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Do you want to use today?
It’s the first question to come to Marco’s mind every morning, before he’s entirely awake, when the world still feels gauzy and blurred behind his eye. It’s a litany that Erwin taught him, when he was first trying to get better, when everything hurt and had sharp edges and he’d nearly been consumed with a horrible, insatiable want. Erwin had sat with him, had held him with his one arm while Marco had cried, and asked him, “Do you want to use today?”
“Yes,” Marco had sobbed, and part of the reason he’d been crying so hard was because his eye socket still hadn’t healed all the way, and the tears burned against his delicate, raw skin. “Yes, yes, I want it so bad…”
“That’s not what I asked.” Erwin had been so solid, a rock in the middle of a raging sea, and Marco had looked up at him, confused into silence. “I asked, do you want to use today?”
Erwin has a voice that commands, that insists you listen to him, and Marco had considered the question. Did he want to use? His body was crying out for it, demanding it, his flesh crawling with need, but did he want it? Did he want to make that choice, to decide that using was what he desired?
“No.” He’d buried his head in Erwin’s shoulder and cried again, but this time his tears had been tears of relief. “No, no, I don’t want to use today…”
“Good.” Erwin had sounded pleased with him for the first time, and had given Marco a tiny squeeze and a pat on the shoulder, one that had reminded him absurdly of his father. “I can work with that. Why don’t you want to use?”
And now, on a chilly winter morning, nearly four years later, Marco asks him the same question as he swims upwards through the layers of sleep, slowly letting the world coalesce around him.
My family. I don’t want to use for my family.
That had been his first reason, the one that had kept him going through those early dark nights. Marco had only had to think about Ilse, and how she’d cried at her Al-Anon meeting, to help him scrape up what little strength he had left and keep going. It’s easier now, and Marco smiles a little, still mostly asleep, as he pictures each of them in his mind’s eye. Mom… Ilse… Isaac… and even Dad, dead now for almost ten years but still a beacon in Marco’s mind. He wants to be the kind of man his father was, desperately wants it, and he knows he could never live up to that if he were still using.
My cats. I don’t want to use for my cats.
Marco had felt silly about that one at first, and hadn’t told Erwin about it for months. Ironically, it had been Erwin who had helped him with Aisha, when Aisha was just a tiny stray kitten that Marco had watched get hit by a car. He’d been two weeks clean at that point, jittery and drinking too much coffee, on edge and fragile, and he’d seen the kitten crossing the road but hadn’t been able to get to her in time to stop the car from striking her and sending her soaring into a bush. He’d run then, dropping a cup of coffee and leaving it behind, and fully expected the kitten to be dead.
She’d been alive, squirming and crying, bleeding from the mouth and ears, her left front leg swinging and mangled from her shoulder, and Marco had been crying himself as he'd called Erwin, purely because he didn’t know who else to call.
Erwin had taken control, once he’d gotten the story straight through Marco’s blubbering and the kitten’s pained yowling, and put his vast resources into action; not three minutes later, one of Erwin’s fleet of dark town cars had pulled up to the curb, and Marco had hustled inside, the kitten cradled to his chest. The car’s driver had sped through traffic while Marco huddled in the backseat, cooing to the kitten and stroking her as best he could. She’d quieted down after a few moments, terrified and in pain, but midway through the trip, as she dug her claws into the back of Marco’s right hand, she’d begun to purr. Hesitant at first, and Marco had gone still, scarcely breathing, as it slowly increased in volume and frequency, until it had been a constant, vibrating hum against him.
By the time they’d arrived at the vet’s clinic on the north side of the city, the car screeching to a halt in the parking lot, Marco had already decided. This was his kitten now, and he’d do whatever it took, pay whatever it cost, to keep her.
He’d been met at the door by Dr. Zacharius, and even in his distress, he’d seen the familial resemblance between him and Erwin. The doctor had grimaced when he’d seen the kitten and swept her away, into the back rooms, leaving Marco standing impotent in the lobby. He’d sat down in one of the hard plastic chairs, and waited.
