Chapter Text
Pain isn’t something to shy away from, in the professional opinion of Lang Buddha. It was an unfortunate, but often necessary aspect of life. Many of his most painful moments led to important realizations. Bleeding out on the steps of Gigi’s apartments was one of his lowest points, but eventually inspired him to pursue a cleaner career. From there, his business thrived, ensuring him a cushy comfortable life. But stumbling down the wrong path left him with scars.
One of his most bittersweet accomplishments was his tattoo. A bright but bloody canvas, vibrant reds and blues swirling together. This was the sign of a soldier, a killer. With the demonic mask across his back to top it all off, he had once worn this mark with pride. This was a signal in the underworld, that he earned his place amongst the other beasts. It was a slow process, accumulating each design.
He hadn’t finished it before he left behind that dishonest life. But every night he would be faced with the reality of what he left behind, and what atrocities he had committed before settling down. He had the money to cover up, hell, even to remove it. Though it was a long and difficult process, he was no stranger to pain.
But this was his cross to bear. So, after a lot of consideration, he decided to finish it. There was some minor protest from a few concerned friends, Harry in particular, who dismissed it as a waste of money and time. Despite the fact that Lang had plenty of both to do what he pleased. The only one who seemed to understand was Gigi, who had seen the nastiest bits of who he once was. Her hand against his wounds was what saved his life that night, as he grew too weak to prevent himself from bleeding out.
She had held him together through it all. So she knew, once he’d started filling in the empty gaps of color on his tattoos, why exactly he’d done it. If he’d gotten a cover-up, or some expensive procedure done, he’d be hiding it. Lang wasn’t a good man by any means, but he was honest with himself. You could say what you wanted about him, but he knew who he was.
But it was a more complicated process than he intended. While he had plenty of time to waste, he was rather frugal with it. Many places were too busy for longer sessions, offering to split them up across months. Others turned him away, sputtering bullshit about ‘artistic integrity’ and how they refused to finish another artist’s work.
Thankfully, Tony, an old friend of his, is a tattoo artist in a parlor downtown. He’d offered originally, but Lang turned him down. It’s a personal process for him, one he’d rather not involve a friend in. If he had his way, the person finishing this piece would be a total stranger.
But it is worth considering the shop since all the others had been complete duds so far. Lang walks into the parlor, unsurprised by the grungy decor in the lobby. The Red Line as Tony had dubbed it, isn’t Lang’s cup of tea. He can barely stomach the red neon lights decorating the room, lining every wall, it makes his eyes hurt. But it screams Tony, down to the artwork hanging from the walls of various sports cars and Italian scenery.
“Buddha, my man, it’s been fucking ages.” Speak of the devil himself, and he arrives, doused in red. Tony wanders out from behind the counter with his same fugly jacket on, splattered with random splotches of color. It was a uniform he imposed months ago, and he hadn’t taken the stupid thing off since.
“Tony, good to see you.” Lang nods in greeting, now flipping through the book of tattoo designs displayed in the front. Tony’s were front and center, a mix of American traditional and realism, with bright flashes of, of course, red. Not exactly his style, but he could easily admit how talented his friend was. Though never to his face of course. “This is all dog shit, do you have any artists who will do traditional Japanese?”
Tony grumbles under his breath, propping his arms up on the countertop as he leans over to look at the book. “Sorry, not all of us have shit taste Buddha. There might be some in there. Octo does a little bit of everything really.”
“Yeah of course he does. He’s a fucking mad man. But I’m looking for someone with a specialty, not just a jack of all trades. No offense to Octo of course.” He frowns, flipping through to the end of the book. He turns the pages back to the front with a displeased sigh. It shouldn’t surprise him, Tony’s shop wasn’t his style, it was a long shot anyway.
“I do have one guy.” Lang perks up, eyebrows raising. But Tony shows some hesitation, fingers drumming against the counter as the long pause grows. “He’s really good, really talented.”
“But? You wouldn’t beat around the bush if there wasn’t a catch.” The tattoo artist would be in the book as well, but Lang just sees the same few he is already familiar with.
“He’s an apprentice.”
“No.” Lang shakes his head firmly, already turning to leave. Fucking waste of time, as he expected. But Tony chases him down, darting out from behind the counter.
“I know you don’t want an apprentice-“
“For good fucking reason. I’m not letting some amateur fuck up years worth of work.”
“He won’t, I promise. He’s my apprentice.” Lang considers it for a brief moment, it did change things if Tony could vet for him personally. But then again, he did approve the work of every other artist in that book, and all of them were dogshit aside from Octo, his stamp of approval is overused.
“I don’t do apprentices for a reason, I don’t care who he’s training under.”
“Well you don’t have a lot of options, do you? You’ve bitched and bickered your way out of most tattoo shops in the city, you have to pick a place.” Tony sees the hesitation still on Lang’s face. He’s trying, despite his anger, to give his friend some benefit of the doubt. He’d been oddly particular about finishing the tattoo, and Tony was getting tired of the constant complaining. At this point, it feels like Lang is purposefully putting it off. “I can personally guarantee that he’s good, you know I don’t usually take apprentices. If he fucks up then I’ll take responsibility, and pay you back the money.”
Lang sighs, rubbing at the bridge of his nose in a poor attempt to relieve the tension there. Tony has a point, he doesn’t have much of a choice, and this seems his best option. Since he is an apprentice, he’d likely have no other clients, so he could get this shit done fast. He is essentially a stranger. But still trustworthy, if he worked for Tony.
“Fine. I’ll check out his work, he does traditional Japanese?”
“Pretty much exclusively. Blew me out of the fucking water when I first saw his portfolio. He was applying to be the receptionist, but I took him on immediately.” Tony guides him towards the back areas, passing a few of the other tattoo artist’s rooms. Lang catches a brief glimpse of Octo, leaning over a client’s leg, mellow music playing in the background.
