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Pete has drawn close to a million things in his life, all different, some grotesque, others brought forth from the fantasies of children, and almost all Maverick is happy to do. Living penises? No problem. Anime characters he has absolutely no clue about, but after six hours with a needle in his hand, can he give you their entire backstory? Sign him up (but pay him too)! Even the frankly terrible "I did it myself and want it exactly like this" pieces, Pete has no issues re-sketching and putting on someone's skin for the rest of their lives or until they pay to make it not his problem.
But there is one thing, an image, that Pete detests inking with his entire being. Not even just the one; the whole genre is a thorn in his side. Pete hates doing flowers. Roses, in particular, drive him up the wall, but really, any of them, excluding perhaps cacti, Pete would be glad to never have to draw again.
The thing is... Pete has a reputation at Ink Gun. He's got the smoothest lines, the best shading, and his work is fast; precise. He doesn't charge out the ass for time he doesn't spend, and excluding hate symbols and the occasional face tattoo, Pete doesn't say no. So, when a regular of his, Cecilia, strolls in, stars in her eyes and cash in her hands, Pete can't deny her.
Cecilia had apparently seen some movie called 'Annihilation' and couldn't get the idea out of her head. It's an entire back piece, shoulder to shoulder and then flowing down to a point, like an arrow, ending near the top of her hips. An exposed skeleton, her spine, scapula, and some of her pelvis. The edges of the skin would be "ripped" away to reveal it, and bursting from the negative space, almost like her body was growing them, would be dozens of flower blooms. They would be pushing from the back of her ribs, wrapping around her vertebrae, and cutting over some of the edges so it would look like they were spilling out.
Pete loved the idea and took notes with rapt attention, accepting Cecilia's list of flowers and has Carole book her appointment for a month out, deposit accepted.
It's after hours now, the shop front closed, Carole, Goose, and Merlin are gone as Pete lingers behind in the shared office. He's pouring over a dozen different flower books, scanning ones he thinks might be alright and then trashing them the second he's got them in his hands.
Flowers, Pete reminds himself, slamming the last of the books closed, are the worst. The fact that Cecilia had been adamant about getting the final product as close to hyperrealism as Pete could manage didn't help matters either. Pete loves a challenge, though, and thrives on bending himself over his work desk and drawing until his hands crap and his eyes go fuzzy. He lives for seeing his art on skin, a moving, breathing canvas that he created, and this has the potential to be his most phenomenal work yet. If he could just get the right angles.
See, that's what makes Pete's blood boil so much. Photos of flowers are static, they've got their own shadows and shading, and Pete, as imaginative as he can get, struggles to make them bend in his work as a cohesive piece. Then there's the fact that each one needs to be unique; it will have its own lighting and pattern, and if he's not careful, Pete knows that a rose and a cabbage are only a blink away from being one and the same.
He cannot put cabbages on Cecilia's body.
Frustrated and blinking away exhaustion, Pete leans back in his chair. He's only booked a few appointments for the next day and a long lunch after his three-hour morning session. Maybe he'll have time to look for a florist...
Pete's first appointment is done faster than expected, and Merlin has taken their second walk-in, leaving him to his own devices, playing with baby Bradley who Carole had sat on their small jewelry counter. Goose, from his station, appears and slides up next to him, immediately taking his son onto his hip so the four-year-old can play with the earing looped and dangling from his father's gauge.
"Heard your favorite customer booked you up for a twelve-slot?" Pete rolls his eyes. They both know that Carole is his favorite, the blonde so easy in Pete's chair as he puts another one of Bradley's little sketches on her arm to join the others.
"Yeah, back piece, she wants to do all the outlining in one go so I can really dig in with color." Goose whistles low, and Pete nods his head in agreement. While not his official "favorite customer," Cecilia challenges him like no one else. He thinks at least eighty percent of the work on her body has been his.
"Gonna be a long day, Mav. What's she got you doing?" Pete can't help the groan, only stopping to laugh when Bradley copies him, an adorable reenactment, his tiny hands over his face.
"Flowers, so many goddam- darned flowers." Pete thinks it's funny; Carole doesn't mind her son being around needles and ink, but a curse word within ten feet of him? Pete shudders to think of the dirty look he'd get.
Goose pats his shoulder in sympathy. He's had to listen to one or two (or a hundred) of Pete's rants regarding tattooing flowers. He often likes to follow them up by rubbing it in Pete's face that he could have been a piercer if he'd wanted.
"Why don't you just go to Top Geranium?" Goose says the words like they mean anything to Pete, so the shorter man raises his brow to make sure it's clear he's got no fucking idea what his best friend is talking about.
