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The shop closes at six, yet Vash lingers in the doorway.
He can’t seem to stop, because Nai would do the same; waiting for that last minute customer, with an entirely too specific request, to come running toward the glass display outside. Vash would be standing around the counter, fiddling with pennies and dimes. Nai would be the one who spoke with that last customer as the time shifted from 6:00, to 6:11, and then 6:27 when the customer was satisfied.
It was then, and only then, that Nai would transition to closing up the shop for the evening. He would lock the door, and turn the open sign to closed , almost in tandem with the setting sun. If Vash were lucky, Nai would let him do it himself, and his little brother by only a handful of seconds would watch in awe as the golden hue disappeared behind the brownstone storefronts across the street.
Vash couldn’t bring himself to watch the sun disappear behind the sepia colored stones this evening, not with Nai watching over his shoulder, from elsewhere.
He simply stood in the doorway, his ears becoming numb to the sound of the incessant ringing of the bell above him; his torso swaying back and forth to keep the door open. A cold breeze entered the shop, passing him by without a second thought. He shivered, and watched as his breath became a cloud of white vapor. That seamless transition from Autumn to Winter was Nai’s favorite part of the year.
Vash had half of a mind to reach for his scarf, hanging limply from the coatrack to his right. That other half of him didn’t mind the cold. He had always preferred the summer; the sessions of volleyball right on the sand, the warm ocean water as he dunked his head below the seafoam. Nai tried his hardest to appreciate it, too. Vash didn’t try hard enough to enjoy the cold, isolating weather of the winter season.
Nai would dress in coats lined with synthetic fur, because he hated the idea of an animal being harmed for the sake of clothes, and was always sure to invite Vash. Last Christmas Nai had bought Vash a coat. The outer layer was red, and the lining was dyed to appear turquoise in some lights, and a darker blue in others. Vash had said something along the lines of, “Wow Nai…you didn’t have to. Really , you didn’t have to.”
The thought only provoked the tears in his eyes to fall.
The scarf, still hanging on the coat rack, had been a gift from Nai two years prior; knitted by none other than himself, after work every other week. “I took classes at our local crafts store,” he said, enthusiastically. It was too enthusiastic for Vash, who had always been the enthusiastic one between the two. Nai had been the reserved one, soft spoken at times, until that silent passion of his prompted unfamiliar excitement.
Despite Vash’s loathing of Winter, he still reached for that scarf, and wrapped it around his neck and shoulders. It was long for a scarf, reaching close to his knees if he wore it around his neck alone. Nai had offered to make a new one, but the shop was so close to opening Vash said, “No, I think it’s perfect the way it is.”
Perhaps he should have asked for another. Simply to preserve it, to preserve the memory of his older brother.
The ringing of the bell had stopped, Vash realized, because he had stopped that unconscious movement of his body. The swaying kept his mind elsewhere because that was the only place he could be– elsewhere , anywhere but in the shop he promised his brother he would keep running.
To think that an introvert like his brother would open a shop baffled Vash more than he admitted to, at the time. He was working at a children’s martial arts dojo down the street, teaching five and six year olds how to yell loud enough when landing a punch or a kick. Anything seemed better at the time, even if he did love hanging out with the kids; the amount of gum and half-chewed lunches he found in his hair in the evening was getting to be too much. Some kid had brought with them a bottle of black paint they had stolen from school, and when Vash returned home to his apartment that night, he found that half of his hair was covered in it.
The next day he asked Nai if he could work at his flower shop.
It had been two years since the opening, and one year since the accident.
Still, Vash kept the doors of the shop open half past six, each night, waiting for that last customer to request a bouquet he had no idea how to arrange.
When 6:29pm sounded on his watch, accompanied with a quiet beeping alarm, he went to close the door.
“Wait–”
Vash turned on his heel, his eyes searching the street for the source of the sound.
“Wait, please, don’t shut the door!”
Running across the street, oblivious to the oncoming traffic, was a man dressed clad in black.
Vash noticed the tattoos first. The man was covered in them, and shown most prominently, was the tattoo on his upper chest, barely obscured by the grey button-up he wore. Vash had seen it before, the strange symbol representing the shape of a cross, made with three lines on both the top and bottom, and one on either side. What he hadn’t noticed before was the circle in the center, and what looked like an outline of a beating heart.