They arrive at the smallest room in the back of the shop, which had been for storage. But it’s been transformed into another studio area. Unlike the rest of the dark and grungy building, this room is soft and sweet. The walls have been painted a soft shade of green, barely off-white, and a few fairy lights hang around the walls.
There’s plenty of art and posters as well, with a humidifier in the corner. All in all, it’s the exact opposite of what Lang expects, a complete antithesis of the shop's usual aesthetic. He shoots an incredulous look in Tony’s direction.
“You let him paint the walls?“
“Yeah, I would have let anybody else but they never asked. It’s not a big fucking deal. Just look.” Tony reaches into a cabinet and pulls out another portfolio. It’s thinner than the one in the lobby, but true to Tony’s word, it’s all traditional Japanese work. It’s all gorgeous, for that matter. Steady thick lines, soft gradients, and incredible detail. Flowers in particular seem to be his specialty, chrysanthemums, peonies, and a lot of cherry blossoms. Lang whistles, each piece getting more and more impressive as he flips through the book.
It’s exactly what he’s looking for, down to a T.
“What did I tell you?” Lang avoids looking at Tony’s smug grin, even knowing it’s there fills him with rage. But truth be told, he can’t rip his eyes away from the pages if he tries. It’s captivating, soft and pretty.
“As much as I absolutely hate to admit it, you were right. This is good.” It’s all the praise he offers, but even a few positive words are a rarity from Lang. Tony sighs, just relieved that the search for Lang’s artist is finally over.
“And with the friend discount, as well as the low price for apprentices, it’ll be around 50% off in total. You won’t be able to find another piece this size for this price. Plus Yuno’s been looking for clients, he’s got great work but not many people want to take a chance on someone with that little experience. But he’s tattooed a few others and they’ve gone smoothly.”
Lang sets the book back down on the counter, hands tucked in his pockets. “Yuno’s his name?”
“Yeah.” A soft-spoken voice interrupts, and despite how quiet it is, Lang nearly jumps out of his skin in shock. Tony clutches at his chest, halfway to a heart attack, but he visibly softens after seeing who it is. A thin, wiry figure stands in the doorway, dressed in a soft white sweater with black jeans. Both articles of clothing dwarf the man, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows are the only show of the frame beneath.
Black shaggy hair hangs low, bangs cut just above bright eyes. Shocking shades of green meet Lang’s gaze, baring into him. It’s all he can see of the man’s face, with the mask covering the lower half. But even with his appearance hidden in every possible manner, he comes across as elegant and poised. Long thin fingers riddled with rings slide his backpack off, depositing it carelessly in the corner of the room.
“Oh, Yuno, you scared the shit out of me.” Tony chuckles, walking up to the man and patting him harshly across the back.
“Sorry Tony, I overheard you two talking.”
“Well good news, Yuno, I found you a client. Lang, here, he’s a good friend of mine. Looking for someone to finish a piece of his, full torso, both arms, traditional Japanese.” Yuno perks up, stepping out of his shyness. His eyes dart across Lang’s figure, picking up pieces of the tattoos that he can spot. A brief sliver of a design as his shirt collar slips down, color peeking from beneath rolled up sleeves. A piece of that size sounds exactly like the kind of challenge he’s been looking for.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Lang, I’m Yuno.”
“Yeah, yeah, you too.” The use of ‘Mr’ makes him feel elderly, though it may just be out of formality. Yuno seems like that kind of guy, so polite it’s annoying. “Your work is pretty good buddy. You have any other clients?”
“Not really, most of my work is on other artists in the studio. I’ve done a few pieces for friends for free, but you’d be my first official client.” Good, Lang wouldn’t have to wait in line behind a lengthy list of clients. The more he considers this the more it appeals to him.
“Are you half decent at actual tattooing? There’s a difference between fake skin and real, and I’m not one of your friends, I’m not going to pretend I like it if you fuck up.” Lang can see Tony grimace out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t care to correct himself. He isn’t being rude, just upfront with his expectations. This isn’t just another free favor, if he is going to take a chance on this guy, he needs him to know. Anything going on his body permanently needs to be of high caliber craftsmanship.
Thankfully, Yuno doesn’t take much offense, or at least, he doesn’t show it if he does. There’s the same easygoing look in his eyes, a level-headed laziness that lolls over Lang’s figure, trying to catch glimpses of what work lay beneath. It’s clear there’s a hidden cleverness that Yuno carries with him. To be so unbothered by a task he’s never attempted is something that catches Lang’s attention, and quite frankly irritates him.
“I know Mr. Lang. A tattoo like that is a big deal since it covers so much. I promise I’ll do my best to not mess it up.” He dodges the vulgarity, just as he had the insult, walking over to his station. There’s a tablet waiting, which he picks up, pen resting between two fingers. “Are you looking for a cover up?”
“No, just to finish it up. I need some work done on my chest and arms, the back is finished. Mostly detail, coloring, filling in spots. So far it’s about half sleeves, I need them down to the wrist. Any issues with finishing it?”
“Not really, no. As long as it’s compatible with my style. Could I see it?” With that, Tony quickly leaves the room, allowing the two a moment of privacy. It’s more for Lang than anything, just a courteous act. He may not know all the details, but there’s a reason his friend hasn’t come to him for help solving this. He’s aware of his tattoos, the rich history behind them, but he won’t pry, there’s no sense in pushing.
Lang’s fingers pause around the first button of his vest, casting a careful glance in Yuno’s direction. He’s not a prude by any means, he has a physique he’s worked hard for. Though he takes care to walk a fine line between pompous and pathetic, only showing off when it’s tasteful.
But his hesitation feels justified this time around. Though it seems Yuno is the ideal candidate for the project, and it is a mutually beneficial deal, he hasn’t been entirely upfront with him. These aren’t just any ordinary tattoos, they symbolized a rougher life for him. A life of crime, shrouded in death and violence.