My friends. I don’t want to use for my friends.
Marco had almost been sleeping, contorted and cramped in the chair, and he’d started awake when someone had touched his shoulder. He’d woken up at the slightest touch then, alert and wild-eyed and ready for whatever might be coming his way, and he’d pushed away from the hand on him, covering his face with both arms.
“Former military, huh?” The voice had been quiet, tired in a way that Marco understood, and he’d slowly lowered his arms, peering up at the man standing before him.
Another big man had stood before him, younger than the doctor but still bearing a family resemblance to Erwin. He’d had his shoulders slouched forward, huge, dark bags under his eyes, and his skin had been grayish and dull. He looked exhausted, like he hadn’t slept in weeks, and Marco put it all together.
“Yeah.” He’d dropped his arms into his lap and squinted up at him. “You too?”
The man had nodded. “Just got home three weeks ago.”
Marco had winced. “Ouch. It’s rough, huh? Readjusting to everything.”
“Don’t I know it.” The man dropped into the chair next to Marco, stretching his long legs out in front of him, and leaned his head back, staring straight up at the ceiling. “It’s too quiet here.”
Marco had nodded, relaxing a little and turning towards the man. “Like you keep waiting for a bomb that never gets dropped.”
The man had nodded, looking at Marco from out of the corner of his eye. “Or an emergency that never happens.”
“And you can’t understand why everyone else is just so… normal.”
“Yes.”
They’d ended up talking for almost three hours, long enough that the kitten came out from under her anesthetic, and Marco had made his first friend since coming home. A friend he’d known before, admittedly, but still a friend. He and Reiner had leaned on each other hard in those days, helping each other adapt, helping each other cope, and it had been Marco’s first inklings that maybe, just maybe, he had found the path to his next stage in life.
My yoga. I don’t want to use for my yoga practice.
This one had grown over time. Marco had never been a particularly flexible or graceful individual—he was strong, sure, he’d always been pretty strong—but anything involving finesse was difficult. It had taken him weeks to perfect the movements he wanted to make when he played the Phantom, and those had been far less athletic than yoga.
But something about it had gotten to him, something that hit him deep down in his chest. At first, when he was suffering through a yoga class with Ilse, he’d hated himself, the teacher, everyone around him. It was only when it was all over, when he was relaxing on the floor afterwards, in a pool of sweat, his joints aching and loose, that he felt calm seeping into him. It was the only time the addiction demons were quiet, when he could drown them out in a wash of heartbeats and the sound of his breathing.
He’d done a lot of yoga in those first few months, pushing himself further than he ever thought he could be pushed. One day, he’d woken up, and realized that, for the first time since he’d been injured, he’d felt good. He’d felt strong, and capable, and like maybe the future wasn’t such a horrible place. He’d gotten off the bed and onto the yoga mat.
Marco stirs, more awake now than asleep. The thought of yoga is what gets him going most mornings, and is why it stays where it does on the list. He moves his left arm, trying to lift it to stretch, but then something latches onto it, pulling it back down and around, and Marco smiles.
And Jean. I don’t want to use for Jean.
Marco opens his eye to the sight of Jean’s hair, standing up in cowlicks and whorls, a scruffy, endearing mess. Jean has a hold of Marco’s arm, pulling it around himself and possessively towards his chest, the same place where Parvati usually sleeps but which she’ll have abandoned by now for early morning sunshine. Marco curls his arm tighter and Jean sighs, still asleep, relaxing his hold and leaning back onto Marco’s chest.