Goose shakes his head like Pete's the one in the wrong for not knowing just what 'Top Geranium' is.
"It's the flower shop just down the street? Corner of Fighter and 14th?" Pete offers a shrug.
He hadn't known there was one so close. He'd never really needed to go that far south, what with the parlor here and his apartment on the other end of town.
"Jesus, Mav, what the heck were you giving Charlie on dates?" Goose looks scandalized at the thought that Pete hadn't gotten his ex flowers, which makes sense when he thinks about it. Pete's never met a more romantic person in his life than Goose. Even after years of marriage, he doesn't think he's seen the other man empty-handed when surprising Carole with couple outings.
"Oral," Pete replies.
He manages to duck Goose's slap, ruffling Bradley's hair, before grabbing his keys and wallet.
"Tell Carole I'm taking lunch!"
Pete's out the door before hearing Goose's reply, but he's sure he can feel a raised middle finger pointed at his back.
He walks down the street at a languid pace, counting the shop numbers as they shift from twelve to thirteen and then finally to fourteen. Pete reaches the corner, Fighter on the verge of turning into Nimitz. There are no obvious storefronts that catch his eye, no bursting flower bouquets or spirally gold writing that makes him think, "ah, yes, this place sells flowers. " But Pete remembers the name, and when he catches the sign, he's surprised by how understated it is.
'TOP GERANIUM'
Big, bold letters done in dark navy, offset against cream paint right above the door, lead Pete to his destination. If it weren't for the fact Goose had told him he could get flowers here, Pete would never believe it. But then Pete pushes the door open, and it's clear immediately.
The shop is small, probably a third the size of Ink Gun, and bursting with greens, reds, and purples, a handful of other shades and colors splashed around as well. The left wall is floor-to-ceiling shelves, each row with a different kind of plant potter, mosaics, gloss, slate, cement, or bags of colorful marbles. The right is lined with shallow cooling fridges, open to the air, a rainbow of petals spilling out in a stunning display. The middle of the room holds a long table; medium-sized saplings, bamboo shoots, and (Maverick's favorite), cacti, are lined up in perfectly spaced rows on the surface. The entire place is lit from the ceiling. Strings of old-fashioned light bulbs suspended at different levels give the whole space a warm, nearly golden glow.
Pete feels positively transported. He almost wants to step back outside and then in again, just to see if this place is some kind of figment of his imagination. He doesn't, mainly because a cough from the desk at the back of the room catches Pete's attention, and he's looking up, then freezing.
'Fallen Angel' by Alexandre Cabanel is his first thought. The image comes to his mind, unbidden, as Pete locks eyes with the other man behind the counter. From what Pete can determine, his physique is muscular and tall, obscured by a baby-blue button-down and deep green apron. A strong set jaw, slightly furrowed and intense eyes, strikingly blue, even from this distance, and partially hidden with large silver-wired glasses.
"Can I help you?" Pete startles for a second time and wills the flush attempting to color his cheeks to not . It's an effort, but he slaps on his usual smile, walking around the table to get to the man by the register instead.
Up close, he's more attractive than Pete had assumed.
He is going to kill Goose for not giving him a heads-up. The piercer knows that Pete's got a type, and this man- Tom, as the small tag on his apron names him, is exactly it. He's got a stern look in his eye but is drop-dead gorgeous .
"Sorry, yeah, uh-" Pete clears his throat and makes himself focus. His brain is already materializing a blank canvas, charcoals under his fingers, a model with blonde hair and blue eyes draped in silks just for him to see.
He needs to get a grip.
Realizing he doesn't actually know anything about going to a florist, Pete casts a gaze around the area, hoping for something to help him. The last time he'd bought flowers, they'd been from a supermarket, wilting by the time he'd gotten to Carole and Goose's.
Unable to make his brain cooperate and pop out the information the man probably needs, Pete opens his mouth and lets the words spill.
"This is probably a little weird, but I work at the tattoo place down the block, and I've got this, uh, project? I need to do some still lifes for it, flowers, so, yeah... Not really sure where I need to start." Pete, supremely awkward, gestures around, emphasizing how lost he feels. The man doesn't reply for a second, just stares a while longer before the side of his mouth quirks.
"You don't exactly look the type." It's not what Pete is expecting. It also confuses him.
"The type?" If Tom is about to imply that Pete should know his way around a flower shop, then the other isn't nearly as smart as he looks with those spectacles perched on his nose.
