Chapter Text
There was a pickup truck in his parking spot.
Rohan frowned as he pulled up behind it, his motorcycle thrumming beneath him as he came to a stop and planted one booted foot against the asphalt. The tailgate of the truck was down, as if someone was in the process of unloading things from the back of it. But no one appeared to be around.
Growling under his breath, Rohan killed the ignition and propped his motorcycle on its kickstand. He pulled off his helmet and rested it on the seat, running a hand through his hair.
A little bell rang. He looked up to see a brawny young man coming out of the building next to his. Ah, so this must be his new neighbor. When Rohan had heard that a florist was moving in next door to his tattoo parlor, he’d assumed the florist would be a woman. He was annoyed to find that he’d been wrong.
And he was even more annoyed to find that the florist was also the owner of the pale blue pickup truck sitting in his parking spot. His emerald eyes narrowed as he watched the man place his foot on the back tire and hoist himself into the truck bed. He hummed a tune to himself as he prepared to lift a few bags of potting soil.
Completely oblivious to the person standing ten feet away.
Rohan huffed a bit. “Excuse me?”
The young man glanced over his shoulder, his dark brows pulling together. Then he saw Rohan, and his eyes widened in surprise. “Oh! Sorry dude, didn’t see you there.”
“Clearly,” said Rohan. Then he continued, not bothering with pleasantries. “You’re in my parking spot. I kindly request that you move.”
“There are designated parking spots?” The man pulled his eyes away from Rohan to look at the space around his truck. “I don’t see a sign or anything.”
Rohan raised a tapered brow. “There doesn’t need to be a sign. There’s parallel parking all along this street, and this is the parking spot in front of my parlor. And I park here every day, so—”
“Oh, this place is yours?” asked the man, looking at the tattoo parlor with new interest. “Ink Dark Boy? Cool name.”
“Thanks. Now move your damn truck.”
Those blue eyes found him again, and he nodded quickly. “Right. Gimme a sec.”
Rohan crossed his arms over his chest and watched as the florist leapt out of the back of his truck. He got behind the wheel and shifted the truck into gear, pulling forward into the recently vacated spot ahead of him. But in his hurry to get out of the way, he carelessly left the bags of soil on the edge of the truck bed. The forward motion of the truck jostled one of the bags, and Rohan’s eyes widened as it began to slip.
He tried to call out to the man, but it was too late. The bag slipped further, snagging on a rusted bit of metal on the way down. It went crashing onto the sidewalk, black soil spilling out in every direction.
Rohan’s mouth fell open.
“There you go!” said the man, smiling brightly as he hopped out of the truck. Then he saw the look on Rohan’s face. “What?”
Seething, the tattoo artist pointed at the sidewalk outside the entrance to his parlor.
“Oh, shit,” the man whispered.
“Clean it up,” Rohan snapped. “I have a client coming in half an hour.”
Without another word, he edged around the mountain of dirt and went inside, slamming the door behind him. The cool, quiet interior of Ink Dark Boy surrounded him, immediately taking the edge off his anger. After a few minutes, he came back outside holding a broom and a dustpan.
He nearly tripped over the larger man, who was on his knees just outside the front door. He seemed to be trying to scoop the soil back into the bag with his bare hands. Rohan felt a twinge of guilt in his chest.
“You left your motorcycle on the edge of the parking spot,” said the florist, keeping his eyes down. “I moved it so you wouldn’t get a ticket. I hope you don’t mind.”
Another twinge of guilt. Rohan winced. Why did the bastard have to be so nice? It was suddenly very obvious what a terrible first impression he’d made. His new neighbor was already afraid of him, and he didn’t even know his name. Perhaps it was time to do a little damage control.
“I brought these,” he said, holding out the broom and the dustpan. “I thought they’d make your job a little easier.”
The florist looked up and smiled a bit. “Oh, thanks.” He wiped his hands on his stone washed blue jeans, not caring about the stains that were left behind.
Rohan nodded. “I trust that you have a hose or something to wash the broom with when you’re done.”
He turned to go back inside.
“What makes you think I have a hose?”
Rohan stopped. He threw a look of disbelief over his shoulder, ready to ask the florist how he could be a florist at all without a hose—but then he saw the man grinning at him. It had been a joke. Of course. Rohan rolled his eyes even as own lips tugged upward in response.
“Wash the broom, flower boy.”
The man laughed. “I have a name, you know.”
“Most people do.”
His grin grew wider. “I’m Josuke.”
He took a moment to commit it to memory. He liked the sound of it, though he’d never tell the man that. “Good to know. I’m Rohan.”