There is a stigma surrounding this style, in both Japan and China, and showing Yuno could warp his perception of Lang immediately. There is nothing he could do to avoid this, which is precisely why he peels his clothes back fearlessly, revealing his tanned and well toned torso. If Yuno decides now that he’ll need to leave, and break off the deal, Lang will begrudgingly understand.
There’s a moment of silence, as Yuno takes it all in. A barely perceivable falter in his expression, as he makes a split second decision on how he should react. Lang catches a mere glimpse of surprise, before his eyes settle back into a neutral observational mode. It’s painstakingly professional, he’s clearly customer service trained. Tony did mention he was applying for the job of a receptionist.
It surprises even Lang, just how… calm he is. He expects fear, shock, a door slammed in his face. But Yuno is practically unbothered by the realization that he is standing face to face with a high standing gang member. In Yuno’s mind, he likely views him as he once was, a violent cruel man, with a history of violence.
Though he’s changed and gone through the painstaking process of bettering himself, Yuno has no knowledge of any of this. He may very well believe he’s at risk, if he turns down Lang’s offer.
“I’m retired.” He wants Yuno to at least know that he isn’t in danger. Whatever decision he makes is one that Lang will respect. After all, it is a heavy ask of any artist, much less an apprentice.
“Can I ask a question Mr. Lang?”
“Ask away.” The formality is getting on his nerves, but he excuses it for now. It’s likely his own fault, for acting like such a domineering asshole before.
“Why are you finishing it if you’re retired?” It’s not intrusive by any means, Yuno takes care to avoid anything personal. It’s only natural for him to have some questions. But it makes Lang wince anyways.
“That’s none of your fucking business, will you do it or not?” He snaps, sending him a scathing glare. This is vulnerable enough for him, standing shirtless in front of a stranger, bearing his soul, his greatest shame. He isn’t in the mood to answer anything regarding his reasoning.
Though seeing the way Yuno falters turns his stomach sour with guilt. It is a little hypocritical to say he can ask anything, then snap at him for doing so. He exhales, raising a hand to rub at his eyes. “Sorry. But it’s personal, not really something you need to know to tattoo me.”
“It’s okay Mr. Lang, I understand. I just like getting to know my clients. Tattoos are a big deal, it really shows what kind of person someone is.” It’s sort of insulting, the way he phrases it. Lang isn’t sure if it’s purposeful, or if he’s just on edge.
Either way, he has no interest in chit chat. This is something he wants to get over. A few silent sessions, in and out, then he’ll never speak to Yuno again.
“Well I’d prefer to keep this professional. So, will you do it or not? You probably can’t put this in your portfolio, at least not the full thing. You can… take a picture of just my arm or something. But it’s not the kind of thing you put on display, whether I’m retired or not.”
“I know Mr. Lang, I’ll do it.” He agrees a little too easily, but Lang isn’t in the position to complain. His entire plan’s success is hitching on Yuno saying yes.
“Good. Money’s no matter for me, I’ll just pay full price. Whatever the other artists usually get paid. Especially since you can’t really advertise this. As long as you do a good job, that is.”
“You don’t have to do that Mr. Lang, I can do it for half price.”
“I insist, I’d feel like a real piece of shit scamming you like that. Especially after being an asshole to begin with.” He pauses, glancing back at his discarded shirt and vest. He isn’t sure whether or not he can get dressed again. Yuno is still staring at his tattoos calculatingly, most likely mapping the design out in his mind.
Each moment around the man was stranger and stranger. It’s still surprising how easily he’s agreeing to all this. Lang’s been banned from restaurants and establishments before because others have recognized his tattoos, and were disinterested in his business. He didn’t take much offense, of course. But he’s never seen someone react like Yuno. It may just be another tattoo, but surely he has a moral compass.
There had to be some hesitation on his part to carry on the same brush stroke of such cruel men.
“Are you sure about this? If you’re not up for it I’ll find somewhere else to go. If it’s Tony you’re worried about, the man’s fucking harmless. He was the one who talked me into being your client, I doubt he’d kick you out over this.” He’s solemn, looking Yuno in the eye to make sure he knows how serious he truly is.
“I’m fine Mr. Lang. I want to help. Any friend of Tony’s is a friend of mine.”
It’s a sentiment so kind Lang isn’t sure how to respond. After a beat of silence, he quickly changes the conversation. “Right. Could you start today then?”
“I could get started on the sketch. I think I want to start with the right arm, it has the most missing. I want to get details for the arms done in one session, that’s my least favorite part. If I work fast I might be able to get the sketch done in time to do some work. It’s still pretty early.” Yuno flips through his tablet, pen clicking across the screen.
Lang takes this as his cue to sit down on the table, saran wrap crinkling beneath him. He’s not quite comfortable with laying down, so he watches as Yuno works, noisily scribbling. He catches a few glimpses of rough lines, crude sketches of flowers. It makes him a little nervous, but he’s seen the final products in his portfolio, he’s willing to trust the process.
The two sit together in a tense silence, with the hum of the humidifier as their only company. Yuno occasionally glances up to examine him with narrowed eyes, nose wrinkling. He’s a smart guy, he picks up pretty quickly on Lang’s preferences. He isn’t the type to engage in conversation for the sake of politeness.
But his peace has to be shattered at some point.
“Mr. Lang?”
“Yes, Yuno?”
“Lang’s a Chinese name, but you asked for traditional Japanese tattoos. Were you involved in the Yakuza?”
“No, a triad. Those styles tend to blend together. My tattoos were chosen more on meaning than whether or not they were strictly Chinese motifs. It’s a medal more than anything. I had to earn each.” Yuno doesn’t speak for a while, and Lang tries not to imagine what conclusions he’s jumping to. “I’m not going to answer any more about it, don’t try it.”
“I’m not going to, Mr. Lang. I don’t really want to know.”
“Good, how we looking?” Lang leans over in his chair, growing restless. It’s unlikely there’s anything really prepared, it’s only been a bit.