"That you work in a tattoo shop." Tom's smirk grows deeper, and he should be lucky that Pete is the kind of person he is, eats bullshit for breakfast, and goes with the flow a bit too much for people's liking. Because that? That had been a little rude, and Pete is a customer.
For a moment, Pete has the thought to make a scene and play it up a bit, but he doesn't, primarily because a better idea comes to mind. That, and Pete wants to get a hint if this tall drink of water might dance his kind of tango. Flower shop aside, he's not going to make assumptions about a person's sexuality, even if he's really hoping he has a chance to climb the man like a tree at a later date.
Pete allows his smile to widen and, without preamble, shrugs out of his bomber jacket. He's wearing a white cotton shirt underneath, smeared a bit with residual ink and drying blood, transferred from changing gloves between clients. Once it's off, he sets it on the counter and rests his forearm on top of it, leaning in close as if to say, "you sure about that?" There's smug satisfaction in watching those ice-blue eyes widen as they slink down and lock onto Pete's left arm.
Pete's sleeve goes from right above his wrist to just behind his shoulder, though the top can't be seen with his shirt still on. It's a mural, a mix of concepts wrapped into the story of Pete's life, all done in shades of grey, broken with pops of stark black and punches of white. There are jets scattered, hidden, done in silhouettes, oak roots curling through each story, and a stampede of animals, a goose, a rooster, a bull, and a crane. It's a crowded work of art but flows in the way that Pete believes only a tattoo can, shifting with the flex of his muscles, almost like the pictures are alive.
Pete can tell that Tom is impressed by how his eyes sweep over the entire piece twice more.
"Just the left?" If Pete were a betting man, he'd reckon that the pink flush of Tom's ears and the question, a silent "do you have more?" might just be an opening to flirtation. Pete's not , but he also knows when to tip into an opportunity as it comes along.
"I'm right-handed." The implication is clear, and Pete basks in the ego boost as the beautiful man sucks in a breath in understanding. Pete thinks he sees one of Tom's hands twitch, slide to move forward, maybe to touch, before it stills. Pete would let him. He'd let this living greek statue pluck his shirt off to see the other little bits and bobs on his skin. The stick figure Pete had allowed Goose, drunk and delirious from celebrating the announcement of a son , leave on his hip, the goldfish done in vibrant yellow across his second rib; a lost hand of cards against Merlin. He might even let Tom turn him over and see the half-wing that sweeps over his right shoulder. It's a personal piece. A testament to his failure to get into the Navy and follow his dad as he'd wanted. It was the first time he'd let someone put a needle to his skin.
"Christ, can't imagine sticking myself for however long that took." Pete laughs a little, settling back into the present and dragging his jacket back on, trying to keep himself from preening as he sees what might be a flash of disappointment in the other man's expression.
"Eh, you get used to it after the third hour. It helps that I didn't try to do it in one go." The adrenaline would have made his line work sloppy. He doesn't mention that he'd needed to use a mirror when he'd gotten towards the top and almost ended up stabbing himself in a highly unproductive way to get it done. Less sex appeal in his very sexy "I can tattoo myself, aren't I hot?" story.
They lapse into momentary silence, and Pete almost forgets the entire reason he's there in the first place, content to stare at the other man. But then the door swings open, a tinkling bell he hadn't noticed before, making him jump. Tom looks behind him, and Pete thinks he notes a pinch of frustration at the corner of his mouth, smirk having fallen away at the interruption.
"Shipment came in early; Ethan just needs you to sign for it." A man even taller than Tom walks through the shop and holds out a clipboard for the blonde to take. Pete notes he's wearing the same apron as Tom; his name tag reads "Ron."
Ron looks down at Pete, then back to Tom, then back to Pete. Something amused and devious makes his lips rise, grin large.
"Who do we have- oof!" The clipboard slaps against Ron's chest, and the man's words are cut off. Pete tries not to laugh on instinct and has to cover his face in order to do it.
"Go help Ethan bring them to the back." Tom's expression is unimpressed if Pete were to guess. Once he's recovered, Ron is just as sly as before but doesn't say anything; he just looks between Pete and Tom again.
When the door closes, they're dropped back into the quiet again, and Pete, conceding that as much as he'd like to, he can't hang around forever, clears his throat. He's on an errand, after all.
"Uh, about the flowers..."
"Right," Tom's reply is sharp before he takes a breath and seems to relax a bit. "Did you know what you were looking for?"
Pete is thankful he'd brought Cecilia's list with him. He'd found a few of them in his books, a couple more online, but honestly, looking around at the refrigeration cases, he's at a loss. It was possible his hatred of drawing the flora was putting him at a total disadvantage.
