It's the perfect day to make a pot of ajiaco and do some plant maintenance on the back patio. César typically sits in the small study and grades papers but when you step out onto the patio, he's there. He's sitting on the settee, shirt sleeves rolled up, book in one hand, cut glass tumbler of whiskey in the other.

"What are you doing out here?"

He looks up from the book he's reading and smiles easily. "No grading today. Just relaxing. Enjoying the sound of the rain."

You smile to yourself as you continue with your tasks of trimming some of the plants, removing faded blossoms, and taking some cuttings to place in vases throughout the house. The sound of the rain is quite nice. The sound of stiff pages being turned and sharp snap of your hand clippers are the only other sounds that fill the space.

This. This is what peace feels like. You, your love, life and beautiful surrounding you both. It's enough to bring tears to your eyes. By the time you've finished your pruning and clipping, the smell of the soup has reached out to the patio. You wipe off the blades of the pruners and put them back in the basket near the back door as you make your way over to the settee. César opens his arm, an invitation for you to join him. You sit down but turn to lay your head in his lap, draping your legs over the arm of the settee. He sets the glass down on the small table next to him and uses his free hand to trace invisible patterns on your arm as he continues to read. You close your eyes, listening to the rain, enjoying the feel of his fingertips on your skin, as you slowly slip in a light sleep.

[the-hinky-panda]

The Florist (César Gaviria xReader)

The Florist - Ongoing Series

Pairing: César Gaviria x Fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Summary: You have been friends with your parent's neighbors for years, harboring an increasingly difficult crush on the husband. You didn't think it would ever develop into anything, especially when he decided to run for President of Colombia. But when a chance meeting in the hospital offers you the opportunity to be there for your friend, you may find out your crush isn't as one sided as you thought.

Part I

Part II

Part III

Part IV

[the-hinky-panda]

Day 30: Nightmarish

10/30: Nightmarish

Universe // Characters: The Florist // César Gaviria x Reader

César Gaviria hears about the explosion on the other side of the park off Calle 7 almost as soon as it happens. It’s just mere blocks away from the Presidential Palace which causes the entire building to go into lockdown. 

Of course, no one has information on what the cause happens to be or if anyone has been hurt or killed. Everyone assumes that it’s Escobar and his bombs, causing terror and chaos in the streets. However this is the first time an attack would have happened this close to the Presidential Palace. It’s almost ninety minutes before Eduardo comes to the main office with news. 

“It was a gas leak.” 

“Not a bomb? Or an attack?” 

Eduardo shakes his head. “No. This was one hundred percent accidental. No casualties but some injuries.” 

César nods, grateful to hear that one died. But Eduardo is still standing there, holding onto one last piece of information with an air of reluctance. “What is it?” 

He looks back towards the doorway to make sure no one is coming down the long hallway before moving closer to César’s desk. “Doesn’t your, uh, neighbor own a florist shop? On Calle 7?” 

Was that where your shop was located? He’s trying to remember exactly where the shop is that his mind has to circle back on the subtle tone that Eduardo used when he said the word “neighbor.” He buys himself some time by opening one of the desk drawers and pulling out a collection of business cards of places that the government regularly uses. “What do you know of my neighbor?” 

“She’s late thirties, unmarried, no kids. Her parents owned the house and florist shop until they passed away two years ago in a car accident and ownership passed to her.” 

“You make her sound like she’s a security threat.” 

“She could be.” 

César laughs quietly. “You’re not serious.” 

Eduardo folds his arms across his chest. “During your campaign, you spent a lot of time at her house.” 

“She was ill.” 

“And your wife was out of town.” 

“I’m not-” 

“I know,” Eduardo holds up a hand. “I know that. But if the press catches on-” 

“I understand.” He finds your business card and runs his thumb over the embossed letters. Bogotá Blooms. And he does understand. He remembers that first night when he brought the soup over very well. He remembers the warm feeling of being around someone who didn’t see him as a figurehead, a leader, or a caricature of hope. He was just your neighbor, a member of the community who was reaching out and trying to care for another member of the community. 

It was simple, straightforward. So unlike anything else in his life right now. 