Very gently, Marco kisses the back of Jean’s neck, relishing the taste of him under his lips. It’s only been two months, and Jean is already on the list. If Marco uses again, he’ll lose Jean, and he can’t let that happen. He’s never been with anyone who makes him feel so alive, so gets him so completely, and although he keeps waiting for the joy, the elation, to wear off, it hasn’t, and shows no signs of doing so. Jean isn’t always easy to be around—he can be very selfish when the mood strikes him, and his casual, nonchalant relationship with money and spending is both exhilarating and terrifying to Marco, whose family was always comfortable but never entirely secure—but he brings out the best in Marco, and Marco likes to think he brings out the best in Jean. They’re better together than they are apart, and if that isn’t a recipe for relationship success, Marco doesn’t know what is.
Jean makes a soft, contented sound and rolls over, slinging an arm around Marco and knocking his face into Marco’s chest. Marco feels wet smear across his chest, and realizes that he’s just gotten hit with Jean’s sleep drool. Again.
He sighs and kisses the top of Jean’s head, lifting his hand to start smoothing out some of the worst cowlicks. Yoga can wait a little longer.
~*~
“Reiner asked me to marry him.”
“Reiner asks you that every day.” Marco stirs his tea, watching the honey in it dissolve. He had an early class today, and three hours to kill before he has to teach his next yoga class. It gives him just enough time to meet Bertolt near his bakery and get tea with him, spending a quiet hour or so walking in the nearby park, before heading to the yoga studio. It’s a brutal schedule, but one Marco won’t have for much longer. He’ll be graduating university in two weeks, much to his mother’s delight and his own relief. Erwin has pulled some strings and already has a job lined up for him, which Marco has mixed feelings about; it’s not that he’s unappreciative, but that he’d like a chance to make it on his own.
“Yeah, but…” Bertolt looks away, lifting one hand to cover the back of his neck, the way he always does when he’s feeling vulnerable. Marco stops messing with his tea and watches him, suddenly curious. “But I think…” He takes a deep breath before letting it all out. “I’m thinking about saying yes.”
“Bertl, that’s great!” Bertolt winces, and Marco realizes he got a little loud, drawing attention to them. He drops his voice and leans in across the booth. “That’s wonderful! You’ll make Reiner so happy!”
Bertolt looks pained, and Marco glances around the coffee shop. It’s mostly abandoned, but mostly isn’t entirely, and he stands up. “Come on, let’s go to the park. We can walk in the cherry blossoms and you can tell me about your upcoming engagement and it’ll be just like in the animes.”
“I think it’s just pronounced anime,” Bertolt tells him, but Marco can see the relief in his eyes as he stands up and nearly runs out of the shop, with Marco tagging at his heels.
The park is busy, full of people enjoying the spring weather and the flowering trees, and it takes Bertolt some time prowling around until he finds a place he feels comfortable. It is, Marco muses, just like Bertolt to go crashing through some trees and underbrush until he finds a quiet, secluded place, which even has a free bench in it, and Bertolt settles down onto it, looking up at Marco expectantly.
Marco sits beside him, and offers up his mug—reusable, naturally—for a toast. “So when are you going to tell Reiner?”
Bertolt taps his own mug against Marco’s before burying his face in it, eternally shy and unwilling to talk about himself. “I… sometime soon? I don’t know.”
Marco nods, and then sits, sipping his tea and looking off into the distance. He’s spent enough time around Bertolt to know that the best way—the only way—to get him to open up is to leave him alone. Given enough space, Bertolt will eventually get around to whatever’s on his mind.
It takes awhile. Bertolt comments on the flower blossoms, the strength of his tea, and the football game Reiner and Jean watched last week (and without making any passive-aggressive comments about Jean, Marco is happy to note; he understands why Bertolt is hesitant and reluctant about Jean, but it makes his life harder when the two of them aren’t getting along), before he sighs and looks at Marco from the corner of his eye.
“I don’t deserve him.”
This is a tune and a refrain Marco has heard before, and he sets his mug down. “Why not?”
Bertolt shakes his head. “I just don’t.”
“He doesn’t seem to think so.”
“Reiner is… biased.” Bertolt closes his eyes and slouches down onto the bench, his long legs extending so far in front of him that Marco loses sight of Bertolt’s feet with his head turned in the position it’s in. He misses his peripheral vision sometimes.