Tom takes the list, eyebrows climbing towards his hairline the further along he goes. Pete doesn't understand the reaction; it seems disproportionate for what he assumes is just a bunch of plants.
"Black dahlia? Orange lilies? Petunias?" Tom looks between the paper and Pete as though Pete should understand exactly what he means when his words drip in disbelief as they do.
"Do you... not have them in stock?" Pete is going to be a little upset if that's the case. Sure, he's got a month, but he needs to do the rough draft, have his client approve it, then start the measurements. It's a lot of work.
"No, no, well , the dahlia and butterfly weed I'll need to order, but the others, if they're not out here, then I probably have them in the back, just... it's a kind of an intense list." Pete's sure the confusion is evident on his face.
"An intense list of flowers ?"
"The meanings," Tom seems to clarify, not that it actually clears much up for Pete, who brings a hand to the back of his neck, feeling far out of his element.
"Right," Pete scuffs his shoe, "I don't really know anything about flowers, actually." He doesn't know why he feels so embarrassed to admit that. Tom apparently has some mercy and doesn't seek to make him feel any more wrongfooted.
"I mean, as long as your client does, I guess it's fine," Tom shrugs. "Do you want everything right now?"
"Just what you have in stock. If you can order the rest, that would be great." When Tom smiles at him, Pete is pretty sure his heart stops for a moment. He tries not to let it show.
The taller man comes around the counter, and Pete's pulse races. He's wearing jeans and smart-looking boots.
"I'll grab what's out here first and then pop into the back." He waves the list of flowers and then slides past Pete to get to the cases. Pete catches the spice of cologne, so different from the almost sweet scent of all the flowers, and, unconsciously, he follows. Not seeming to mind his new shadow, Tom only gives Pete a look over his shoulder and then gets to work.
"If you're using them as references, do you want one or two of each?" Pete is surprised at the question, but he supposes that Tom is being professional, doing his job , so he tries not to think about how it feels close to thoughtful.
"Actually, two is probably better. Not sure how different a flower can be if they're the same kind, but the more varied, the better," Tom nods at that and begins to gather stems in his hands.
For five minutes, Pete is content watching Tom move up and down the rows and columns of flower buckets, plucking different blooms and adding them to the growing pile. Eventually, he gets restless and makes a grab for one of the flowers closest to him. It's got a long stem, and the flower bulbs are a tight cluster of yellow petals, short and straight.
"What're these?" Pete holds it out toward Tom, who has crouched to reach for something bright pink at the bottom of the second cooler. If he's bothered by Pete interrupting him, he doesn't make it evident.
"Tansy," his reply is curt, and he goes back to what he was sorting through. Still curious, Pete continues, twirling the flower between his two fingers.
"And what's it mean? Ya' know, flower meanings, and stuff?" When Tom looks back at him, Pete thinks he catches the tail end of an eye roll, but his mouth is set in a soft curve.
"It's called flower language , and tansies are used to declare war. Basically says, "you make me sick" if you're gonna give it to someone." Pete can't help the snort, surprised and amused that such a small plant could mean something so vicious.
He has half a mind to buy one for the hell of it and drop it off at Goose's station. Instead, he puts it back where he found it and moves to locate a new flower to quiz Tom on.
When he finally decides, it's a larger one, a straight stem with a single bloom, burnt orange and almost dull, but still clustered.
"This one?" Tom has moved on to another pail. Pete is sure he must be close to done, at least with what flowers he has out front. He looks at the blossom in Pete's hand, and then his gaze slides to Pete's left arm, expression softening. Pete's heart thumps wildly in his chest at the sudden change.
"Marigold, passion," blue meets green, and Pete can sense warmth pooling in his face, "creativity."
Oh.
Pete feels himself smile. Tom matches him for a moment before seeming to come back to himself with a quick blink, returning to the list in his hand.
Pete reasons that there's only enough time for one more flower, and even though he doesn't know what they mean, he does know color theory, and Pete's not entirely clueless about all the symbolism around him. It's easy plucking a third out.
Pete gets close to Tom, and when the man pivots to face him, they're almost chest to chest, the orange rose a tiny barrier between them. Tom's eyes widen in surprise, and he takes a staggering half-step backward, gaze shifting from Pete's to the rose. He doesn't bother waiting for Pete to ask.
"Orange rose," Tom's voice is a bit fainter, "happiness, uh," a slash of color rises to his cheeks, "the joy a relationship brings you." Pete could not be more delighted. He lets out a thoughtful hum and reclaims the distance Tom set between them, holding out the rose just to the side of Tom's face, comparing the shade to the color of his eye. "What're y-"
"Complementary colors. Blue and orange. I thought it would look nice." Pete says. He's not always the best flirt, crashes and burns more than he succeeds, but Tom is flushing pretty and staring at Pete like he can't believe what's going on.