He also remembers waking up on your couch, on you as a matter of fact. The heat of embarrassment first flooded through him, his cheek pressed against your neck and his torso laying over your own upper body. But your arms loosely held him there, your fingers stirring lightly through his hair. You had been deep asleep, most likely due to the pain meds you had taken. It had been the most relaxed he had been in months, the most at peace. So he stayed there for a couple hours more before gently extricating himself from your mild hold and seeing himself out.

 He has thought about that evening for the last few months much more than he should be. He had stopped by a couple times, just quick check-ins as you were feeling better and back to running your business. But he longed to stay in your presence, sit in your company where he could just be. He misses the feeling of being able to breathe freely, to do anything freely for that matter. 

He passes the business card to Eduardo. “That’s her name on the card if you want to call the hospital and see if she was one of the injured.” 

Eduardo looks down at the card and gives him a very subtle but shrewd look. “Less suspicious if I  inquire?” 

Cesar holds his hand back out. “Give it back then and I’ll make the call myself.” 

“No, no,” Eduardo throws him a smirk. “I’ll call.” 

The younger man’s good humor doesn’t last as he returns fifteen minutes later with a somber look. His eyes are worried, that small smirk completely vanished now, as he hands the business card back to César. “How bad is it?” 

“They’ve listed her as stable but critical.” 

He feels lightheaded, like he’s about to pass out. His solace, his place of peace, is in a hospital bed “critically” injured. He starts to stand up but Eduardo leans over his desk and pushes him back down with a gentle hand. 

“This is what I think we should do.” 

And so César listens because he will do anything if it means he can see you, even in your wounded state. 

***

Eduardo’s idea is genius even if it does take some time to execute. 

The cops and investigators had to clear the damaged part of the street to ensure the explosion didn’t damage the gas line in a five block radius in both directions. Then they had to assess the buildings that took the brunt of the explosion. It had been forty hours since the explosion before the area was deemed safe enough for him to visit. Ana joins him, a poetic representation of the strength of the community and family. 

It’s nightmarish. It looks like ten bombs have gone off along the street. Concrete chunks litter the sidewalk, rebar curls and bends like snakes. Ash is two inches thick in some places. The floral shop is unrecognizable. The sign has been decimated, the windows blown out, the plants covered in the dust and ash of the explosion. It almost brings him to tears. He knows how much this shop means to you, the ties to your parents and the memories that lived here alongside the flowers. You’re going to be devastated. 

He greets the shop owners of the other stores that were unscathed or already released from the hospital. The press shows up and takes pictures of him standing in the wreckage, writes down the sound bites of how the community is strong and the street will be rebuilt better than ever. He shakes hands, forces a smile, and regurgitates words of encouragement. It seems like it takes an eternity before he’s ushered back to the armored car and finally moving on to the hospital. 

He goes through the same routine at the hospital. Visiting with the handful of patients that are still recovering is a brief ordeal thankfully. There are only a few of them, about four, who are eager to be released and return home  as soon as possible. It takes almost an hour before he reaches the last patient, the one he wants to see the most. He pauses outside your room, hovering in the doorway. He can hear the sound of the television, on some telenovela, but little else. Ana is still talking to an elderly man who ran a coffee roasting business so he takes a breath and goes into your hospital room. 

You’re laying on your stomach, your head at the foot of the bed so you can more easily watch the television and see the door. He’s only two steps into the room before your eyes zero in on him and a wide smile breaks across your face. 

“We have to stop meeting like this.” 

He smiles, relieved at seeing you in good humor and alive. But the closer he gets, the more concern replaces that relief.  You’re laying on your stomach because your back is completely swathed with gauze. Splotches of blood have seeped through a couple areas, bright red on the pristine white bandages. He’s beginning to understand the stable but critical status. “How bad is it?” 

You grimace. “I’m sure it looks worse than what it is. The explosion shattered the windows and I lost my balance. When I fell, it was on my back…on top of the glass. It’s all superficial damage.” 

“Superficial? They don’t keep you in the hospital for superficial damage.” 