“Uhh.. it’s not ready yet, I have this so far.” Yuno holds up his tablet in Lang’s direction, showing off his sketch. So far, he’s managed to replicate the design already tattooed onto him, half sleeves that end just above his elbow. There’s a surprising level of detail, a few side notes sprawled across the side in a lazy font. “You have a lot of cherry blossoms, a few dragons that wrap around. Also, a samurai on both arms. Just trying to figure out what we’re working with. You said the back was done?”
“Yes, it’s finished. It was what I had done first.” He hums in approval, handing back the laptop. “I’m going to be real, I don't know shit about any of this. But from what I saw in your little book, I know you’re probably the best person to work on this.”
“You’re just looking for detail work for the rest?”
“I can’t exactly earn anything more if I’m retired.”
“Were there specific things you did? To earn them?”
“No. It was a show of loyalty and bravery to get them done. Took a fucking awful long time, and it was painful.” He scoffs, remembering getting his done far too young. He’d experienced his fair share of pain, but he’d jerked and flailed in the chair as they went across his chest and the more sensitive parts of his back.
Yuno wants to ask more, the words on the tip of his tongue. Lang watches him struggle with silence before accepting it, dropping whatever question is burning in his mind. He knows when to shut up, a quality Lang enjoys in a person.
“Did you pick the cherry blossoms?”
“Yeah, I did. Used to think they were pretty. Liked the look of them the best.”
“I like them too.”
“I know. I looked at your book.” Yuno ducks his head, his first show of shyness. Lang tries to follow his movements, wanting to see if his cheeks turn pink, if he could catch them peeking out from beneath the mask, but he gives up early on. “They’re your favorite?”
“Yeah. My Grandma had a tree planted in her backyard, it was my favorite part of her house. She was back in Japan.” His voice is sweet with fondness, a smile brightening the ends of sentences. Nostalgia creeps into him, soft and subtle.
Lang watches with amusement, at how easy it is to make him bashful. “Sounds nice. You’re close with her?”
“Yeah, really close.”
“I was close with my grandma too. Craziest fucking woman I ever met. Could kick the shit out of me even at seventy years old.” Upon seeing the brief shock on Yuno’s face, he clarifies. “Could, not would.”
“She sounds a lot different from mine. She just sat around most of the time, reading, and she drank a lot of tea.”
“We’ve lived vastly different lives.” Lang tries to picture his grandmother settling down, even for a moment, but she never would. Even in her final days, she was stubborn and active as ever, demanding to be taken outside to see the sunset each night despite being unable to walk.
Yuno is the opposite of him in every way, his antithesis. He exudes a certain warmth, the same that so easily knocked down Lang’s walls and led him into one of the lengthiest conversations he’s ever had with a stranger.
As soon as he realizes how much he’d been talking, the defenses are raised, and he leans back in the seat. He’s having conversations with Yuno he hasn’t had with people he’d say were his friends. Fuck, he had barely said a word about his grandmother to anyone aside from Gigi since it all happened. But Yuno maneuvered his way into his space, so silently that Lang didn’t realize he was there.
He’d been so full of himself, so certain in what he wanted out of this. A few silent sessions, in and out, then he’d never speak to Yuno again.
Of course, Yuno picks up on his shift in mood, and adjusts accordingly. He’s annoyingly intuitive, really. The way he so easily dissolves Lang’s defenses makes him worry about their strength to begin with.
“I’m done Mr. Lang, with the sketch.” Thank god for a reprieve. They’d been sitting in silence for about an hour now, leaving Lang with just his thoughts for company. He leans over to look at Yuno’s drawing in complete awe. It’s stunningly intricate for a piece accomplished in such a short time. All he manages to do in their time together was make a fool of himself. Meanwhile, Yuno knocks down countless walls of his all while he creates a masterpiece.
The design copies the already present style, from the scatterings of flowers, down to the scalloped edges and swirls.
He swallows, finding something to say that isn’t over the top. He’s ecstatic, to find exactly what he wants right beneath his finger tips. Especially after weeks of work and rejection.
“It’s good. Real good, you’ve got a talent.”
“I just got lucky. Normally my sketches don’t turn out this good the first time.”
“Bullshit, you’re over here painting like fucking Leonardo DaVinci while all I’ve done is sit around shirtless making a fool out of myself.” Yuno turns pink again, and with no tablet to hide him, it’s crystal clear how it creeps out the sides of his mask, spreading to his ears. Lang’s eyes dart between the tablet and Yuno’s face.
“I can clean it up, and then start tattooing you. It may take a while to do this, I’m focusing on one element at a time. We also want the skin to heal in between sessions.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve got plenty of time on my hands. However long it takes is fine. Let’s try it today. I’ve got an appointment in a few hours but I can spare some time.” His ‘appointment’ is meeting a few friends at the bar and down enough drinks to forget his troubles for the night. If he was late, Harry would be up his ass about it, given how he hadn’t made it to their last get-together.
He leans back against the seat, one arm extended, watching as Yuno prepares his station. He’s thorough, at the very least, Tony is notoriously particular when it comes to cleanliness. He sanitizes everything, prepares the ink, and prints out the stencil. There are a few minutes of silence as he carefully maneuvers the design, wrapping the sheet around Lang’s forearms.
Yuno’s hands are cold, and he flinches at first touch. He moves with a practiced poise, only light touches where they’re needed, pressing down along the edge of the thin stencil. He’s too close for comfort, standing up beside the table in order to apply it properly so it lines up with the previous design. Lang can see his eyes narrow with concentration, the dent that forms between his eyebrows.
Yuno gently peels it back when he’s finished, sighing in relief. It seems even enough, if there are any abnormalities in the pattern he has faith in himself to fill in the gaps. He gestures towards the full length mirror hanging from the back of the door.
“Take a look Mr. Lang. If you want I can try again.”
