Chapter Text
Retail hell was a term that Keigo was well-acquainted with, but when he had accepted a job in his local Home Depot’s garden center, he had foolishly clung to the hope that it wouldn’t follow him. It was gardening, for fuck’s sake. Up until recently, Keigo hadn’t known it was that complicated. He had paid minimal attention to his high school biology classes, and his parents had basically let the weeds overgrow the only patch of vegetation in their lawn.
Still, this was Home Depot. No one was actually expecting a near broke college student who jumped at the first job with a slightly higher paying to know a thing about flowers of all things, right?
As the dark-haired man whose only redeeming trait was his blue eyes stared flatly at Keigo with said blue, Keigo had the sudden and violent urge to chuck himself out the nearest window in sheer frustration. Retail hell had, in fact, followed him into his new job, and it was looking right at him in all its ratty glory.
To be fair, Keigo didn’t have much room to talk about clothing presentation when he was wearing the same clothes for an entire week so far, but this guy was just sad in his navy coat with glaring tatters and holes. Was it a fashion statement, or could he really not afford a new jacket? Keigo had the feeling it was both. The latter was probably why his black-clad gothiness was in a Home Depot looking for a bouquet of flowers rather than anywhere else. It was just unfortunate for Keigo, who had to deal with him.
“These aren’t the flowers I requested,” the man’s eyes traveled to the pinned badge on Keigo’s wrinkled uniform, “Takami.”
Breathe, Keigo. He needed this job. He absolutely could not let the way this massive prick said his name in what sounded like a power move get to him.
“Sorry, sir, we don’t have any in stock.”
The man frowned. “That’s not what your website said.”
Keigo’s smile strained. “They haven’t arrived yet. If you could come back another day—tomorrow, even—we should have them in stock,” he explained.
Blue eyes watched Keigo in deflated contemplation that left him shifting the bouquet of gardenias awkwardly in his arms.
“If you’re not interested in these,” he cleared his throat, “I’m going to go put them up.”
He turned around, focusing on not stiffening and making his annoyance obvious. Just because this guy was kind of an asshole did not mean Keigo could be one. He was—mostly better than that. His mind was already shuffling to the back of the storage room, far from the customer expecting too much from a simple Home Depot employee, when the man said, “Wait, hold on.”
Keigo withheld a sigh and turned around.
“Sorry, is there anything else I can do for you, sir?” It was far more polite than Keigo felt. He schooled his face to hide the fact.
“I need flowers today”—Keigo bit back an impolite snarl of “too bad” and composed himself for whatever next demand—“so, uh, do you have any recommendations for similar flowers, or something?”
Or—something. That was helpful.
“Sure, can I ask for what occasion?”
Better yet, could he please ask someone else who actually knew a damn about flowers? Clearly this guy didn’t know much either, judging by the way his expression shifted to mild surprise at Keigo’s question. At least he would be presumably easy to bullshit. That, at the very least, was something Keigo was good at.
“Right,” he muttered, “I’m visiting my mom. Autumn bellflowers are her favorite which is why—but uh, yeah, since you don’t have them in stock…”
He fidgeted a bit, expression pinched uncomfortably. He sounded a little apologetic, so Keigo took pity and smiled more kindly.
“We don’t have any of those in stock currently, but”—what other bellflowers did they have in stock?—“we do have bluebells. Does those sound good to you?”
“Sure, those work,” the man said. Still muttering, still uncomfortable. A little nosily, Keigo wondered if it had something to do with his mother. At a glance, he looked like someone with an uncaring confidence to him. The piercings, black hair, and hints of tattoos on his arms and around his neck gave off a bad personality, and up until Keigo inquired about why he wanted flowers, he had walked with a lazy, almost disinterested slouch. The moment he mentioned his mom though—
It wasn’t Keigo’s business, though he was suddenly feeling mildly invested in his customer’s life. Still, he had never seen him before, and he doubted he would see him again. With a nod, Keigo would retrieve the bluebells, ring them up at the cashier, watch his worn-out coat follow him out of the store, and never encounter him again.
As it turned out, that last part wasn’t true, Keigo discovered four weeks later at a tattoo parlor.
With the excitement of a recent promotion still on his mind, he had decided to treat himself with a new tattoo. He was considering an opened birdcage to compliment the large, spread-out, red wings covering his back. Probably on his wrist. There was symbolism there, but also a trashcan of trauma he didn’t feel like tipping over today, or—if he could get away with it, and he probably could given how utterly lacking in friends he was—ever.