You try to shrug but the gauze stretches and sticks to the wounds. Your good nature falters and a frown tugs on the corner of your mouth. “How bad is it?” 

His eyes go back to your bandages but you shake your head. 

“No, not my back. My shop?” 

He’s a politician. Lies should come easy to him. But there’s still a residue of gray dust on his shoes from wading through the carnage that was your shop. “It…it can be rebuilt.” 

You try, you really do try to not cry. No one else that he’s talked to has cried. Everyone put on a brave front for him, El Presidente. But not you. You’ve never seen him as the president of the country. Just a neighbor, a friend. And so you cry. He slips his hand into yours, kneels down so he’s on your level. 

“It can be rebuilt. The structure is still sound. The government has emergency funds that can assist in the rebuild-” 

“It’s not that.” 

No, it’s not. It’s the loss of memories, things that can’t be replaced by emergency government funds. It’s rebuilding a business from the ground up. Again. You try to turn your face away from him but he squeezes your hand, makes you open your tear-glassed eyes. He’s a master of words but there’s really only two that matter at the moment. 

“I’m sorry.” 

You tighten your grip on his hand. “Thank you.” 

“I’ll do whatever I can to help.” 

“You’re a good man, César.” 

He certainly doesn’t feel like it at the moment. Right now, all he wants to do is press his lips to your face, kiss away your tears and hold you close so that you will never feel alone or overwhelmed by unfair circumstances again. But he can’t do that, any of it. His responsibilities are not to you, but to Colombia. 

To Ana. 

He slowly slips his hand from yours but stays on his knees. “When are you coming home?” 

A hint of a smile crosses your face. “A couple days.” 

“We’ll be there.” 

“You better. Your house is three doors down.” Your smile turns wistful. “I miss having you that close.” 

He misses living on that quiet street as well. The Presidential residence is too big, too formal. There is no real warmth to the furnishings and decor. His two children don’t know any better and see it as an adventure. Ana loves it though. It never ceases to amaze him just how comfortable she is in the spotlight. It was as if she was born into the role of Colombia’s first lady. She is more comfortable in her position than he will ever be in his. 

“Hey.” 

His eyes refocus on your face, your serious eyes. 

“It’s going to be okay.” 

He chuckles quietly. “I thought I was supposed to tell you that.” 

“You did.” 

“How?” 

“By showing up.” 

Is it really that simple? No, but it should be that simple. But life is so rarely simple, a fact that he is reminded about during the drive back to his temporary home. He’s so lost in his thoughts on how to approach the rebuild, how to offer you support both at your home and the shop, that he doesn’t notice Ana is lost in her own thoughts. It’s not until they’re behind the gates and guards, the solid wooden doors that hide them from the public eyes that the silence is broken. 

“César?” 

He responds with a quiet hum as he’s staring at the faint dust that has remained on his dress shoes. 

“César.” 

His attention snaps immediately to Ana’s serious face, her hands folded primly in front of her, her back ramrod straight. He swallows nervously. “Yes?” 

“How long have you been in love with her?” 

For a moment he thinks he’s misheard her. “What? Who?” 

“Our neighbor, the florist.” She sighs deeply, resigned. “I saw the way you looked at her today.” 

“I don’t-” 

“How long, César?” 

That night when he brought you the soup. That night when he felt so at peace that he fell asleep against you on the couch. That night when he woke up to your arms twined around him, fingers in his hair, muscles relaxed, and air in his lungs. He tries desperately to come up with words, any kind of words that could help make sense of this situation. But his silence is enough for Ana as she nods resolutely and leaves him alone with this new realization. 

[the-hinky-panda]

The Florist: Part III

The Florist: Part III

@seltsamkind​ come and get your man. He’s being a distraction. 

You have been in love with your neighbor from the first day you laid eyes on him. 

Your mother had been recovering from a sprained ankle and you were bringing by a clipping of a caladium to add to the growing collection of plants on the back patio. Your mother was spending more and more time out there since she couldn’t spend her time in the garden so you were trying to make the space as comfortable as possible for her. She was touching the delicate white leaves of the plant when she asked the question that changed your life. 