“The shop…is the shop still open?” The stranger asked, in between ragged breaths.
Vash supposed that the shop was still open. Afterall, he had kept it open, unaware that the customer requesting a bouquet of flowers would arrive.
The stranger was the first one since Nai’s accident.
Vash’s grip on the door handle tightened.
At that point, he and the stranger were standing in the doorway. Vash, hoping that his drying tears resembled tears of happiness; and the stranger, finally catching his breath.
“Well?” He said, incredulous.
Nai would have let the customer in regardless.
Vash glanced down at his watch, “It’s 6:31 y’know,” he said.
The stranger shrugged, as if time did not affect him.
Vash saw his eyes though, half obscured with sunglasses despite the sun being long gone.
Those were desperate eyes; he knew them well. Those were the eyes he was haunted by. They were the eyes he saw every morning in the bathroom mirror he tried so hard to avoid.
Vash took a step back, opening the door with the movement. “Come on in.”
It was hard not to fall into step behind the tattooed stranger, as if Vash was simply an onlooker, and not the one responsible for keeping sales going. If he had the funds, he would hire a second employee to do this part.
Once upon a time, Vash was that second employee.
He would try his best to sell a bouquet that Nai had spent two to three hours on.
He hadn’t sold much of anything recently, aside from the pity purchases that stopped a month ago.
Vash followed the stranger around like a ghost, always reaching out to recommend something, but never saying the words, as if the action was impossible.
Despite his being an extrovert, Vash had found it hard to search for those words he once had. They used to roll off of his tongue, effortlessly. Now, he had to swallow his uncertainties, and promise himself that he wouldn’t fail.
He wouldn’t fail, because if he did, he would lose the last piece of Nai he had left.
Vash unclenched his fist, unaware that the tips of his nails were leaving crescent moon-shaped indents in his skin.
He said, his voice cracking in the slightest in the way Nai laughed over, “Is there anything you’re looking for specifically?”
The stranger had been looking at a wall of roses, each one individually de-thorned, and cut at an angle in order to further preserve its shelf life. Nai had taught Vash how to do that. The memory only made him shudder.
“If you’re looking at purchasing flowers for a loved one, or a friend, maybe even a boss of yours–”
“Would you stop it with the pestering?” The stranger spat out.
Vash did as he was asked.
Behind those sunglasses, the stranger’s eyes softened. He reached out a hand, and said in that deep, gruff voice, “the name’s Nicholas, but my friends just call me Wolfwood.”
“Wolfwood?” Vash asked, “What is that, the name of a childhood pet?”
Vash could feel the tips of his ears warm as the words left his mouth. What in the world was he thinking, saying something like that, as if he knew the ma–
“It’s my last name.”
The warmth crept downward from the tips of his ears to his cheeks, seeming to engulf his entire face within seconds. “I really meant no harm by it–I mean I love the last name, my last name is nothing special, It’s so dull, so stupid, really, it’s like who in their right mind would choose a last name like Saver–”
“Do you ever stop talking, blondie?”
Vash supposed that it was hard to stop talking, that is, once he started.
He connected his hand with Wolfwood’s and smiled, “My name is Vash. It’s nice to meet you, Wolfwood.”
His skin was warm, and slightly calloused right in between the pointer finger and thumb. Vash hadn’t realized how cold he had become, waiting in the doorway for this single stranger to appear. He pulled his hand away before he could turn that warmth into a frigid chill.
“I’ll be honest,” Wolfwood said, “I’ve only lived here for a short while. I came into your shop because there’s this guy I want to impress. Who knows if he’s even into sappy flowers, but I thought, why not?”
Vash nodded along, attempting to ignore the feeling of his racing heart beneath his chest. “Well, what is this guy like?” He ventured, as if it didn’t sting to ask.
Who was he to feel upset, anyway? He had only just learned this stranger’s name.
Wolfwood shrugged. “I’ve only seen him from across the street. I work at the new tattoo parlor three buildings down, and in between appointments I was looking out at the street and there he was.”
What a way to narrow it down .