“Rohan,” Josuke repeated. His voice was soft and thoughtful—it made Rohan strangely uncomfortable. For a moment, he looked as though he wanted to ask a question, but then decided against it. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Rohan. And don’t worry, I’ll have this mess cleaned up in no time.”
“Excellent.”
With that, Rohan went back inside and prepared for his first client of the day.
He had two clients before lunch. Both were regulars of his who came in every few weeks to make more progress on their pieces. By the time he finished shading the hundreds of scales on his second client’s dragon tattoo, everything ached. His hand, his back, even his eyes. Long appointments like these took so much out of him. But he didn’t mind. Bringing his art to life on a living, breathing canvas was something he’d gladly sacrifice his comfort for.
Once his second client left, Rohan heaved a sigh and reached for his toes. He felt his lower back resist the stretch at first, but after a few deep breaths that resistance began to melt away. He let gravity do all the work, decompressing his neck and back with each breath.
“Hey, Rohan?”
He snapped upright fast enough to give himself a head rush. He blinked rapidly as his vision blurred a bit, but it didn’t matter. He already knew that voice.
“What are you doing here, Josuke?”
He rubbed his eyes and the blurriness finally cleared, allowing him to properly assess the sight in front of him. The man still wore his dirt-stained blue jeans, now with a purple gardening apron over the top. He extended his hands—one held a paper bag and the other held a small bouquet.
That didn’t answer Rohan’s question. In fact, it only brought up more.
“What is this?”
“Lunch,” said Josuke, smiling bashfully. “I didn’t know if you had anything to eat, and I made an extra sandwich—“
“And the flowers?”
“An apology,” he replied. “For the trouble I caused this morning.”
More niceness. More guilt. Irrationally, Rohan only felt more irritation at the feelings this man was awakening in him. He never wanted to feel like he owed anyone. Maybe Josuke thought he was settling things between them, but what he was doing was creating a new imbalance. An expectation of niceness and friendship and all the things Rohan was unable—or unwilling—to provide.
Better to nip it in the bud. No pun intended.
“I refuse.”
Josuke’s smile faded. “You refuse… my apology?”
“No,” he said slowly, “I accept your apology. I refuse your gifts. I already had lunch, and I don’t like flowers.” Both lies.
Josuke looked personally offended by the last remark. “Seriously?”
The artist nodded.
His expression fell into resignation. “Okay. That’s fine, I guess. Um… it’s pretty quiet over there, so if you ever want a little company…”
“I appreciate the offer,” he said. His tone was polite, but distant.
Josuke took the hint. “Right. Have a good day, Rohan.”
He nodded again, eying the bouquet with a hint of wistfulness as Josuke turned away. It was small, but tastefully arranged: pink and white peonies framed by delicate cherry blossoms. He wished he had a chance to admire it more closely, but he was determined to keep their relationship as impersonal as possible. He couldn’t possibly accept a gift from the man—as lovely as that gift might be.
So he watched as Josuke left, using his shoulder to open the door. As he disappeared, a single petal fell from the bouquet and drifted to the floor.
Rohan hesitated for a moment, then went to retrieve the petal. He held it lightly between his thumb and forefinger. It had fallen from one of the cherry blossoms. He brought it close to his face, gently brushing it over his lips. It was soft—like silk. He breathed in through his nose and smiled peacefully. He’d always loved the smell of cherry blossoms. As a child, he’d spent most of his summers with his grandmother, and she’d had a small grove of cherry blossom trees. The smell brought back memories.
Rohan savored the little petal a moment longer, then dropped it into the trash.
────────
Josuke sighed as he closed the door behind him. “Worth a try,” he muttered to himself, wandering over to the checkout counter. He dropped the bouquet into a small vase, then leaned in to smell the cherry blossoms. The weight of his disappointment seemed to lighten a bit, and he smiled.
There was always tomorrow. If Rohan didn’t like flowers, he could deal with that. There were other ways of making amends.
Josuke pulled a stool up to the counter and unwrapped his sandwich, resigning himself to eating his lunch alone. As he ate, he looked around the little flower shop he’d spent the last several hours setting up. It was starting to look a lot like the flower shop where he’d worked as a high school student, but that wasn’t a coincidence. He’d always loved the way that shop looked and felt. It always had a warm, inviting atmosphere. Sunshine streaming through the windows, greenery on every shelf, soft music playing over the speakers—Prince, mostly. I Wanna Be Your Lover was playing now, and Josuke hummed along as he took another bite of his sandwich.
That flower shop had felt like home to him, growing up. He still remembered going there as a boy, admiring the flowers while his mother looked for gardening supplies. When he’d finally been old enough to get a part-time job, there’d been no question about where he wanted to work. And the work had been hard—harder than he’d expected. He’d spent hours sweating in the greenhouse, lifting bag after bag of soil, unloading countless plants from delivery trucks. And not just flowers, but shrubs and small trees too.