“No, that’s fine. Looks good. Let’s just get this over with.” Yuno sits beside him, holding his arm still with gentle hands. The machine thrums to life, and he feels nothing more than a dull pain, nothing compared to what he’s experienced before. He watches leisurely, as Yuno makes a few shallow passes, tracing over the less complex lines. His hand is surprisingly steady, and he only drives deep enough so the ink sticks.
“Is that okay, Mr. Lang? Tell me if you want to take a break.” Lang snorts out of habit, assuming it’s a joke. But Yuno’s serious, there’s a genuine concern in his eyes with each swipe, each line he places into Lang’s skin. He wants to scoff, to shrug off his worries, but he relents to Yuno, perhaps a little too easily.
“Uhh, yeah, I’ll let you know.” He watches for a while, ensuring the process goes smoothly, but everything looks clean and crisp, just as it does in Yuno’s portfolio. So he allows himself this moment to rest, staring at the ceiling as he’s lulled into a sleepy state. It’s relaxing, the soft thrum of the machine, occasional mindless humming from Yuno, and the hiss of the humidifier.
“Mr. Lang?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m done with the outline. We should probably stop here for today, especially if you have somewhere to go.” Jesus, already? It feels like mere moments ago he sat down in the chair. But glancing at his watch, he realizes Yuno’s right. It’s been hours since they started, he must have lolled off into sleep at some point and lost track of time. Swearing, he leaps to his feet, taking a quick moment to glance in the mirror.
Holy shit, it’s gorgeous. The crisp clean lines stand out against already faded work, but it looks great. The design blends easily, he can see the beginnings of depth. A dragon curling around his wrist bearing lifelike teeth, and scales giving the illusion of light with nothing but shading to provide it. There’s no color and it’s already so vivid it feels alive. The flowers sway with each shift of muscle beneath the tender skin. Yuno’s already bandaged him in plastic wrap, ensuring a safe healing process.
“Is it okay Mr. Lang?”
“It’s more than fucking okay. Jesus Christ Yuno, that’s fucking crazy.” With each twist and turn of his arm, the design warps, and he admires it from every angle possible. “This is your first professional tattoo?”
“Sort of, yeah. I’ve done a couple on Octo, some on his wife, Kitty. It’s mostly just been friends getting tattoos as a favor.”
“Bullshit, this is the kind of thing that takes years of experience. You don’t walk up and nail it on the first try.”
“I just got lucky I guess.” Yuno shrugs, leaving Lang blinking blankly, struggling to put the pieces of this puzzle together. He realizes that he’s made a mistake, upon their first meeting. The look in Yuno’s eyes is not one of confidence. He’s been nervous this entire time. He places a hand to his chest, steadying himself with slow deep breathing. His fingers tremble minutely, a barely noticeable detail, but it makes what he’s accomplished twice as impressive.
There’s something special about him that's gone unnoticed by many. Even Yuno himself won’t acknowledge it. But Lang’s glad he took a chance with him.
“If this is just luck then let’s hope you can pull it off again. When are you available for the next session?”
“Well I don’t exactly have a line of clients out the door, so I’m free whenever.”
“Tomorrow then, I’ll be around in the afternoon.” He slings his shirt back on, then his vest. It’s not the fanciest thing he’s ever worn but it’ll have to do. Ideally, he would have left an hour earlier, giving him time to stop back at home and change. But if he’s even a minute late he’ll have to pay, and Tony by himself can burn a hole in his pocket, forget the rest of them.
“We can work on the other arm, but we should let your tattoo rest, or it’ll heal oddly. Just to be careful.” Lang really couldn’t care either way, but he relents, just eager to leave as soon as he can. He grabs a wad of cash from his wallet, not bothering to count before handing it off to Yuno.
“Give two hundred to Tony, keep the rest for yourself. Payment for today, we’ll discuss rates tomorrow.”
“Mr. Lang this is too much I… I can’t accept this.” Counting through the bills, Yuno realizes the amount is well into the thousands. An amount suited for a more experienced artist, or for a larger piece. This could maybe be the price for his full services, but Lang talks like this is just a day's pay. Yuno can tell he is rich, from the high quality of his clothes, and the expensive sports car parked outside, but he didn’t realize he was this rich, the type to throw money around like it meant nothing. This could pay his rent for at least two months.
“We’ll talk about it tomorrow, Yuno. Consider it a fee for a last-minute appointment.” With that, he waves goodbye and leaves in a rush, coat thrown over his shoulder. Yuno stares at the door as it closes behind him, still holding the wad of cash in shaking fingers.
Lang hurries outside of the parlor, groaning when he sees Tony kneeling beside his car, admiring the sleek and shiny build.
“Tony, stop staring at my car like you want to have sex with it. What do you want?”
“A ride, maybe?”
“Get an uber, I’m not a charity.”
“I know you’re not a charity, but you’re my fucking friend, aren’t you?” Tony climbs into the passenger seat anyway, hands tracing across the leather seats, eyeing the interior.
“I am, but I’m not going to be the designated driver for you. Figure out your own shit.”
“I’ll drive, I don’t feel like drinking anyways.” They both know the only reason he agrees to this is because he’d get to drive the car, a privilege Lang rarely grants. The only person he trusts enough to consistently offer the opportunity to is Octo, and it’d only been once or twice.
But he needs a drink, badly, and finding a way back home with his car will be too complicated to accomplish while wasted.
“Fine, but you crash it, and you pay.” He takes off, perhaps a little too quickly, just hoping they can arrive soon enough to avoid walking in last. Tony whistles, catching a glimpse of his freshly inked forearm.
“Looking good, Buddha. Told you Yuno was a fucking gem, didn’t I?”
“You did. He is good.” He is better than good, perhaps the best Lang’s seen. At the very least, he’s a prodigy.