He considered going back to the same tattoo shop that had done his wings, but the owner had become overbearing with his attempts at—surrogate parenting?—after Keigo made the mistake of vaguely explaining the meaning behind his tattoo. Seriously, he was a grown-ass adult. He did not need someone coddling him, especially out of pity. So instead, Keigo decided to try out the new parlor that a co-worker had offhandedly mentioned with glowing praise.
When he entered the shop, a man with two nose piercings and a white bandana tied around his forehead loitered at the counter with a bored expression. Keigo heard the faint whirring of machinery in the back, but other than that, the parlor seemed empty.
“Uh, hi. I have an appointment?” he said as he walked to the counter.
The receptionist blinked at Keigo. He glanced down at his computer and muttered, “Right, a customer. Takami—appointment for 11:45?”
Keigo nodded. “Yeah.”
“Cool, you have Dabi. You can sit down over there—he’ll get you shortly.”
He acknowledged with a short “mhm” and turned behind him to the waiting chairs. Black, plastic, and probably not great on his back, but oh well, the rules of society dictated that he slowly ruin his back via terrible chairs and horrible classwork hours, so ruin his back he would.
His leg bounced restlessly as he waited, always finding stationary periods agitating. His eyes wandered around the parlor, noting the sleek, black design accented by random, pink decorations and realistic looking hands of all things. That was—a little weird? Neat, but weird.
…Hopefully, those weren’t actually real—which was an admittedly silly thought propagated by what his former guardians used to call an “overly active imagination” and what Keigo still called “caution straddling the dubious line between healthiness and paranoia because certain people couldn’t resist the chance to mess him up after gaining control over every aspect of his life.” For now though, until someone strutted out with a knife, he would presume the decorator’s innocent, albeit questionable, tastes.
Thankfully, rather than knives, tatters and piercings peaked out into the waiting area. A gravelly voice that sounded familiar in the way it pronounced his name, “Takami,” in a slow drawl called his attention. Keigo didn’t have long to consider what was so familiar when a pair of bright, unforgettable cerulean loudly answered his query.
It was that customer from two weeks ago. Dabi, apparently.
He was wearing the same, tattered jacket, Keigo noted in lieu of a response to his name.
Blue furrowed and prompted, “This way?”
Keigo blinked, before quickly scrambling to his feet. Get a grip, it was only a just a little awkward. Nothing to make a big deal out of. Except, Keigo had tucked away his curiosity about his odd nervousness and left it to fade away, but now it was returning with a vengeance. What could he say? Sure, he didn’t have any actual friends, but he basically knew everything that went on in town. He made it his business to know everything and everyone. Nosy, some might say, and that was why he hadn’t expected to meet his impressionable customer again.
Life always had a way of proving his expectations wrong, he supposed as he followed Dabi to the back of the parlor, where the tattooist wordlessly gestured to a chair.
“You were wanting a tattoo on your wrist?” Dabi asked.
“Yeah,” Keigo turned his right arm upward so his inner wrist was exposed, “of an open birdcage. I got a reference pic—wait a moment.”
He pulled out the photos on his phone and showed Dabi the picture of the specific design he wanted. The man stared at it for a moment before nodding and grabbing supplies from a nearby shelf.
“About this size?” he asked, tracing a circle with his finger on Keigo’s wrist.
“Sure, that works.”
With Keigo’s verbal approval, Dabi began by dabbing a wet pad to sterilize the skin. Keigo looked away, leaning his head back slightly and letting his thoughts wander elsewhere.
He was vaguely aware of the sensations dabbled onto his wrist. With pleasant surprise, he filed away the gentle treatment that Dabi moved his wrist with. He had read that wrists were painful to tattoo, but since it was a small design, it would be short-lived. That was just fine with Keigo. He had a high pain tolerance. His wing tattoo had been painful as well, especially around the spine and shoulder blades, and it had been a larger area to ink. Hakamata, his old tattooist, had distracted Keigo with pleasant conversation. Dabi didn’t strike him as the type to talk throughout the process though.
Yet again, his assumptions would be proven wrong when Dabi inquired, “Any reason for a cage?”
The needle poked at a bony part of his wrist, and that was the only reason Keigo stilled.
“Uh, just matches the wing tattoo on my back,” he explained as the plain lines on the wall suddenly grew intricate designs in Keigo’s mind.
They lapsed back into silence, but Keigo’s head grew louder in thoughts as he occupied himself from the sharp stinging in his wrist. Eventually, the wall lost its novelty and Keigo’s attention returned to Dabi.