“Does he wear a certain color a lot?” Vash asked.
“Yeah. Whenever I see him, he’s wearing red.”
As if by instinct, Vash remembered that he was wearing the scarf that Nai had made for him. He had been rubbing the red yarn in between his fingers as Wolfwood spoke.
Vash moved his hands to his side, grateful that his tears had long dried. “Well, we did just receive our first–”
There was no we anymore.
Vash cleared his throat and began again, “A new shipment came in of red peonies from one of the local farms. They’ve just started blooming so this is the perfect opportunity to give them to this guy who loves red.”
If Wolfwood noticed Vash’s mistake, he feigned obliviousness, and smiled slightly. When he smiled, Vash felt a small ache in his chest; he knew the smile wasn’t for him, but for the one who loved red.
It was a small pang, nothing that wouldn’t be suffocated the next morning as he tried to avoid the bathroom mirror.
“Red peonies it is.”
Vash felt comfortable behind the counter. It was his safe place whenever customers entered, bombarding Nai with questions Vash couldn’t answer.
It had been his second day working at the shop when a wedding coordinator entered, followed by the bride in question. She had approached Vash, who was spraying down the display window with an all-purpose cleaner.
Her words were gnarled things, forming non-cohesive thoughts in Vash’s mind. All he had really gotten from their conversation was, “Hello” before Nai stepped in.
After that, Vash stayed by the counter.
He was by the counter, all too aware that Wolfwood decided the interior of a flower shop was a good place to light his cigarette.
If Nai were there, he would’ve kept quiet.
Vash wouldn’t have.
But now, without his second half, Vash found it hard to say anything at all.
He simply wrapped the peonies in some eco-friendly brown paper, and wrung up the total. He pressed the buttons on the calculator as if creating a price all his own, but he knew the cost of peonies, and the cost of the small packet of flower food. Rather, the sound of the calculator brought some peace to his mind amidst his spiraling thoughts.
All he wanted to do was go home and press his head against his pillow, heated from its most recent run in the dryer.
The smell of exhaled smoke brought his attention back to the counter, and the wrapped up bouquet of red peonies. “Your total today will be $68.00.” Vash turned the card reader around to face Wolfwood and waited for him to insert it, tapping a finger against his chin, counting down the seconds until he could close the shop.
From where he stood, the grandfather clock in the corner of the room read 7:06pm, but that clock was always inaccurate. As Vash went to look down at his watch, he found the bouquet, still waiting on the counter.
Before he could speak, the sound of a bell echoed through the storefront, and Wolfwood was gone.
Vash’s apartment was quiet in the morning.
Even the sound of the pigeons outside of his bedroom window was muffled. As he pulled back the thermal curtains, they remained steadfast in their near-silence. On occasion, Vash would leave Nai’s leftover bird feed for them to eat. He hadn’t refilled the small birdfeeder he had zip tied to the rusting bars of his fire escape.
“Is that why you’re so angry with me, little guys?” He asked, his head tilting.
The birds seemed to mock him, tilting their own heads, keeping their eyes wide and unyielding. Vash reached over for the bird seed beside his radiator, the same radiator he had meant to call maintenance to fix. They wouldn’t come anyways.
If Nai were there, well, he would have called and called and once the emergency maintenance line finally picked up, he would have shoved the phone in Vash’s hands. They would have fixed the heat then, but Vash was too tired to fight with them. The sun was rising, and Vash decided that he had to rise with it, even if his new addiction to caffeine begged for bed instead.
That reminded him, he had to buy a new coffee pot.
The image of ground up coffee beans looked like bird seed in a way, even if it didn’t at all, and Vash was far too tired to be comparing the two.
As Vash opened up his bedroom window, the sounds of the waking city entered his mind, clearing his thoughts. He unscrewed the top of the bird feeder, and slowly poured in the feed, careful not to spill any from the sides. “There you go,” he said, ushering the birds toward it. “Happy now that you don’t have to resort to crumbs from passersby?”
Birds can’t talk, he reminded himself.
Maybe he really was beginning to lose it.
He had brought home that bouquet of peonies, for whatever reason.
His train of thought was something along the lines of, I can bring it back to the shop and hope that he gets it ; as if his leaving it there meant he still wanted it.
