Chapter Text
Stalin had always liked the small things in life.
He liked the little flower shop nestled between a cafe and real estate office with its powder blue entrance, the name Edelweiss printed neatly above the shop’s large bow window. He liked the organised chaos of the small store, covered from top to bottom in overflowing shelves, sinks and buckets of fresh flowers that spilled out onto the cobblestone paths. He liked the overwhelming of his senses which formed a mosaic of colour and scent.
But out of everything, he liked the serenity of it all.
Despite the business of everyday life, of being a young man without a stable income, of being without a partner to rely on, there was a special sort of tranquility in floral arrangements. A peacefulness, a nourishment to the soul he could not, despite years of trying, find elsewhere. The methodic choosing of stems, delicate cutting, careful arranging and wrapping was his safe haven. It kept him busy, engrossed in the wonders of Mother Nature and appreciative of all life’s blessings.
He was tending to the orchids, one of the pink bastards had decided it had been too long since the last repotting and turned its roots brown, humming a tune that sounded strangely similar to Nicki Minaj’s hit single ‘Chun-Li’.
“Joseph,” a voice said coolly from behind, “What are you doing?”
Benito Mussolini.
A man, tall, dark, and Italian, who moved with a swagger only found in the rich and powerful. Standing at almost two metres tall and with muscles similar to that of a heavyweight boxer. Unlike Stalin, who was dressed in simple washed denim jeans and a plain white button down with sleeves folded to his elbows, Benito was dressed to the nines, wearing a tailored navy Brioni suit. He had his arms crossed, obsidian eyes staring down at the other man.
The two never liked each other—Stalin believed Mussolini to have enchanted his friend using his wealth and status. Adolf had changed since meeting the Italian man; his time was managed, his bouquets were tied with black ribbon, and a security detail followed him wherever he went. He used to be free-spirited, artistic, reckless with his floral arrangements—something new every day. Something… unexpected.
Now, Mussolini held him on a tight leash and Adolf was constrained, practically one of his boyfriend’s rottweilers. When Stalin would dare insinuate that his lover was more than he seemed, the man would respond defensively, attacking Stalin over his distrust and disloyalty.
“Clipping the orchids.”
Mussolini gave him a critical eye. “Did you get Adolf’s permission to cut his precious babies?”
Stalin paused in his work, exhaling slowly to calm himself. “I think I know how to look after the flowers, Benito.”
The older man chuckled, plucking an orange lily flower from its bucket. Waltzing over to the corner, he leant against the burgundy wingback chair and raised the flower to his nostrils. The man said nothing, instead simply watching Stalin with a dark gaze.
Then, “I’ve always quite liked flowers—they’re simple, fragile little things.” Mussolini paused, standing straight as he twirled the flower between his fingers. “You water them, you set them in the sun, you nourish them, and they flourish. But, one wrong move…” He dropped the lily, and the orange bud hit the cold wooden floor. Louder than any sound Stalin had ever heard, Mussolini slammed his foot over the flower, crushing it beneath his polished Bontoni shoes. “And it’s dead—unloveable, unwanted. For who could love a broken thing?”
Stalin gulped, clutching his clippers tight within his palm.
The back door swung open and both men turned to meet the eyes of Adolf Hitler. “What are you both doing here?” he sighed, exasperated. “Customers will be here any minute, ihr Idioten.”
Mussolini was transformed, his cold features turning warm at the sight of his beloved. “Cuore mio,” he beamed, his teeth glinting in the rays of the morning sun. “How I have missed you since we last spoke…”
Adolf only watched the man with a sour face. “Shut up, you fool, and get behind the counter. I will not have you scaring off the customers with your flashy suits.”
Mussolini’s smile faltered, giving way to a resentful sneer for only a moment. “Anything you want, my love,” he said, and his smile returned. “But you swore we would spend time together today…” He pouted, watching his lover with sorrowful eyes that Stalin felt the urge to scoff at.
Adolf’s eyes softened and he smiled at the taller man, walking up to him and pressing his lips against Mussolini’s stubbled cheek. “Of course, mein häschen.” He turned to his childhood friend, smiling brightly. “Man the shop, won’t you, Joseph?”
Stalin nodded in reply to his friend, matching his beam. “Of course, Addy. Have fun.” He turned back to the crushed orange bud on the floor as Adolf and Mussolini stepped out, hand in hand, onto the cobbled paths of the street.
The petals were barely intact, the stem a fine powder against the hardwood floors. Stalin couldn’t shake the budding feeling that something was about to go terribly wrong.