Most people took one look at him and assumed he was a construction worker or something like that. They could never guess that his large, muscular frame had come from carrying around plants all day. He chuckled at the thought as he finished his lunch and threw the paper bag away.
Time to get back to work.
Josuke went back to the greenhouse that had been built into the back of his shop and filled up a large watering can. He made his way down each and every row, making sure all of his plants were properly watered. He paused as he reached a pallet with lilies in full bloom. An especially beautiful white lily caught his eye. The white lily was his favorite flower—he loved it so much that he’d even named his flower shop after it. As he admired this particular flower, he felt tempted to cut it and display it in a bouquet. But in the end, he decided to leave it be.
That had always been a struggle for Josuke. He always coveted the most beautiful flowers and wanted to reach out and take them for himself. But at the same time, he wanted to leave them untouched so their beauty could last longer. It was a matter of greed, more than anything else. Maybe it was human nature to feel that way.
Josuke finished tending to his plants and returned to his shop as the afternoon came to an end. He had just untied his apron and set it aside when he heard a noise outside. The growl of a motorcycle engine, followed by silence.
The noise came again. And again. And again. Still, the engine didn’t start. Josuke looked out the window and found Rohan astride his motorcycle, looking seriously pissed off. He glanced toward the flower shop and Josuke quickly shrank away from the window, hoping the tattoo artist didn’t see him gawking. He occupied himself with rearranging some pots on a shelf nearby.
A bell rang behind him.
“Flower boy,” Rohan snapped. “I hate to say this, but I need your help.”
Josuke turned, feigning ignorance. “Hmm? With what?”
“Don’t play dumb. Just get out here.”
The artist turned and marched back outside, and Josuke sighed. He didn’t really have a choice, did he?
Outside, everything was bathed in the honey-colored light of sunset. The polished metal fixtures on Rohan’s motorcycle seemed to sparkle. It was clear that he took good care of the bike, so what could be wrong with it?
“What do you want me to do?”
“I’ve tried kickstarting it,” Rohan said with a frown, “but I’m not as… massive as you. Could you give it a try? The extra weight might do the trick.”
Was he calling him fat?
Josuke heaved a sigh. “I’ll see what I can do.”
He swung one leg over the bike, making sure he found his balance before rising up to stand with his left foot on the peg and his right foot on the kick pedal. He tried to ignore the feeling of Rohan’s eyes on him as he drew in a quick breath and shoved downward. The pedal gave beneath his weight and the engine responded with a growl, then fell silent again.
He cranked the throttle a couple times to get the fuel moving and tried again. Over and over, the engine growled but did nothing more. Josuke stopped when his body began to ache with the effort.
“Still nothing,” he said, slightly breathless as he dismounted. “Sorry.”
The artist stood with his arms crossed over his chest, a line of worry between his brows. He said nothing.
“Anything else I can do?” Josuke asked.
Rohan seemed to snap out of it then, looking up at the larger man. “Yes, actually. It seems I’ll be needing a ride home.”
Josuke blinked. “You… want me to drive you home?”
“Well, I obviously can’t drive myself home,” he said. “I could call a tow truck, but I don’t see the point when you have a fully functional pickup truck right here.”
Josuke couldn’t help but laugh. Was he always this presumptuous? He was tempted to tease the man or deny him assistance, but decided against it. His day had been frustrating enough already, and some of that frustration had been Josuke’s fault.
“Yeah, sure,” he said. “I’ll go find something we can use to load your bike into the back of my truck.”
He found a broad wood plank left over from the construction of his greenhouse and brought it outside. He positioned it carefully, making sure it wouldn’t slip. Then he pushed his sleeves up to the elbow. Rohan did the same, and Josuke noticed the distinct lack of ink on his skin. Weren’t tattoo artists usually covered in tattoos?
They worked together to push Rohan’s motorcycle up into the truck bed. It was hard work, considering the weight of the bike and the steep incline of the ramp. Josuke did most of the work, but he didn’t really mind. That is, until Rohan left him to strap down the motorcycle while he settled in the passenger seat.
“Must think he’s royalty or something,” Josuke muttered under his breath. He secured the bike and hopped down from the truck bed, carrying the plank back inside and locking up his shop.
“While we’re young, Josuke.”
Josuke clenched his keys in his fist and tried to keep his irritation in check. At least he hadn’t called him flower boy this time. He climbed into the driver’s seat and shut the door. Rohan gave him his address.
“You live way out there?”
“Yes, is that a problem?”
“No, it’s just… that’s a long way to ride on a motorcycle every morning.” He turned his key in the ignition and shifted his truck into gear.