Still, there was a quiet flame in Vash’s chest. Something within him hoping that Nicholas would return, if only to pay for the bouquet he didn’t want.
Vash could have kept the flowers at the shop.
He could have kept them watered; their trimmed stems yearning for that last drop.
Vash yearned for those warm hands.
“What am I thinking?” The birds had no answers for him. Hell, he had no answers for himself.
He had known Wolfwood for half an hour. Was he just lonely?
It had been a year since Nai’s accident; you’d think Vash would leave the loneliness behind. Though, it never really left him. It lurked over his shoulder, feeding words into his thoughts that were meant to suffocate him.
He needed to stop staring at the pigeons because they were starting to stare back at him.
“Well, I guess this is goodbye until the next time you’re asking for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.” Vash slid his window closed, and waved a farewell to the birds.
The shop opens at 8:00am, promptly, at Nai’s request. The older couples who strolled by in the morning, hoping to reach the farmer’s markets before they grew too busy, tended to peruse the shop’s window when it was open that early.
If Vash pushed enough, they would buy one of the older bouquets from the morning before, always at a discount–another one of his brother’s requests.
He would always take great care when tending to these customers. As they left, leaving behind small caramels for the boys to snack on, Nai would say, “They care the most, about the flowers I mean. If you’re ever watching over the shop for me early like this, be nice to them, would you?”
It was almost as if Nai had known. If he had, why didn’t he warn Vash?
Why didn’t he avoid that car as it crashed into the entryway of the cafe?
Why did the driver sit behind the wheel that afternoon?
The questions would bury Vash if not for the couple walking up to the counter, a bouquet of slightly wilted daffodils in hand.
“Charles, Lotte, good-morning,” he said, smiling. Gingerly, the couple placed the bouquet on the counter for Vash to prepare. “Taking these to your daughter, or keeping them for yourselves?” He asked as he wrapped the flowers with recycled paper; Nai’s third request.
Lotte laughed to herself, “You know how much Charlie here loves daffodils. July will get flowers next week.”
Vash tapped a small packet of flower food to the paper, and handed it to Lotte. “Tell July that she can come to the shop herself if she wants flowers. It’s no use taking yours.”
“You know her, always so busy at the firm.” Lotte exchanged a look with her husband, and Vash watched as silent words passed between them. “Oh! That reminds me. Vash, have you stopped by that new tattoo parlor across the street? They could use something to brighten the place up…I think that your flowers would be perfect.”
Vash raised his eyebrows, “Really?”
Did Wolfwood put you up to this?
No, they couldn’t have known him.
“Yes, yes,” Lotte assured him, “You know Griffin, my nephew?”
Vash nodded, though he didn’t really remember her nephew Griffin.
“He just got a tattoo done there, by an artist that goes by his last name–Wolfwood.”
Did they know him?
“Anyways, I think this Wolfwood character owns the place. Ask him if he wants some flowers in his display. It might even draw the ladies in.” Lotte winked and held out her arm for her husband to take. “Have a good day, Vash,” she said as the door closed behind her.
“It might draw the ladies in,” he repeated, to no one but himself.
The bouquet of peonies was still in his bag, overflowing over the sides like a cascading waterfall of red.
Outside, a kit of pigeons began assembling outside, pecking at crumbs left from the morning rush.
Vash couldn’t believe what he was about to do.
He wrapped Nai’s scarf around his neck and shoulders, and held the bouquet in his hand, careful not to wrinkle the delicate petals.
As he opened the door to his shop, the pigeons looked up at him. “Will you watch the shop for me?” He asked.
The pigeons tilted their head at him, and he took that as an answer enough.
The tattoo parlor wasn’t open yet.
Vash shouldn’t have been surprised, it was barely half past eight. When did tattoo shops open anyways? Ten, eleven in the morning? Or, he could look to his left, and read the sign titled operating hours .
Holding the bouquet in his hands, Vash read the sign, and waited.
Was opening at twelve really necessary?
Vash had never gotten a tattoo. He and Nai were planning on getting small flowers on their forearms, but the appointment was canceled as the car drove through brick and glass.