“Good kid too. Smart, sweet, a little in his shell still but he warms up quick. You’re going to like him.” He sounds like the exact opposite of Lang’s usual social circles. His friends are all former or current gangsters, who settled for each other's companionship. Misery loves company, and they’d all seen their fair share of it. He adores his friends, though he’d never say it, but they are a bunch of assholes at their core. A constant they all find comforting.
So Yuno 7: far from the type of person he gravitates towards. But he understands exactly what Tony means. It has less to do with Lang’s preferences and more so who Yuno is. He’s disarmingly kind, approaching with a meek manner and soft reassurances that manage to melt through even Lang’s walls. Even now, he seems to be following Lang’s thoughts.
The appointment is done, all Tony does is say a few kind compliments, all factual. But Lang’s still stuck on the softness Yuno showed him this morning, the gentle touches against his arm. He shakes his head, pulling into the parking lot of the bar.
“Shut the fuck up Tony.”
“Shut the fuck up? What did I do?” Tony throws his arms up incredulously, and Lang ducks his head to hide a grin as he heads inside. Tony trails after him, grumbling angrily to himself, curse words are the only intelligible parts of his rant.
At their usual table, a party room reserved in the back, sits Gigi, Luciano, and Harry, all nursing their own drinks.
“Where’s Speedy?” Lang dumps his bag alongside an empty seat, immediately flagging down a waiter to order himself a whiskey.
“He got caught up in a meeting, told us to have fun for him. So we agreed to each have an extra drink in his honor, something strong.” Luciano raises his glass, clearly a few in. He’s not drunk, they all have enough experience that it takes a lot to knock them out, but there’s a far away look in his eyes. He’s focusing just behind Lang’s head at the artwork covering the walls, a solemn expression on his face. He’s always a sappy drunk, bringing himself to tears by the end of the bottle. Every outing ends with mutterings against the wood table, frantic whispers of his exwife that everyone collectively agrees to ignore.
“I’m way ahead of him.” The second the glass is in Lang’s hands, he knocks it back, drinking all of it. It’d been a long day, good outcome regardless. More than anything, what he wants to do is head back home and unwind. But he can’t stand to stay in his cold empty apartment sober, so he might as well enjoy a few drinks first.
The conversation is dull, mostly Harry and Tony talking at one another from across the table, swapping stories. Lang elects to focus on his drink, swirling his glass slowly. He can feel Gigi’s eyes on him, and he’s doing his best to ignore it. Gigi is similar to Yuno in that manner, she has an uncanny ability to see right through Lang with just a mere look.
Lang can practically hear the wheels turning in her brain, analyzing his lackluster appearance. He knows he should have changed beforehand, it was only on rare occasions that he would show up wearing anything less than the finest clothes and a fancy watch. But he’d originally thrown on whatever he could find to visit Tony’s shop, not expecting anything to come out of it.
“Lang, did you forget about tomorrow?” She’s not angry, she seldom is. But there’s a clear tension there, an expectation laid out clearly for him. But the problem is, he has no clue what she’s talking about. He can’t exactly admit it, without revealing what a mess he’s been as of late.
“Of course not. Who do you think I am?”
“So you’re still coming to help me move my stuff?” She kindly throws him a bone, a mere scrap of mercy that he savors like it’s his last meal. Gigi knows when to push, and thankfully she’s not in the mood to pester. She’s not as obstructive as, say, Harry, who blurts out every thought that comes across his mind, consequences be damned. Lang’s thankful for her tact.
But, fuck, he’s not excited about tomorrow. That is likely the reason for her worry. She’s barely touched her own glass, in preparation for their activities. Then here Lang is, knocking back his fifth drink without a care in the world. He’s being a complete fucking asshole.
“Sorry about that, Gigi. Completely fucking slipped my mind. I’ll still be there. Probably pissed off and hungover, but I’ll be there.” Normally, it wouldn’t be enough of a big deal to warrant an apology, but tomorrow is a big day for her. She’d been waiting for this for months.
After retiring from her own life of crime, she found herself with a lot of time and no good way to spend it. That kind of career path is all encompassing, and after leaving, you realize what little worth you have. Lang experienced something similar. He looked for something to fill his time, and every other suggestion was pursuing a hobby or passion of his. But he had none, his every moment had been filled, personality squashed and shaped into the triad standard. It is something he still struggles with everyday.
Initially, he thought the worst part of his retirement would be the guilt, but it’s the boredom. Because each and every time he searches for something to do, then comes to the conclusion that he has no clue who he is, not really. There were a few things engaging enough to intrigue him, such as his security company, but they never lasted long.
Thankfully, Gigi found her calling rather easily. She tried out a few different hobbies, before settling on gardening. She has one hell of a green thumb. Shortly after discovering this interest, she moved into a rather empty but vivid part of town, and bought a few acres to start a farm. It’d been fun for her, at least from Lang’s perspective it seemed to be. But after a few years, she made plans to open a store in town, where she could sell flowers, and various produce she grew. She has customers across Los Santos, a very loyal following, but having a physical store would be more convenient for all parties involved.
She asks for Lang’s help in particular, because it is widely known how little he had going on. He would be insulted if it isn’t true.
“You sure you’ll be fine, Lang? I don’t want you getting sick in my shop, pretty sure that’s bad luck.” She jests, elbowing him gently in the side.
“I’m sure. But we should get started early, I’ve got an appointment in the afternoon to make it to.”
“An appointment? For work?” He’d taken a step back in his company after his wild success, allowing others to do his job for him. But occasionally he’ll join a meeting to catch up, and ensure everything is running smoothly. It isn’t a very complicated position to maintain.
“No, I ended up finding someone who could finish my tattoo.” Of course, Tony overhears him, chiming in, unusually chipper for this time of night.
“He’s getting it done by Yuno, my new apprentice.” He pulls out his phone, holding the screen far too close to his face as he scrolls through pictures. Gigi leans over as he passes it over, proudly showing off one of Yuno’s earlier pieces, done on fake skin of course.