Even if he gets thrown out, it'll be worth it.
Pete is not thrown out. Tom closes his partially slack jaw with a click and then jerks his head towards the door behind the counter.
"I have to get the rest of your flowers, so uh, just wait up front, yeah?" Pete nods, putting the rose back in its place, and follows Tom to the register.
Tom is in the back for longer than Pete assumed he would be, but when he returns, it's with his bundle of flowers, new editions wrapped up with tissue paper and twine.
"I put the other ones on order. They should be in by Wednesday, so Ron will grab them for you when you stop by." Pete almost asks why Tom won't be there, but he realizes it's a stupid question. It's probably the man's day off.
It shouldn't disappoint him as much as it does.
Once he's rung up, Pete tries not to gawk too badly at the price and offers up his credit card without complaint. He hopes the final cost of the tattoo will take the sting of the expense off. Tom hands his card back; Pete takes both it and the flowers, only hesitating at the counter for a moment more, then shifts to leave. He doesn't want to, but he knows he can't keep taking up the rest of Tom's afternoon, and Pete really does have to get ready for his next appointment. It doesn't stop the wanting, though.
There's a strange peace in the flower shop and under the watchful eye of Tom. The easy flirtation had been a pleasant bonus, reciprocated as well, at least as far as Pete could tell. It seems like the most unfortunate thing, knowing he doesn't have an excuse to come back, knowing that when he does, his order won't be handled by a sharp stare and a sharper smile.
Still... Pete stops halfway to the front door. He doesn't want to leave it like this. He refuses to.
Turning on his heel, careful not to bash the flowers against anything, Pete catches Tom's eye. The other man looks a little startled that he's not gone yet before his face sets back into something semi-neutral.
"My name's Pete, by the way. You should stop by the shop sometime; our receptionist would probably like to thank you for all the flowers she keeps getting." A little bashful, feeling kind of silly at offering the weak invitation, Pete smiles. But then Tom mirrors him, lips pulling, teeth showing, beautiful, and suddenly he's feeling less foolish.
"Tom." Pete nods and doesn't mention that he'd clocked Tom's name tag the second he'd been able to drag his eyes away from the blonde's face. "And maybe I might, could be fun, getting some ink." Pete feels his face go a little dumb, almost lightheaded, as a hundred images flash across his brain, different things he'd like to gently carve into Tom's skin, how he might look beneath Pete's tattoo gun, the adrenaline making him shiver.
Pete has to clear his throat, force his final grin, then, using herculean strength, waves with his handful of flowers and leaves.
When he gets back to Ink Gun, Carole is at the counter, and Bradley is in the waiting area "reading" a magazine.
"Aw, Mav! You shouldn't have!" Carole dramatically throws a hand over her heart, and Pete laughs. He's sure she knows they aren't for her; Goose is never able to keep his mouth shut. He still plucks one of the orange lilies out of the bundle and passes it over to her with a kiss on the cheek.
"Wonderful, fantastically perfect Carole, is your husband with a client?" Carole has a wicked look, a smile sliding into a smirk as she tucks the flower behind her ear.
"He's only "my husband" when he's done somethin' wrong." Pete tips his head at her in agreement. "He's just cleanin' up." Pete's going to give her a raise.
He drops his flowers off at his workstation in the back before spinning around to give Goose a piece of his mind.
Later, once he's done chewing out his co-worker for not spilling the beans about the six-foot dreamboat, not a five-minute walk from their front door, he heads back to his desk. There are thirty minutes until his next appointment, so he allows himself time to separate the flowers, comparing them to the list. Tom had put little checkmarks next to the ones that had needed to be ordered, so, using his phone, Pete confirmed the rest.
He gets down to the last few stems and frowns. There's an odd man out, a bloom that doesn't match the list, or any of the others that are already paired up.
The petals are large but overlapped in tight circles, round and red with a deeper color at the center and hints of orange near the base where the outermost petals begin to fan. Pete already has a sneaking suspicion of what this mystery flower might imply, but he still scours google for close to fifteen minutes in the hopes of identifying the name.
Pete finds his face splitting with a grin when he's reasonably confident he's got it.
Ranunculus, meaning attractiveness and charm.
Red. The complement of green.
If Pete leaves the flowers without water overnight (excluding the one he's sure is meant for him) just so he has an excuse to go back to 'Top Geranium' the following day, that's between himself and his wallet.