He should turn away now, and watch over his shop. Pigeons weren’t capable of doing it, that was for sure, even if Vash made sure that they were fed. Even if his shop was failing, falling behind on payments with each passing week.
Nai was always better at scheduling those things, promoting his shop in grocery store windows, offering special deals for those getting married during the peak blooming seasons.
Who wanted flowers in early March, anyways?
“Hey blondie.”
That voice–
“I see you got those flowers I left for you.”
Why in the world was Wolfwood walking toward Vash, at eight in the morning?
He was supposed to be wherever it was he lived, sleeping in or something, because he was probably nocturnal from tattooing so late at night.
Vash couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped his lips. It always happened, every time he was caught unawares. He could feel his cheeks growing warm, too, and paired with the airy laugh he had, he was certain that this would be the end of his life.
Wolfwood would think that he was strange, or maybe allergic to the peonies in his hand, the paper absorbing the accumulating sweat from the palms of his hands.
“I have an appointment this morning for a new client. Care to come in?”
Vash couldn’t help the look of shock on his blushing face.
“Me?” He asked, finger pointing to himself.
Wolfwood quirked an eyebrow, “Do you see any other needle noggins around?”
In truth, Vash saw no one else on the street. Let alone any needle noggins.
Wait, what was a needle noggin again?
“It’s not getting any warmer out here,” Wolfwood groaned.
Under the current circumstances, Vash couldn’t feel his fingers growing increasingly numb.
“If you want the company–”
Before Vash could finish, Wolfwood was jangling a set of keys, inserting a golden one into the lock of his storefront. “Come on in.”
And Vash did, without much thought for his own safety or security.
He was only entering a strange place, for the first time, with a man he had known for twelve hours, most of which he spent asleep.
“Make yourself comfortable. My client isn’t coming in for another half hour, anyways.”
Vash did that, too.
The shop itself was entirely different from his own, but it was also different from the tattoo parlors he had seen online. Despite being tucked away, deep in the shadows of the sunrise, it was still bright. Lanterns, thrifted lamp shades, and exposed light bulbs created an atmosphere outside of a story book. With a flick of his wrist, fairy lights lit the exterior of the parlor, illuminating the decorative art in each artist’s space. Degrees from academies and universities were paired in each quarter of the room, for each artist, Vash assumed,
It was easy to find Wolfwood’s, because he had the most. Vash counted three, and maybe a fourth collecting dust elsewhere. The other degrees had names Vash didn’t recognize. There was one addressed to a Livio, directly parallel from Wolfwood’s area. The others were too far for Vash to read from where he sat, sinking into a beige cushioned chair.
There were even plushies littered throughout the waiting area, ranging from Hello Kitty to a squishmallow Vash hadn’t seen before.
Once the lights were on, Wolfwood set out to prepare his station.
Vash felt himself grow antsy. Well, this was usually how he felt, always on the edge of something but never able to reach out and take it.
He wouldn’t let himself fall into that same pattern, not as he sat in this unfamiliar space, with this unfamiliar person.
“You left these in my shop last night,” he said.
Wolfwood seemed entranced in his process, wiping down the massage table turned table for tattooing. Vash waited for him to stop, for him to take off those stupid glasses he wore.
Why did he care whether or not Wolfwood wore glasses?
You wear glasses. Stop being a hypocrite.
Vash wore glasses to see the world in color where none existed.
Finally, Wolfwood was done sanitizing his station.
“Well?” Vash asked, biting down on his inner cheek.
“Well,” Wolfwood mused, “They were flowers for you, Vash.”
Hearing his name spoken like that, elongated, slowed down, paired with that natural rasp, made his heart ache.
“What do you mean?” Vash had to be dreaming. There was no way this was real.
“You are the guy always wearing red. Always in his shop bright and early, and always keeping it open later than your hours say you should be. Always discounting those flowers for reasons a, b, and c.”
“I discount those flowers because if I don’t, they won’t be bought, and then I won’t meet the quota for the month–”
“Is that really true, blondie?”
No.
“Yes.” The lie felt bitter on his tongue.
“...No, I sell them at a discount because how could I say no to those couples?”
Wolfwood stifled a laugh into the sleeve of his gray shirt.