“Yuno? He’s a good kid.” Harry nods, casting a brief glance at the screen. He’d met him only briefly, stopping by Tony’s to have a quick conversation. Yuno had come back with coffee, enough for every artist, it’s likely one of his tasks as an apprentice is to run errands. But the second he spotted Harry, he apologized, and ran off to fetch another. It was a kind gesture, a little unnecessary given the fact that Harry greatly prefers tea, but he sipped at it anyway out of politeness.
From that encounter, and the way Tony talks about him so highly, he has formed a positive opinion of the guy. But Lang scoffs, looking bothered by the sudden change in conversation.
“You too, Harry? So everybody knows Yuno except me, huh?”
“I tried getting you to come in, at least to say hi to Octo and meet Yuno, but you kept calling the Red Line a piece of shit.” Tony seethes at him, shoulders tense and eyes narrowed, like an animal on edge, crouching low and ready to strike. But Lang isn’t prey, and he doesn’t stop there.
“Because it is, Tony. The paints peeling off the fucking walls, it smells like shit, and if I see that neon sign one more time I think I’ll get sick in those plastic petunias you keep by the front. Get some real fucking flowers you cheapskate.” Much to Lang’s amusement, Tony takes the bait, and pounces, yelling curses at him from across the table. It’s all a mumbled mess, of course, none of it intelligent enough to actually hurt his feelings.
“Yeah, fuck you too Tony.” Is all he offers, leaning over to look with Gigi through the photo album. It’s marked with Yuno’s name, along with pictures of various flashes and designs. All of which he’s seen, except, that is, a poorly taken picture of Yuno tattooing Octo. The flash is on, and Octo is throwing up a peace sign, completely unbothered by the pain. Yuno’s bent over his leg, the same concentrated look on his face, features furrowing furiously.
The alcohol is getting to him, his chest feels hot, head fuzzy. He’s going to be fucked tomorrow.
Gigi slides the phone back over to Tony when she’s finished, humming thoughtfully. “Can I see what you’ve gotten done so far?”
Begrudgingly, Lang pulls up his sleeve, saran wrap crinkling. It’s still holding up, though ink is beginning to pool beneath the covering. “It’s not finished yet. Tomorrow he’s working on the other arm.”
“It’s really good, he’s talented for an apprentice.” She shifts Lang’s arm to look at all of it, admiring the precise lineart.
“That’s what I was fucking saying.” Lang sighs, head propped up on his other hand. He’s still infuriated by the earlier events, how Yuno professionally deflected each compliment. Tomorrow, he’ll give it another shot. Motherfucker can’t blame it on luck twice in a row, no one’s odds are that good.
“Is it going well?” Her voice is sharp, she means more than she lets on, hiding her intent because of present company. It’s an innocuous question really, Lang can answer whatever he pleases, whatever makes him most comfortable. But it’s just pissing him off, how she feels the need to accommodate whatever mood he’s in. It’s not pity in her gaze, but it’s far too close. He wrenches his arm away, tucking it against himself.
“Yeah, it’s going fine. I’ve been through worse, I can handle a little pain.”
“I know that.” Of course she does. She doesn’t take her eyes off of him, even as they fall into silence. “Are you sure you’re fine to come tomorrow? You’re really drunk, and I’ve seen you hungover once, I don’t need to again.”
“I said I would, everybody else is busy. A promise is a fucking promise Gigi.” He takes another sip of his drink, which he does not need.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come work with me? Offers are still on the table.”
“No offense, but I don’t need or want to work at your florist shop.”
“I know you don’t need to. Or likely want to. But it’s a better use of your time then sitting around and drinking. You’ve been spending ninety percent of your time holed up in your room since you stepped down from Cerberus, the only time you come out is for these get-togethers.”
“Because you all are the only tolerable people in this stupid fucking city.”
“Which is exactly why it’s a good idea for you to join me. Could be part time, I could use your help even just stocking in the back and preparing orders, you don’t need to do any customer service.” It’s not a demand, really, it’s her way of making the offer fit Lang’s preferences. But truth be told, he can’t stand to sit around and watch Gigi thrive.
At his core, he’s a jealous, bitter man. He’s happy for his friend, that she’s found this level of enjoyment, but he doesn’t need to be constantly reminded of his failure to do the same. Besides, he has more money than he knows what to do with. He could throw thousands out the window, have caviar every meal for a month straight, and still afford a whole new house. It’s excessive, really. He’s never been this wealthy before, and he has no interest in taking up a job someone else would likely need more, just to spend time with Gigi.
“I’m fine Gigi, really. Just drop it. I’m not interested. It’s just… not for me.” She nods and leans back in her chair, eyes still lingering on Lang’s drink. He glares at her, downing the rest out of spite. “For the last time, I’ll be fucking fine.”
He is not fine. It’s hot, a thousand fucking degrees. Yesterday was perfectly temperate with little to no humidity, but of course the one day he’s lugging a bunch of shit around, it’s hot enough to boil water. He’s dressed in a thin cotton t-shirt, but still managing to sweat through the material. Not to mention the headache he’s dealing with, incessant pounding that only worsens with the noise on the street.
Gigi gratefully offered to drive, the more intelligent of the two, she abstained from drinks yesterday evening and saved herself a day of trouble. They’re crammed together in the moving van, her plants and supplies precariously placed into the back. Lang has a couple more delicate ones placed on his lap, preventing him from moving even an inch. The air conditioner is broken on the shitty thing, leaving them both sweltering in this metal death trap. It’s a miserable ride for all parties involved, taking them what feels like hours to arrive at an empty barren storefront. A sold sign is taped to the door, rich green awnings covering each window.
It’s pretty. Well, it could be, he can picture Gigi thriving properly in this place. He gives himself a moment to gawk, glancing inside the space at the dusty floors. It’s a decent amount of space too, with two separate sections. Already, Gigi opens the moving van doors. They shake and rattle, sending Lang into another wave of pain. He clutches his head, hitting her with a scathing glare. But she’s completely uninterested in his bullshit, pushing past him to walk inside with a small stack of boxes in her arms.
