Chapter Text
Simon
He’s a twat.
There’s no other word to describe him.
I look at him sorting out a flower display, his back straight and black hair falling in gentle waves around his cheekbones, and I feel my blood boiling. I sip on my tea, careful not to press my mouth against the chipped edge of the mug, and I stare at him from the window of my shop when he suddenly stops in his tracks and looks back at me. I duck down so fast that I spill all the tea on the floor and all over my t-shirt.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath.
“Smooth move, bro,” Shep says, appearing from behind me. He smiles that radiant smile of his that could melt an iceberg and waves at Baz from the window. “That new flower display looks fab!”
“It probably cost more than my wage and yours combined,” I mutter, crawling on the floor under the window and wiping the little puddle of milky tea with my t-shirt in the process. It’s ruined anyway.
“I’m not so sure,” Shep mulls loudly. “I’m starting a huge tat on that navy guy next week. It covers his whole back and butt. It’s going to cost him a fortune.”
“Wait, is this the bloke that wanted half of the Sistine Chapel on his skin to cover up that dreadful tattoo of his mum’s pug?”
Shep nods as I get back on my feet, away from the prying eyes of the heir of the house of Pitch, take my t-shirt off. Shep whistles at me and winks, and I roll my eyes.
“Thanks for the strip-tease, Simon,” he says, and I know he’s the most pansexual person on earth, but he’s also dating my best friend, so I’m confident he’s only teasing. Most likely. Probably. “Anyway, I’m off for today. Be a good boy and play nice with Baz.”
“I’m always nice!” I argue, heading for my studio to retrieve one of my spare tops—I’m accident prone, so I always keep a stash of clothes. “It’s Baz who is a wanker.”
“I spoke to him yesterday, and he was alright,” Shep says, waving as he opens the shop door with a ding. According to Shep everyone is nice; he just can’t help but find the good in everyone, but I want to punch that insufferable git in the face.
It all started when Pitch Flowers opened one of their flashy shops right in front of our tattoo parlour last year. It’s the third one they have in Watford, and Penny says all the other tiny flower shops are disappearing because of them, which makes me even more annoyed.
But the worst thing is not his flashy shop or the posh clientele that glares at us as if we were chavs -we were here before them, for crying out loud!- no, the worst is him. That haughty way he has to look down on people (me in particular, because he’s a tall twat), the way he always looks so perfectly impeccable, not even a hair out of place, his posh drawl and the way he arches that eyebrow every time I become a stuttering mess when we speak.
I innocently walked into his stupid shop when he first opened to get some flowers for Ebb’s grave, not knowing anything about his family and their refined, arsy bouquet that cost an eye and a leg. He looked at me, arms folded and face impassive as he ran his eyes all over my body, head to toe to assess and judge, probably coming to the conclusion that I was a total mess, not worthy of being there. And he didn’t say any of the usual how can I help or may I assist you, sir—no, he raised that fucking eyebrow and waited for me to speak.
“I-I would like s-some f-flowers,” I managed to stammer, my cheeks heating up and the embarrassing blush spreading to my neck as I just stood there, staring at his feet.
“What for?” he asked imperiously, and I suddenly had the distinctive feeling of being back at school in the headteacher’s office after a fight.
“For a woman,” I replied, because I had finally gathered the courage to visit the cemetery, and people normally bring flowers, don’t they? But he scowled at me and produced an annoyed little huff as he continued studying me.
“What’s your budget?” he asked.
“Uhm…er…” I mumbled, opening my wallet to check. “A tenner?”
He rolled his eyes and turned, walking away from me to grab a yellow hyacinth from a flower pot. I know shit about flowers, but I recognised it because one of the nuns at the children’s homes used to make me plant them in the garden, saying that it would calm my nerves. What a load of bollocks.
“You could probably afford this,” he drawled, and I suddenly saw red, because all I wanted was some flowers for Ebb, who was the only person who cared about me when everyone else had given up, when all the others could see was an angry kid with no future.
Ebb showed me what it felt like to have hope, to want a future. To feel loved for the first time in my life. With her tattoos and her smiles and her kind words, she made me bloom and find a reason to get through school and out of the homes.
I just wanted to do something nice for her, since I missed her like a lost limb and sometimes the pain was too much to endure.
“Keep your bloody flowers, then,” I snarled and stormed out of his shop, banging the door so hard that it rattled.
Apparently I wasn’t done with the Pitches, because his aunt was outside having a fag, and when she saw my angry outbursts she started yelling at me, so I had to leg it.
And then we had that argument about the car park (not that I have a car, but some of our customers do), and about the display on our shop window (too gloomy, he said), and about the sodding limousine that parked right in front of our shop and wouldn’t fucking move (not my fault Niamh decided to key it after getting her tattoo done).
So I hate them all. His wanker of a father, who seems to treat everyone like shit, his punk aunt, who glares at me every time we meet, but especially him.
Baz Pitch is a tosser.
Baz
He was staring at me again this morning. I insisted on being the one arranging the display so that I could catch a glimpse of him drinking his tea as he pretended to be subtle about his spying.
I glance at his bronze curls and blue eyes before he spots me and ducks down like the worst ninja I’ve ever seen. I sigh, and Fiona groans at me as she opens the shop door to come out to smoke.
“Why do you always pick the most depressing plants for our outdoors display?” she asks, searching the pockets of her leather jacket for her lighter. Dev hid it this morning, and I wonder how long it’s going to take Fiona to realise she was pranked and break my cousin’s kneecaps.
“Fiona, you know shit about flowers,” I point out, and she shrugs, finding her spare lighter in a secret pocket of her jacket. I bet Dev didn’t know about it.