“Mmmmm.” Marco makes a noncommittal sound and sips his tea. “Everyone who cares about you isn’t inherently biased, Bertl.” Bertolt doesn’t respond, so Marco keeps going. “I, for one, think you’re great, and think that you and Reiner make each other very, very happy.”
“That’s the problem,” Bertolt says, so quiet Marco almost misses it.
“Why?”
Bertolt crosses his arms and hangs his head, almost disappearing into the blue sweater he wears whenever the weather gets cold. Reiner’s mom made it for him, Marco knows, back when he and Reiner were in high school. “I don’t want to be responsible for his happiness. I can’t.”
Ah. That sounds about right, and Marco takes a few moments to formulate his thoughts. He’s realized, over the years, that Bertolt is an excellent guinea pig for some of the counseling techniques he’s learned. He’d felt bad, the first time he’d realized he was doing it, and immediately apologized. Bertolt had looked at him, his green eyes huge and round, and shaken his head, telling Marco it hadn’t felt like counseling because Marco was actually listening to him.
Marco chooses not to think about the kind of counselors Bertolt must have had before.
“Do you not want to marry him?”
Bertolt glances at Marco, his eyes wide with shock. “No!”
A positive answer, and Marco nods. “And he clearly wants to marry you. How long has he been asking?”
A faint, enigmatic smile, there and gone so fast Marco almost misses it. “Since college.”
“So years.”
“Years.”
“Every day?”
A nod. “Sometimes more than once. Even when he was overseas.”
Damn, Reiner. Marco can appreciate a man who knows what he wants and goes for it. “Do you think he’d keep asking you to marry him if you didn’t already make him happy?”
Bertolt squirms, not meeting Marco’s eyes. “No.”
“Okay then.” Marco knows not to push anymore, and stays quiet, watching out of the corner of his eye as Bertolt chews on his lower lip and studies his feet.
“You talk like Jean now.”
“I do?” That’s news to Marco.
Bertolt nods. “You emphasize words in the middle of your sentences the way he does.”
“Huh.” Marco shrugs, and can’t help the slow, indulgent smile that slides onto his face. “We’ve been spending a lot of time together. I guess it’s natural we’d start picking up each other’s habits.”
“Does he still try and sneak coffee on you?”
“Not anymore. He discovered that he likes Earl Grey about a month ago and has been drinking that.” Marco hasn’t been able to stand the smell or taste of coffee since he saw Aisha get hit by a car. He can handle the smell of it if it’s in his mother’s kitchen, but nowhere else.
“I saw a recipe for Earl Grey brownies awhile back,” Bertolt says, looking off into the distance and kicking his feet. “Do you think he’d like to try them?”
“I’m sure he would.” Marco is touched that Bertolt is making the effort to reach out; he knows how hard it is for Bertolt to make new friends.
“Okay.” Bertolt goes quiet again, clearly mulling something over, before turning around and looking Marco fully in the face. “If I say yes, will you be my best man?”
For a minute, Marco has no idea what Bertolt is asking—he’s gotten used to the way Bertolt circles around a topic and jumps back and forth in a conversation, but he can’t quite catch up to what he’s being asked. Then it all registers, and he grins, so huge and broad that the movement of his cheek pushes his eyepatch slightly askew. “I’d be honored, Bert. I’d be really, really honored.”
Bertolt nods, looking relieved. “Okay. Thank you.”
“Thank you.” Now all Bertolt has to do is say yes.
~*~
“Are you Marco? You’re Marco, aren’t you?”
“He’s totally Marco, can’t you tell?”
“I’m asking, I’m being polite! So, you’re Marco?”
“You’re Jean’s boyfriend Marco?”
“We recognize you from Facebook!”
Marco laughs and holds his hands up to fend off the onslaught. “Yes, I’m Marco. You must be the Wonder Twin Interns. I’m sorry, I don’t know your real names.”