“Have you met the new neighbors down the street?” 

“Not yet, Mama. Are they nice?” 

“Very. The wife, Ana, stopped by with some empanadas and cookies. How she had time to make them is beyond me with a one year old and another on the way.” 

You had tried to not take the comment personally. Your mother was very traditional and believed you should have been at least married by now, tending to a husband and not orchids, nurturing children and not roses. “What does her husband do?” 

“He works for the government, I’m not sure exactly.” She sighs. “He’s very quiet.” 

You had laughed lightly as you sprayed down the ferns hanging in the corner of the sunroom. “A quiet politician. We could use more of those.” 

Your mother had clucked her tongue in disapproval at your comment. But as you were leaving, you promised to return the dishes that had been used for the empanadas and cookies. It was César who answered the door and your life had never been the same. As unbelievable as it sounded, it was like being struck by lightning: a flash of light so blinding and an immense amount of energy being shoved into your veins. His chocolate eyes were sharp, intelligent, but kind. There was a cheeky sense of humor in the small twist of his smile and you had never felt the urge to kiss someone so strongly before. 

Then your common sense returned. He was married with one child and a pregnant wife. He was a politician or at least was aspiring to be one and that life was too public for your private personality. But that didn’t stop you from trying to commit his slender frame, the roll of his shirt sleeves over his forearms, and the soft look of his thick black hair to memory. 

Over the next year, you frequently ran into the Gaviria family when you came to visit your parents. Ana asked for help with drooping plants and where was the best spot to put bougainvillea in the backyard. César would, on occasion, come out of his office with a book in his hand and you would discuss literature. You never considered yourself a “baby person” but holding the rapidly growing little boy and then the newly arrived baby girl never seemed like a forced effort. They truly were a lovely family. 

It was two years later, Holy Week was approaching and the floral shop was getting ready to close for the long weekend. It was that Wednesday when César stopped in for an Easter bouquet to take home. He looked tired but excited so you had asked him about his job. He had leaned over the counter, whispering a secret that even Ana didn’t know yet: Galán had asked him to be his campaign manager for the Presidential election. 

Despite your inventory being extremely low from all the other Easter arrangements that had been made, you went out to the back of the shop and cut fresh flowers from your personal source in honor of the occasion. You made the arrangement yourself: white lilies, pale pink roses, green tinged hydrangeas, with sprigs of blue thistle. Since it was the end of the day, you didn’t charge him, saying it was just a gift for a kind neighbor on this special holiday. He in turn invited you and your parents over for dinner on Good Friday. 

That was how it started, the four year long painful friendship you and César now share. He was like a thorn that you kept pricking your fingers on, drawing blood and tears at times. You were convinced though that he saw you as just a friend, a companion, with shared interests in books and quiet solitude. You never once thought that his feelings carried the same underlying heat that yours did. That perhaps, when he looked at your face, he wanted to kiss that slight upcurl of a smirk from your lips. 

You never allowed yourself to think about that until the night he fell asleep against you. He had been so relaxed, taking deep full breaths as he slept. You remembered the way his fingers curled against your sides when you ran your fingers through his hair. You could feel the desperation of just wanting to be close to someone, to feel safe with another person. It is the same thing you want. And despite having met multiple potential suitors over the years, none gave you that knife’s edge balance of thrill and calm that César provided. 

So you continued with your life, trying to learn to be content with friendship and nothing more. To just enjoy the conversations you shared post holiday meals about the books you’ve read. But then he became President and moved out of the neighborhood just a year after you lost your parents and moved into their house. You would frequently find yourself staring at the darkened windows and locked doors of the Gaviria home forlornly. What if he never came back? You just couldn’t bear that thought. You would rather harbor this secret love and maintain his friendship than not have him at all in your life. 

Then the explosion happened. A gas leak, the news is reporting. But it doesn’t matter what the cause, the result is the same. The shop is lost. Your family’s legacy is buried under dust, ash, and rubble. And just when you think you can manage the thought of the rebuild, César walks through your hospital room door. It’s just a different kind of knife twist in your heart. He offers comfort, slips his hand into yours and it just becomes too much. You want to crawl into his arms, curl up against his chest, tuck your head his chin and never move again. But you can’t. You can only put on a brave face, crack a joke instead of your facade, and keep repeating the mantra that you have had for the last four years. 