“I don’t mind it,” said Rohan. “I like long drives. They give me time to think.”
“Do you like long walks on the beach, too?” Josuke joked.
“Are you making fun of me?”
“No,” he said quickly. “Well… maybe a little.”
Rohan rolled his eyes and turned to look out the window. Josuke scolded himself for teasing the man. Just when he’d finally shared something personal about himself, too. Josuke, you idiot.
He tried to start over. “Are you from around here?”
“No.”
Strike one.
“Where did you grow up?”
“Not here.”
Strike two.
Damn. Josuke chewed on his lip as they drove out of town, pulling out onto the winding highway that would eventually bring them to Rohan’s house. Questions about his past were off-limits, then. Noted.
After a few minutes of silence, he decided to give it one more try. “How long have you been a tattoo artist?”
There was a pause. Then, “Six years. I opened Ink Dark Boy when I was eighteen.”
“Really? That’s impressive.”
Rohan finally turned away from the window, glancing at Josuke. “How old are you?”
“Twenty.”
He hummed. “That’s still pretty young to be starting your own business.”
Josuke smiled. It wasn’t technically a compliment, but it was the closest thing he was likely to get. “I worked for a florist in high school,” he said. “I always knew I wanted to open my own shop someday.”
“The White Lily,” Rohan mused. “Is that your favorite flower?”
“Yeah,” Josuke said, blushing a bit.
They fell silent again, but it was a more comfortable silence. The highway curved up ahead, skirting around a heavily wooded area. A flood of birds rushed from the trees into the sky as they drove by, and Josuke watched them. They gradually dispersed, like ink in water.
That reminded him.
“Do you have any tattoos?”
Rohan looked at him in surprise, subtly curling the fingers of his right hand into a fist. “No,” he said. “Why do you ask?”
Josuke chuckled. “I mean, you are a tattoo artist, aren’t you? I thought tattoo artists always had lots of tattoos.”
“I’m not like those tattoo artists,” Rohan huffed. “They use their own bodies as practice. I don’t need that. I’m very artistically talented.”
“So you don’t want any tattoos?”
“It’s not that,” said Rohan. “I just want the tattoos I have to mean something.”
Josuke nodded. “That makes sense. If I ever got a tattoo, I’d want it to mean something too. You know, a friend of mine once got a tattoo of his girlfriend’s name. A few months later, he found out she’d been cheating on him.”
Rohan laughed.
It should have been unsettling—hearing this man laugh at the misfortune of another. But Josuke didn’t feel unsettled. He wasn’t quite sure what he was feeling, but whatever it was, it filled him with warmth.
They continued to make small talk for the remainder of the drive, until at last they arrived at Rohan’s house. It was an old house, adorned with gables and turrets. Josuke thought it suited him. He gave off a similarly elegant vibe with his high cheekbones and delicate gold earrings. Not to mention the fitted black turtleneck he wore. Josuke didn’t realize how long he’d been staring until his eyes trailed back up and found Rohan staring back at him. He arched a brow.
“Could you unlock the door?”
“Oh, right. Sorry.” He fumbled for the button, looking away so Rohan wouldn’t see the fierce blush on his cheeks. Damn it, what was he doing? He’d never embarrassed himself so many times in one day.
Once the doors were unlocked, they both climbed out of the truck and worked together to unload the motorcycle. Then Rohan pushed it into the safety of his garage and turned to face Josuke.
“You can go now. Thanks,” he added.
“Rohan, wait.”
The artist paused, arching a brow again.
Josuke moved closer, smirking as he slid his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “How were you planning on getting to work tomorrow?”
His emerald eyes widened with realization.
“Yeah, I figured,” Josuke chuckled. “Want me to pick you up? If you want, I can be your ride until your bike gets fixed.”
Rohan hesitated. He seemed reluctant to agree to the idea, but apparently he had no other choice. He rolled his eyes. “Fine. But don’t start thinking I owe you anything. This was your idea, not mine.”
Josuke laughed. “I’m not like that, Rohan. Trust me.”
That didn’t seem likely. Still, he held out a hand. “Give me your phone. We should exchange numbers so we can contact each other if need be.”
He nodded and gave the man his phone.
“For emergencies only,” Rohan said, returning the phone to Josuke.
Josuke reached out to take it when suddenly, a flash of red caught his eye. It seemed to be coming from Rohan’s hand. Had he hurt himself while unloading the motorcycle?
Without thinking, Josuke caught the artist’s hand in his own. He frowned as he realized what that flash of red really was: a tattoo. The ink circled his little finger several times before ending in a little red knot.
Rohan yanked his hand away as if he’d been burned. Josuke opened his mouth—an apology on his tongue—but it was too late. Rohan went inside without another word.