“How rude!” The female Wonder Twin huffs, tossing her long ponytail over her shoulder.
“We’re not interns anymore,” her boyfriend informs Marco, looking pleased with himself. “We’re going to be officially hired on Monday.”
“That’s great, good for you!”
“Thank you.” The man’s grin widens, and he slings an arm around his girlfriend’s waist. “I’m Connie, and she’s Sasha. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Jean talks about you all the time,” Sasha announces, offering Marco her hand to shake.
Marco takes her hand and shakes it, feeling a silly little smile work its way onto his face. He’s aware that Jean probably talks about him at work, but actually hearing someone confirm his suspicions makes his day. He knows that he blathers about Jean endlessly at work; it’s nice to hear that it’s reciprocated.
“All. The. Time,” Connie adds, thrusting his hand forward and shaking Marco’s as soon as Sasha is done. “Like, it’s endless.”
“But cute.” Sasha scrunches her nose a little at Connie, and he settles down, looking reproachfully at her with enormous, puppy-dog eyes. “It’s really cute.” She leans in a little closer, dropping her voice so that Marco has to lean in to hear her. Connie does the same, and it’s like they’re in a little conference circle. “He’s been a lot happier since he met you.”
“Oh, yeah!” Connie agrees, nodding vigorously. “He was pissy all the time before he met you!”
“Sad,” Sasha corrects. “He was sad all the time.”
“He was?” Marco tilts his head, surprised at the news. Jean is many things, but sad usually isn’t one of them.
“Yes.” It’s Connie who takes over now, explaining while Sasha nods in agreement. “It was like… like he was missing something, you know? Like he never felt like he was entirely there.”
“We always thought it was because of his dad,” Sasha interjects, and Connie nods before continuing.
“But then he met you, and it’s like…” Connie shrugs and straightens up; the little moment is over. “It’s like he found what he’d been looking for the whole time.”
“That’s… wow.” Marco has to swallow, has to take a moment and clear his throat; Connie has just vocalized something that he’s thought about before, but had never been able to articulate. Finding Jean had been like finding a missing piece of himself, and while Marco had at first thought it was something he’d lost during the war—his innocence, or something melodramatic like that—that hadn’t been it at all. It had been something that he hadn’t even realized was missing, until Jean can along and filled the hole.
Sasha smiles at him, her eyes warm and full of light, and reaches out to pat Marco’s arm. “You’re good for him.”
“What kind of horrible lies are these two telling you, Marco?” Jean flounces over, his voice the loud bray that has somehow turned into the sound of home over the last few months. He wraps his arms around Marco’s waist and puts his chin on his shoulder, and Marco unconsciously drops his shoulder a little so Jean doesn’t have to crane up to reach it. There’s only an inch or so between their heights, but to hear Jean complain about it, it’s more like six.
“We’re not telling him lies!” Sasha’s voice is full of indignation. “We were saying nice things!”
“Yeah!” Connie leaps to her defense. “We were saying good stuff about you!”
“Oh. Well, in that case, please continue.” Jean stretches up and kisses Marco’s earlobe, which makes him giggle and try to brush him aside.
“Nope, moment’s gone.” Connie untangles his arm from Sasha’s waist and offers his hand to Jean, who stares at it in bewilderment for a moment before shaking it. “It’s been a real pleasure working with you, man. Good luck in grad school.”
“Thank you, Connie.” Jean’s voice has that airy, slightly confused tone it takes on when he’s having trouble processing something—or, more likely, as Marco has discovered, is having trouble with his emotions and doesn’t want it to show—but he shakes Connie’s hand, and then Sasha’s. “I mean, you’ll still see me around. Probably.”
“Well, yeah!” Sasha drops a wink at Marco. “We better be invited to your housewarming party and stuff!” She glides away, tugging Connie along behind her. “Bye! Enjoy the party!”
Marco waves, smiling as he watches them go.