He’s not yours to have. 

***

César Gaviria is a man of his word. 

When you are helped out of the medical transport vehicle, he makes sure you are greeted by Eduardo Sandoval and himself. The driver and nurse are so stunned at your elite welcome committee that they almost forget to assist you up the front steps. He doesn't blame them in the least as even you’re a little surprised to see the President and Vice Minister of Justice waiting on your front porch. 

Eduardo takes the bag of bandages and medications while César takes your arm. Even that simple touch gives him some grounding, some balance to his topsy-turvy world. He makes sure to keep his hands on your arms, remembering the massive blanket of gauze that covered your back in the hospital. He doesn’t want to add to your pain even if all he wants to do is hold you close, protect you. 

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. 

His reason for showing up is two-fold. One, he said he would be here. His second reason is less straightforward. Ana’s question had plagued him ever since the words had left her mouth. How long have you been in love with her?  Despite a few restless nights, he is no closer to an answer. But he wants one, he wants to know when friendship crossed into new, more dangerous, territory. 

You hand the key to Eduardo, who opens the front door for you and César to pass through. The home hasn’t changed hardly at all since he was last there almost two years ago. Bright sunlight filters through the large front windows into an office on the left and a sitting room on the right. It’s when he passes through the kitchen that the answer to his question hits him square in the face. 

Two years. 

He’s been in love with you for two years. 

The day had been long. The outpouring of grief, immense. Your parents were well loved and respected in the community and the community made sure you knew that. But with a crowd that size, came a long line of mourners parading through your home to pay their respects. 

It had been a senseless accident. A drunk driver speeding through a red light and two pillars of Bogota killed instantly. It was so unnecessary. César watched you the entire day, stoic and in shock. It had been almost ten at night, a full twelve hours after the burial, and people were still saying their condolences to you. Ana had taken the two kids back to their house to put them to bed while he stayed to make sure everything was locked and safe after the last mourner left.  

It was after midnight when the last person exited and he locked the door behind them. He was closing the curtains in the front parlor when he heard a crash from the kitchen. By the time he made it there, you were kneeling on the floor, trying to pick up a smashed dish with bloodied hands, tears staining your cheeks. 

“Stop,” he reached out and tried to grab your hands. You were still gripping shards of the broken plate and he gently shook your wrists until the pieces dropped back to the floor. “Here, come here.” 

You allowed yourself to be led over to the sink as he turned on the water to run over your hands. The red disappeared quickly and he found the culprit was just a minor cut to your thumb. He patted the cut dry and wrapped the dish towel around the cut. Your eyes cut back to the broken dish.

“That was my mother’s favorite dish.” 

Fresh tears started to fall, the pressure of grief and exhaustion too much for you. When you moved back towards the broken plate, he didn’t even think about what to do. It was a moment that was ruled completely by instinct. He wrapped his arms around you, pulled you close to him and held you as tight as he could. Sobs wracked your small frame as you buried your face against his neck. He just held you close until you calmed, slumped against him, worn out by the emotions. 

At that moment, the oddest thing happened. It was like reality bent and he had a glimpse into a future, possibly his future. It was no longer your kitchen but his as well. His kids weren’t two houses down, just one floor above him. That was when he realized, on some level, that this was where he belonged. 

He belonged with you. 

He can’t believe it’s taken him this long to realize who the love of his life happens to be. That things like a love of a lifetime even exist. That this friendship that he has treasured for so long has been much more than just platonic. He watches as Eduardo shows you all the plants that had been salvaged from the shop, watches you touch each leaf and blossom with whisper soft glances of your fingertips. How have you survived so much loss, so much pain, and still move forward? 

How can he pile another weight onto your already wounded shoulders? 