He had thought it was just a nickname, but it was even on his name tag. Keigo didn’t know whether to scoff or be amused at the name. That wasn’t his real name, right? Keigo shouldn’t pry, but he sort of wanted to. He wouldn’t though. He had restraint.
That was such a lie.
“Dabi—that a nickname or something?”
The man, who Keigo hoped would not forever just be known as Dabi, remained silent.
Keigo glanced back at the slouching mop of spiky, black hair. He always had an eye for detail, and looking closely, he noticed a few strands with hints of red at their roots. That was another fact to mentally file: Dabi dyed his hair black; somehow, it didn’t surprise Keigo.
His breath suddenly caught in his throat as Dabi’s eyes suddenly met his. The needle lifted from his wrist. Keigo blinked down. Finished ink stared back at him. Dabi was done, and Keigo was left feeling disappointed that he wouldn’t get to know the story behind Dabi’s name.
“Alright, hope you like the finished product because I’m not redoing it,” Dabi muttered.
Keigo lifted a brow. Who hired this ray of sunshine?
Someone who was passing by shouted, “Attitude check, Dabs! Keep up the shitty work!”
“Whatever. Happy with the design, bird boy?”
He snorted. The hint of a smile graced Keigo’s lips. Despite the lack of professionalism, the small interaction was almost charming.
“Yeah, you did great. Bird boy?”
Dabi scoffed as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“Birdcage? Wings? Your name?”
Keigo resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Yes, he knew it was because of his tattoos and his name, but why the hell did he feel the need to give him the nickname in the first place? Maybe Dabi just had a thing for ‘em?
Deeming that was the end of the conversation, Dabi began rattling off aftercare instructions. Keigo only half-listened until Dabi suddenly thrust a bottle of ointment in his hands.
“Apply this creamer for at least two weeks. You can read the back for dosage. Don’t do anything that will overwork your wrist”—Dabi fixed a particularly hard look that Keigo felt the urge to pipe up to defend himself from—“and I guess you probably know most of this. Just get yourself ringed up for the bill and the ointment.”
Keigo nodded and stood to his feet, keenly aware of the fact that he must have been bouncing the entire time if the slight soreness in his calves were anything to go by. He had to admire Dabi for not letting that get in the way of his work. He might not have been quite a beacon of professionalism, but maybe he was better than Keigo had given him credit. It made Keigo all the more curious about the other and regretful that he wouldn’t get any answers today.
Although, in retrospect, maybe he shouldn’t have expected anything when he hadn’t been forthcoming himself as well. Keigo pursed his lips.
“Wait,” he said.
Blue flashed in irritation. He heard a verbal click.
“Were you not listening? Not going to redo it if you aren’t happy.”
“Actually,” Keigo folded his arms, “I was going to ask if you were free this week.”
“What,” Dabi stared in bewilderment at Keigo, a light frown tugging down. “Why?”
Keigo shrugged. “Just was wondering if you wanted to get coffee sometime.”
Dabi’s expression slowly turned from confusion to amusement. If there was a joke to be had, Keigo didn’t know it.
“Are you asking me on a date?” Dabi said. He shifted his weight back slightly and placed his hands in his pockets in expectation of Keigo’s response.
“Maybe, and if I am?”
The corner of Keigo’s mouth quirked as he mirrored Dabi’s posture, recalling his psychology classes about how copying the other person’s body language made them more recipient. Dabi didn’t look entirely convinced though, so he supplied, “You’re an interesting guy, Dabi, and I’m a curious person.”
“Ah,” Dabi said. Nothing else. He turned around and left Keigo to flounder in uncertainty. Was that it? Should he just go? The sound of pencil scratching against paper stopped him. Maybe—just maybe—
He waited, fidgety, nervous, and just a bit more hopeful than he probably should be for a sort of abrasive guy like Dabi.
Dabi finally faced Keigo and shoved a piece of paper in his face.
“There’s an address and time written. Be there or don’t, I don’t care,” he said with a grunt.
Keigo took the note. Fuck, and he thought he was too fast—Dabi was giving him whiplash right now. Feeling just a bit dazed at Dabi’s suddenness, he simply said, “Right.”
Dabi sighed. “That all?”
“Uh, yeah, that’s all. I’ll get out of your hair now.”
His only reply was a scoff as Dabi turned around and walked away, further into the shop and through a door that read “Employees only”.
Keigo took that as his cue to stop pestering Dabi and pay for the ointment and service.
If he happened to be in a particularly good mood for the rest of the day, no one commented on it.
Or rather, a soft, wistful voice murmured in his ear, there was no one to comment.