“What’re they talking about, a housewarming party?” Jean sounds genuinely confused, and Marco turns to him, taking his hand and leading him to the dance floor, where a banner that reads CONGRATULATIONS JEAN GOOD LUCK flutters and holds sway over all.
~*~
The little bell above the door tickles brightly as Marco hurries inside, shutting the door behind him to fend off the bitter wind outside. It’s almost obscenely warm inside after braving the wind off the lake to get here, and he takes a moment to just stand in the door and feel the heat seep into his pores.
“Welcome to Frost, be with ya in a minute!”
“Take your time!” Marco calls, slowly unraveling his scarf. There’s a beat of silence from the back of the shop, then the sound of scrambling. Marco grins, and opens his arms wide for what he knows is coming.
“Marco!” Ymir explodes out of the back of the shop, making a beeline for him. Marco tries to catch her in a hug, and fails, just like always, as she pounds on his chest with both hands. “You haven’t been here in forever, you bastard!”
“I know, I know.” It’s only when Ymir stops beating on him that he’s allowed to hug her, and she wraps her arms around him for a tight squeeze. “God, aren't you freezing?” She’s wearing her usual uniform of a tank top and cargo pants, her full sleeves, beautifully inked and designed, on display.
“The cold never bothered me anyway,” she deadpans before releasing him, and Marco snorts back laughter. “Besides, I’ve got to display the goods.” She lifts one arm and flexes, waiting for Marco to make suitably impressed noises before dropping her arm. Ymir’s main interests are her wife, her art, and physical fitness, in that order, and she has better muscle definition in her arms than Marco does. She could even give Reiner a run for his money in the definition department, something Marco has been told happens every Pride Week, and something he’s looking forward to seeing next spring.
“So what brings you in here?” she asks, dropping her arm. “You finally going to let me fix that piece of shit on your bicep?”
“No, not yet. I’m still thinking of a design for that one.” Or rather, Jean has been, doodling endlessly and presenting Marco with his work, expanding on pieces Marco likes and tossing out the ones he doesn’t. They haven’t figured out the perfect design yet, but they’re getting closer. “I want to add a rose.”
Ymir lifts an eyebrow so high it almost disappears under the bandana she’s wearing on her head, her only concession to the cold. “You got a new family member I don’t know about?”
“No.”
“New cat?”
“No.”
“Then that sounds like a boyfriend tattoo, and you know I don’t do those.” Ymir points to a sign on her wall that reads Artist has the right to refuse to assist you in your bad decisions. “When am I going to meet Tall, Pale, and Pointy-Faced, anyway?”
“He’s not pointy-faced!” Marco protests, a little embarrassed at how quickly she’s seen through him.
“Okay, fine, Tall, Pale, and Amber-Eyed?”
“Much better.” Marco shrugs out of his coat, and Ymir takes it from him and hangs it up. “After Thanksgiving?”
“Isn’t that your anniversary?” She knows it is, and waves a hand at him, telling him to follow her. “That’s a weird day to have an anniversary, brother.”
“I like it.” Marco follows her deeper in the shop, and sits down in his favorite work station chair. Ymir takes a seat on a stool beside him, and Marco starts unbuttoning his shirt, exposing the trellis of roses on his chest. “It’s different. Everyone has an anniversary on Valentine’s Day, or Christmas, or the Fourth of July. Having one on Thanksgiving makes us unique.”
“That it does.” Ymir pushes his undershirt aside, her fingers warm on his skin, and leans in to investigate her work. “So convince me that this guy is worth adding a permanent piece of art to your skin.”
Marco can feel his face heating up, and looks away for a moment, gathering his thoughts. He knew Ymir would do this, though, and he doesn’t need to gather them for long. “He convinced me it was okay to start wearing this.” He gestures to his eyepatch.
Ymir nods, not looking up from his chest. “I noticed. It looks good on you. Makes you look dashing and piratical.”
“I was a pirate for Halloween.”