Before he can change his mind, Eduardo guides you to a chair, makes you comfortable and practically pushes him into the chair next to yours before excusing himself and disappearing back into the house. This is the plan that had been decided on before your arrival home. César now has exactly thirty minutes to confess this new found realization to you and see how you react. It’s quite possible that you don’t even feel anything other than friendship towards him. This could all be in his head, a complete misunderstanding-

“César?” 

His head snaps up and over to you. “Yes?” 

“Are you alright?” 

He smiles nervously. “I should be asking you that.” 

You start to lean back against the wicker chair but then change your mind, leaning into the side of it. “I really appreciate you and Vice Minister Sandoval coming to welcome me home.” 

“I told you I would be here.” 

You nod once, almost solemnly, before staring down at your shoes. “How is Ana?” 

He’s a politician and picks up on the unasked question that underlies your actual one. Why is she not here? Why is it Eduardo and not her in your home? He couldn’t ask for a better opening but fear causes him to fumble for his words. “Ana is fine. She is…” 

You sigh heavily. “She’s angry at me. I’m sorry.” 

“It’s not you that she's angry with.” It hadn’t been true a few days ago. Ana had been angry, first at him, then at you, and then at him again. But something had changed in the last twenty-four hours. She had come to some sort of acceptance that the situation had been out of her control, out of yours and his control as well. Something had reminded her that no one has the power to choose who they fall in love with. And after a few days of contemplating and re-examining the past, she had come to the conclusion that César had reiterated to her: nothing had actually happened between you and him. That knowledge had opened up the door for the discussion of how to move forward. 

You groan softly and drop your head into your hand. “Oh God. I am so sorry-” 

“No, you do not apologize for anything.” He reaches over and pulls your hand away from your face, keeping a tight grip on your fingers. “Ana is…mostly past the anger stage now.” 

Your eyes are laser focused on your entwined hands. “And you? Are you angry at me?” 

At first he thinks you’re making a joke but he sees the serious set to your jaw, the tears gathering in the corners of your eyes. “Why would I be angry at you?” He takes a deep breath. “I love you.” 

“You’re making fun of me.” You stand up and try to pull your hand away from him but he stands too and he holds firm. 

“Why would I do that?” He pulls you closer to him, cupping the side of your face and using his thumb to wipe away a stray tear. “Why would I risk showing up to your home just to poke fun at you? When have you known me to be capable of such a thing?”  

When you finally look at him, your eyes are so full of cautious hope it makes his heart physically hurt in his chest. “You really do…you really do love me?” 

“I do.” 

“This isn’t just some pain pill induced dream I’m having?” 

“No, this is very real.” 

“Maybe I died in the explosion.” 

“You are very much alive.” 

For the briefest of moments, you smile with such an amount of joy it’s almost blinding but worry quickly takes over your countenance. “Wait, what does this mean? You’re married. You're the president of the entire country. We can’t…” Defeat comes back over you. “We can’t.” 

He runs his fingers over the ridge of your cheekbones, the curve of your jaw, the line of your nose and you don’t shy away from him. If anything, you lean slightly into his touch. All of this new territory to learn that is now available to him. But you’ve made a good point, a point that Ana made as well when she finally discussed the outcome of the situation with him. “No, we can’t. Not yet, anyway.” 

“But what about Ana?” 

You’re swaying on your feet, still tired from the healing process, so he maneuvers you back into your chair. He drags the other chair closer to you so he can still keep hold of your hand. These quiet, private moments are going to be few and very far between so he wants to make the most of it. He tries to recap the hours-long conversation he and Ana had the previous night into the bare necessities. “Ana wants to be, is very good at being, a politician’s wife. And once my term is over, I don’t want to be a politician anymore. She’s looking into going back to the United States to get a degree in political science, maybe become a politician herself. But no matter what she decides to do, our paths are going to diverge from each other in three years.” 

“And what do you want to be?” 

Had you asked him that a few days ago, he wouldn’t have an answer. Now he does. “At peace.” He motions to the plants that surround you both. “And I find peace here, with you. I’ve always been able to breathe when I’m around you. Whenever I feel the need to find my center in the chaos, this is where I want to come.”

“Plants have that effect on you.” 

“You have that effect on me.”  