Vash felt his cheeks grow even warmer, if reaching those temperatures was possible.
“How do you know so much about me anyways?” Vash asked.
Wolfwood took a seat on his wheeled stool, and shrugged. “I guess…I guess that I moved into this shop and I never had the courage to say hello until last night. I had my friend Livio go into your shop a few times. He owes me for a tattoo he wanted.”
“Livio?”
“Tall, silver hair. He usually has a face mask on.”
Vash wasn’t entirely sure he could pick out Livio from the rest of his customers. Then again, he didn’t have many customers to begin with.
“What made you decide to finally say hi?”
Wolfwood was silent for a moment. Vash took the silence as an invitation. Nicholas was his name, yet he preferred to be called Wolfwood. He wore black clothes with the occasional gray and white. He had earrings in the shape of crosses, and a piercing on his left eyebrow. The tattoos crawling up his fingers were hard to miss, not that Vash wanted to miss them. He wanted to feel that warmth again, if only for a second.
Wolfwood ran a hand through his hair, engulfing those tattoos and that warmth in something cold; unkempt. “It was late and I had no appointments or walk-ins. You were about to close, I think, but then I saw you standing in the doorway.”
Vash could melt into those words, he realized. That voice.
“And you were wearing red again, so I figured that you would get the hint.”
“I’m afraid things like that tend to get lost on me,” Vash chuckled, rubbing the back of his head with a hand.
“You were actually wearing the same scarf that you’re wearing now,” Wolfwood notes, his eyes inspecting Vash through the shades of his glasses.
Vash tries to steel himself, but the attempt is futile.
He opens his mouth to speak, to offer some retort, but none form in his mind. “My brother made this scarf for me,” he says, softly, because it hurts too much to be loud and obnoxious about it. “I swear that I can’t part with it, strangely enough, it makes me feel like he’s here with me. Even now.” Rooting me on .
Telling me that I can accept another person into my small life.
Wolfwood pursed his lips. He must know about Nai, about the accident, about the driver who spent barely a month behind bars.
He must know about the funeral, and how Vash was the only one who attended.
For someone so involved with his community, the community was nowhere to be seen.
“Vash,” he says, “I know we barely know each other, but…but I’d like to take you out. I’d like to actually buy you some flowers, and kiss you once we’ve gotten to know each other. I’d like to bring a smile to your lips that isn’t forced.”
Vash could feel the tips of his ears burning. He wanted to laugh, he wanted to cry; he wanted to say thank you to this person who had entered his life twelve hours ago.
He wanted a tattoo.
“Before you do that, I have a request.”
Wolfwood tilted his head, waiting.
“I want two tattoos. One on each forearm.”
“Of what?”
“A delphinium on one arm, and a water lily on the other.”
“Perfect. Give me an hour to get the sketches done.”
“What about your client?”
“The client is you, Vash.”
That was impossible. Vash hadn’t made any appointments. He rarely made appointments as is. That reminded him, he needed to get his physical done, and see his dentist because his molars were starting to hurt and–
“Your brother, Knives? He made an appointment with me before I moved into this shop. I was an hour out of the city at that point, but he wanted to schedule it for after we moved here.”
Leave it to Nai to do something like this.
Vash’s eyes were stinging.
Why were they stinging?
His brother had somehow managed to do this, as if he knew.
“Fuck,” he whispered.
Fuck it all.
“He put down the deposit, too. And for you blondie, I’ll waive the cost of the materials and time spent. In return, I want your flowers on display in my shop.”
Despite his blurred vision, Vash could still see the box of tissues, and Wolfwood’s hand offering it. “Dry those tears, yeah? Take a deep breath.”
Vash did as he was told.
He took a deep breath, and felt a foreign weight lift from his shoulders.
A secondary weight took its place. This time, it was welcoming, calming. Vash knew the warmth as well as he could have, considering how long he had yearned for it overnight. Wolfwood began rubbing circles, repetitive circles, on his back until Vash caught his breath.
“You okay, blondie?”
He wasn’t okay, not by a long shot. But he could start to feel better. He could start by looking in the mirror, at the memory of his brother, forever engraved in his skin.
“Yes. I’m okay.”