“If you tell me he was anything other than a ninja, I’m kicking you out of my shop.”
“Of course he was a ninja!”
“Good. Okay, that’s one reason.”
“He likes my cats, and my cats like him.”
“Very important. Go on.”
“My family loves him.”
“Even Isaac?”
“Especially Isaac. Jean lets him drive his car.”
Ymir nods. “Keep going. You haven’t said anything about you yet.”
“I know.” Marco takes a deep breath, and Ymir sits back, studying his face with her dark eyes, waiting for his explanation. “He’s… he’s like no one else I’ve ever met. He’s beautiful, and uncomplicated. He says what he means and means what he says, even when that makes him sound like a jerk. He’s honest, even when it makes him uncomfortable, and he tries so hard to be a good person, even when he doesn’t even realize that’s what he’s doing. He’s… he’s the best thing that’s happened to me in a long, long time, and even if we don’t work out in the long run, knowing him has made me a better, stronger person.”
Marco stops, feeling suddenly and absurdly close to tears. Ymir studies his face for another moment before leaning back in her chair and looking towards the back of the shop. “Yo, Ay! Do some Google-fu for me!”
“Google what?” a high, melodic voice floats back.
“Meaning behind rose colors!” Her yelling done, Ymir turns back to Marco’s chest. “You really love this guy.”
Marco lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, and lets Ymir examine his chest, pulling off his undershirt when she tries to tug it off him. “So much, Ymir. So much it hurts sometimes.”
She nods, looking up at him long enough to wink. “I know a thing or two about that kind of love. So okay, I’ll do your rose. What’ve you got in mind?”
“There’s an open space on the left side…”
“Ah yes, right over the heart. Almost as though someone left it there on purpose.”
“Yes. So I was thinking a big, open rose there, and a little bud coming off the other side. A black bud.”
“Let me guess… Jean has a black cat.”
Marco laughs and nods. “Yes. One that I fostered, actually.”
Ymir rolls her eyes, but her voice is affection when she speaks. “You and your cats, I swear to god.”
“Oh, like someone doesn’t have a tattoo of her dog on her shoulder!”
“Guilty as charged.” Ymir uncaps a tattooist’s marker and starts sketching on Marco’s chest, the felt tip cool against his skin.
“What kind of meaning are you going for?” A slender blond waif, head buried in a iPad, walks in from the back of the shop, and for a moment, Marco thinks it’s Historia, Ymir’s wife. Then the waif lifts his head, and he sees that it’s a man with long hair and wide, bright blue eyes.
“Marco, this is Armin. Armin, Marco,” Ymir says, intent on her work sketching a rose. “Armin’s doing some kind of grad school research in sociology and hangs around the shop all the time.”
“I’m researching folklore and oral traditions,” Armin tells Marco. “Tattooing is a modern form of storytelling that’s very personal to the people getting the artwork. I spend time where because Ymir doesn’t do flash art or spur of the moment ink.”
“Tattoos deserve a story,” Marco agrees, and Ymir flashes him a grin before turning back to her work.
Armin nods, and sits down on the chair behind Ymir. “What’s the story you’re trying to tell?” He holds out the iPad, showing Marco a list of meanings behind rose colors. “This is from a florist’s website, is that okay?”
“That’s fine.” Marco scans the meaning behind the colors; he knew that red meant love, which is why he chose it to represent his family, but the other meanings are new to him. He likes that lavender means love as well, and almost mentions it before he reads the last one. He hadn’t even known that green roses existed, let alone that they meant life, growth, and an abundance of energy. “Can you do green and lavender mixed?”
“Like the one I did for your cat?”
“Yes, like a lavender rose with green tips?”
“Sure.” Ymir bites her lip, considering. “With your skin tone, a paler green with a lot of white in it would really pop. That cool?”
“I trust you.” Marco leans back in the chair, closing his eyes and lacing his hands over his stomach.
Ymir cackles loudly. “Famous last words! Armin, go get a release form!”