You duck your head, trying to hide the pleased smile that crosses your face. “I always feel like I’m home when you’re around, like I finally belong in whatever space I find myself in, as long as you’re there.” You squeeze his hand.  “I do love you too.” 

He doesn’t get his hopes up just yet. The hardest part of the conversation hasn’t been done. “Here’s the issue we face right now though. The media, the news, anyone who is looking to discredit my presidency, will not hesitate to drag you into the spotlight. They won’t care if what they’re reporting is right or wrong. We can’t do anything, be seen together, until my term is over in three years.” 

You nod in agreement. “Three years. Okay.” 

You agree to it so quickly, he feels the need to make sure you understand the situation. “You can wait three years? For me? For this to be over?” 

You smile knowingly at him. “I've been waiting for you for four years without any hope of you even noticing me. I think I can wait for three years with hope now.”

[the-hinky-panda]

The Florist (César Gaviria x Reader)

My friend @seltsamkind​ needed some cheering up and said something along this storyline might do the trick so here you go! I hope you’re feeling better soon my friend! 

Pairing: César Gaviria x Fem!Reader

Rating: PG

It’s easier to get a kilo of cocaine. You’re convinced of this. 

You have been sitting in a small, plastic chair, staring at the peeling linoleum on the floor for the last six hours while the pain in your side gets progressively worse. All you need is a simple prescription for antibiotics, that’s it. But by the time you finally get them, you may be in complete renal failure. 

Would cocaine help a kidney infection? You doubt it but it might be worth a shot. It certainly would be more efficient time wise. You drag yourself back up to the intake desk and drape yourself on the counter. The nurse gives you an annoyed look which is fair. This is the fourth time you’ve been up there. 

“Please,” you sigh. “Please, can someone see me?” 

“When a doctor is available-” 

“They’ll be with me, yeah, yeah, yeah.” 

The nurse uses her pen to point back to the waiting room but before you turn to go, you see her expression change to one of surprise as she scrambles to stand up from her desk. You turn your head and see your neighbor making his way across the lobby of the Emergency Room, a concerned look on his face. You try to stand up a bit straighter but the sharp pain in your side keeps you listing to the side. 

“Hello,” he greets quietly. “Are you alright?” 

You always had a feeling the family a few doors down from you was destined for great things. The Gaviria’s had that energy to them, that they were going to be important people one day. And from watching the news about what happened to Galán, it certainly seemed like César Gaviria was headed straight to the top now. 

“Oh, just,” you fight back a wince, “doing wonderfully. And you?” 

“Visiting someone.” His concerned eyes turn back to the nurse, who is backing away from you both. 

“I’ll go see if we have an available room.” 

“Thank you,” he responds with a grateful smile. 

“Where were you four hours ago?” you joke. 

He gives your elbow a brief squeeze. “Let me know if you need anything.” 

“Thanks,” you manage as another spasm hits you. 

The nurse comes back and tells you, miracle of miracles, there is a room and physician waiting for you. Finally. 

***

You get through the examination and then the wait for the prescription of antibiotics and pain meds to be filled before you finally make it back home. You’re laying on the couch under an old quilt, waiting for the meds to take effect when there’s a knock at your door. But not your front door. The back door. The one off the small greenhouse you have on the back of the townhome. You get up and limp your way towards the back room where you see the silhouette of someone standing by the door. You turn on the floodlights and see it’s César, who immediately motions for you to turn the lights off. So you do before going and unlocking the patio door. 

“What are you doing here?” 

He gives you a small smile. “I came to check on my neighbor. And,” he holds up a container, “to bring you some dinner. If you feel up to it.” 

“Sure, of course,” you step to the side and let him inside. You notice he’s immediately taken with the multiple plants and flowers you have decorating the glass patio. 

“This is lovely.” 

“You should see it in the daylight.” You realize what you said could be misinterpreted as a forward invitation so you try to quickly cover it. “I mean, it’s kind of my job.” 

“That’s right, you’re a florist. Your shop is a few blocks from here,” he pauses for a minute, “Bogotá Blooms.” 