Lang sighs heavily, mentally preparing himself for the feat before him. Getting this done without losing his mind will be a miracle. He walks around the van, gathering a few of the lighter items in his arms. He could carry a heavier load, though he’ll have to work his way up to that. But he spots something that stops him in his tracks. Across the street is another shop, of a similar lay out, with black awnings and petunias lining the front. It’s sickeningly familiar. It looks like Tony’s shop to be exact. From the vines stretching across the side of the building, to the angry neon lights shining visibly from inside the shop, to the expensive car sitting outside, with red rims, red lights, red everything.
It is fucking Red Line.
“Gigi did you pick this spot on purpose? That’s fucking Tony’s tattoo parlor.” She shrugs, sorting through the items in the back of the van, drawing them closer, within reach.
“Not really. Well he recommended the place. I was having a hard time finding a good place for the shop, I needed somewhere with a lot of foot traffic. Tony recommended this spot, and said another business moved out a few months ago. Had more to do with management than lack of business. Why does it matter?”
“It doesn’t, I just-” Lang huffs, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. He can barely see inside the building, but he searches for a familiar figure anyways. “I don’t really want to see Yuno right now.”
“Are you sure? Or do you just not want him to see you sweating and dressed in something that isn’t a three piece suit?” Gigi quips, nudging him as a signal to start working. But he stands still, trying to peek inside the shop.
“I couldn’t give a shit how he sees me. But I’ll look like some fucking stalker if I suddenly show up outside his work a few hours before our appointment. Especially after I said I didn’t have anything to do today.”
“I think he’d think you were a stalker because you’re trying to peer inside the building to spot him.” Lang glares at her back as she retreats inside the shop. But he grabs a few potted plants, carrying them inside with a soft grunt. It’s been a while since he’s done anything this physical. He takes good care of himself, but it’s very rare that he finds himself outside of the house. After setting them down, he goes to grab more.
But it’s just his fucking luck that right across the street is Yuno. He’s walking, carrying trays of coffee. Octo is alongside him, holding a few of his own and chatting amicably. Lang keeps his head down, and prays to whatever god may be listening that Yuno doesn’t spot him.
“Mr. Lang!” God fucking damnit. He grimaces, looking up to see Yuno dashing across the street, moving as quickly as he can without spilling anything. He’s swaddled in fabric again, and Lang wonders how he isn’t sweltering. A black sweater has been rolled up to the elbows, with baggy black cargo pants, and the same silver rings. It’s modern, slick, and though it’s an odd choice for the summer season, it looks good on him.
Lang must look like a fucking idiot, in his slacks and black tshirt a size too small. He certainly feels like one, suddenly all too aware of how badly he’s sweating. He fixes his cross expression, feigning happiness. Yuno isn’t bad company by any means, Lang tolerates his presence, but these aren’t the best circumstances. If he could meet him anywhere, it wouldn’t be while he is hungover and moving boxes in ninety degree weather.
“Hey Yuno, how are you?”
“I’m good Mr. Lang, Octo and I were just on our coffee run.” He glances back to his companion, still standing a length aways on the other side of the street. Octo offers a wave, but nothing more. “What are you doing?”
“Helping a friend out. She’s uhh.. Moving into this space.” Lang rubs his sweaty palms on his slacks, thankful he picked out dark clothes today. Another fantastic stroke of luck on his part, Gigi emerges at that exact moment, eyebrows raising in surprise as she takes in Yuno’s appearance. She politely extends her hand, shaking his.
“I’m Gigi, Lang’s friend.”
“Nice to meet you Gigi. I’m Mr. Lang’s tattoo artist. I just saw him across the street and wanted to say hi.” Yuno glances inside the back of the van, and softens, eyes full of life and love. “Are you setting up a florist shop?”
“Yep. I’m technically a farmer but I do some work with floral arrangements. For weddings and what not.”
“That’s cool. I could never, I kill a plant just by looking at it. But these look great. Is Mr. Lang working with you?”
“Yes.” Lang cuts in before Gigi can answer for him, knowing full well what she’ll say. She’ll give Yuno the same answer Lang gave her last night, that it’s not something he’s interested in, that he’s merely doing this as a favor to a friend. And that’s what he intends to say, it’s what he wants to.
The idea of fumbling his way through floral arrangements all day is not even remotely appealing. He’s never been good with fragile things, every bouquet would likely crumble beneath his fingertips and he’d spend all day irritated that nothing was working out. He wants to say fuck no, and move on.
But for some sick reason, he says yes.
Gigi looks just as surprised, before her face twists into mocking amusement. She’s seen right through Lang, and she clearly knows something he doesn’t. Normally, he values her insight, but it’s just irritating now that it’s being used against him. “Yeah, Lang’s a part time employee this summer. He’s a big flower guy.”
“Really? I am too, it’ll be nice to have a flower shop so close. Maybe we could get something fresh for the parlor, those petunias Tony put in smell like burnt plastic.” Yuno readjusts the coffee cups in his arm. Lang’s hand twitches at his side, and before he can stop himself, he reaches out to help, shifting it carefully back into the crook of his arm. Yuno smiles gratefully, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Thanks Mr. Lang. I’ve got to get back, everyone’s going to be pissed if their ice coffees are warm. I’ll see you later for our appointment.”
Lang watches him leave without saying a word. All of it is incredibly overwhelming. The sun overhead bares down on his back, his head hasn’t stopped pounding even with the ungodly amount of medication he took, and worst of all, he accidentally agreed to a few months of labor.
“I thought you said you didn’t want to work for me.”
“Just.. shut up, Gigi. Let it go.” He grumbles, cheeks pink with embarrassment.
He’s absolutely fucked.