“Yes, that’s it.” You lead him into the kitchen and turn on the lights there. “So what do we need for dinner?” 

“It’s ajiaco. Ana made a large batch of it before leaving. She’s afraid I’m going to starve while she’s gone.” 

You pull out a small pot and put it on the stove before reaching up into the cabinet for a set of bowls. The pain meds are helping but you’re still tender. Kidney stones and an infection on top of that are not making life easy for you. 

“Here,” César says, reaching past you, “I have this. You can rest.” 

“But-” 

“If I can supposedly run a country, I can run a kitchen.” 

You nod and start to walk out of the room but not before you see him starting to look around for utensils. You slyly open one of the drawers where the silverware is before reluctantly heading out of the kitchen and back to the couch on the other side of the wall. It doesn’t take long for the warm scent of the soup to fill your home. It had been so long since someone had taken care of you in any manner that it both relaxed you and made you a tad nervous. But your nerves didn’t last too long before he joined you in the living room with the soup. 

To say it’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted would not be an exaggeration. You don’t know if it’s actually the food, the fact you didn’t have to make it, or the company, but you are starting to actually feel a bit better now. 

“Thank you for coming over,” you smile, “with food, nonetheless.” 

“Of course.”

“I guess I have to vote for you now.” 

“I would appreciate the support.” 

You can see the glimmer of mirth in his eyes when he says that and it warms you, just like the soup has done. But seriousness comes over you as you settle back against the couch cushions. “How do you really feel about the possibility of being President of the country?” 

He thinks about it for a moment. “No one has ever asked me that yet. It just…happened.” 

“Well, you know that Galán would be relieved to know it was you taking his place.” 

“Would he?” 

“He trusted you enough to have you as his campaign manager. If he didn’t trust you to lead effectively, he wouldn’t have hired you for that position.” 

He’s quiet for such a long time, contemplative and almost sad. 

“Do you even want the position?” 

A smile twists the corner of his mouth. “Who wouldn’t want to be President?” 

Now it’s your turn to be quiet. You know he deliberately sidestepped the question and answered it with a question of his own. He deflected and that in itself is an answer. You keep your silence when he picks up the empty bowls and returns them to the kitchen. You can hear him cleaning up the kitchen as your day catches up to you. The pain, the wait at the hospital, the good food, and now your body craves sleep. You’re half asleep by the time he returns to the living room. 

“I should go.” 

“Please, not yet,” you surprise yourself by saying. You like having him here, taking up space in your otherwise empty home. 

“Okay,” he sighs, apparently not wanting to go back to his quiet house either. He returns to his seat on the couch, but is a little closer to you. 

You can feel the warmth he’s giving off, smell the light scent of aftershave and soap. It’s comforting and relaxes you even more. The pull of sleep becomes too great for you to resist and soon you’re sound asleep. You don’t know how long you’ve been asleep but some minor spasms in your side wake you up further along in the night. You try to shift into a more comfortable position but there’s a heavy weight on your torso. 

Opening your eyes, even in the dim lighting of the living room, you can clearly see César’s head resting on your shoulder. The more awake you become, the more details your mind is able to gather. He is asleep, deeply from the feel of it, his arm draped heavily across your waist. Steady, even breaths ghost over your neck and collarbone. Carefully, you lift your hand and run your fingers through his hair. He becomes heavier when the pads of your fingers disappear in his dark locks and press into his scalp. 

You relax against the softness of the couch, shifting slightly here and there into a more comfortable position without disturbing César. You almost wish he doesn’t win the election, not because you think he would make a poor leader but because you don’t believe he wants to be a leader. You’ve known him for years, lived on the same street and passed each other frequently in the neighborhood. He values the simple luxuries of life: quietude, knowledge, and companionship. If he wins, those things are going to disappear along with his peace. 

You’re a florist. He’s an orchid. And you decide then and there that you will do your best to create the perfect greenhouse environment since you haven’t witnessed anyone else in his inner circle doing it for him. You will offer him your home, make it a haven for him whenever he needs an escape from the stresses of whatever may be in store. You ever so lightly brush your lips across his forehead before closing your eyes and falling back asleep.