“I know, but Natasha was so good at that crap,” she says, inhaling the first puff of smoke and relaxing visibly as she leans against the wall, looking at the tattoo parlour in front of us. “She knew everything about floriography and used to keep that diary with detailed illustrations, Latin names and the meaning of flowers. Utter tosh, if you ask me.”
It’s a good job I don’t ask her, then.
I still have that book, and I learnt it all by heart by the time I started working at the shops. I don’t think anyone knows I have it, but I’ve been keeping it as my most treasured possession since my mother died. She used to show me, before I could even read, her big hand covering mine as she guided my finger over the lovely and colourful pictures and the fascinating names.
Red carnations for deep, affectionate love.
White roses to offer condolences.
Hydrangeas for gratitude.
Yellow hyacinths for jealousy.
I’ve become quite the expert in floriography, but it’s not like people care about the meaning of flowers anymore. The average customer just wants some red roses for a date or white flowers for a funeral arrangement. Even brides turn up with the most ridiculous ideas based on colour schemes and what they’ve seen on Pinterest, forgetting about the fact that some flowers don’t go well with others or might not actually be in bloom in the middle of summer.
My eyes go automatically for the window from which he was peeking at me earlier, but he’s no longer there. I think about the flowers I would give him, if I had the chance.
I doubt he would have a clue, but it would still mean something to me.
“Baz, I’m having an issue with Miss Hobbs on the phone,” Dev says, popping outside and looking mildly concerned.
“Is that the hysterical woman who wants to get married with only blue flowers?” Fiona asks, puffing out smoke and making Dev’s eyebrows arch up in surprise. He looks at me as if to ask if I gave my aunt a lighter and cigarettes, but I shake my head.
“The one and only,” he replies. “She seems to have changed her mind and wants black flowers now. I have no idea what to suggest.”
“Leave it with me,” I say, because I’m in charge of this shop.
This is supposed to be my chance to show Father that I can be successful and make him proud, that I can be in charge even if I’m fresh out of university. Fiona is here to supervise, Dev to help out during busy times, but I’m the one who is responsible if shit hits the fan and we don’t end up making enough money by the end of the month. And I have no intention of failing.
The business is not going well these days, not with people preferring to get cheap chocolates or some booze instead of a lovely bouquet. But I want to keep the family business running.
It was my mother’s dream.
She used to tell me about it with a glint in her eyes.
I will not lose this shop.
Not when I get to see him every single day from across the road.
Simon
The bell jingles just as I finish telling my last customer of the day how to care for his fresh tattoo. I’ve wrapped his arm in cling film and told him several times that no, he’s not allowed to go swimming at the pool today, and no he can’t go tomorrow either, when I suddenly freeze as my eyes land on him.
Grey eyes, black hair and a pair of jeans that makes my jaw drop.
“Baz…y-you’re wearing j-jeans,” I stutter, and suddenly realise that he’s not on his own. There’s another bloke, brown eyes and an annoyed face, and Baz’s cousin, the one who works with him.
“Can he even speak properly?” Baz’s friend mutters, pointing at me, and I immediately tense up, my anger rising instantly like goosebumps on my skin.
This is my tattoo parlour, and they’ve come here to be dicks.
I’m not fucking having this.
“What d’you want?” I bark, jutting my chin out and folding my arms in front of my chest as my previous client waves a timid goodbye and sneaks out behind them.
Baz is so tall, towering over all of us with those endless legs. And fuck, he looks good in those jeans. His shop normally closes at five (not that I’ve memorised his working hours), so I wonder where he’s been since he got off work. I think he’s got a house nearby because he usually walks to work, but I saw him leaving in his cousin’s car today (not that I was spying on him).
“We obviously came for a tattoo,” his cousin says, shaking his head, then he asks Baz, “Is he always this smart?”
Baz doesn’t reply, simply blinks a couple of times and looks around the shop, staring at the pictures of our creations on the walls, his eyes stopping when he reaches the section on flowers. I did all of those; Shep prefers to do animals and people. I bet Baz finds them awful. I bet he’s going to drag his cousin out and have a laugh at me.
He remains silent instead, grey eyes still wandering around, his expression blank.
“I was about to close,” I say, pointing at the clock. It’s nearly eight o’clock, and I’m starving. “Do you want to sit down to discuss your idea and set an appointment for your tattoo?”
“How about I pay you to do it now?” the cousin says, his speech slurred. He moves closer as he gets his wallet out of his pocket to show me a handful of banknotes, and that’s when I realise that he’s drunk. His breath stinks of alcohol, and he’s staggering a bit as he tries to push a fifty pound note into my hand. “Listen, I just want you to do this Chinese character on my arm. Look, I’ve got it on my phone – I’ll show you.”
I take a step back and shake my head.
“I don’t do tattoos on a first appointment,” I declare, trying to be as firm as I can. “It’s our policy to discuss it first, then to prepare a design and a stencil and do the tattoo on a second appointment. Besides, you’re drunk, and I only tattoo sober people.”
“Oh, fuck off,” the cousin replies, clearly looking pissed off, and that’s when Baz’s eyes finally land on me.
I was expecting him to be annoyed, but instead he looks surprised.
I think this is the first time he’s staring at me with something other than contempt.
“He’s going to pay you,” the other bloke insists. “What difference does it make to you? I can vouch that Dev decided he wanted the tattoo before he got drunk. He showed me earlier this evening. It’s the Chinese character for friendship, not a massive tattoo. How long is it even going to take you?”
“That makes no difference. It’s something he found on the internet,” I reply. “Do any of you speak Chinese?”
They all stare at me as if I’ve grown an extra head.
“What?!” Dev asks.
“I’ve seen so many people thinking that they were getting poetic shit permanently drawn on their skin, and then it turned out it was something idiotic like ‘restaurant’ or ‘cod’,” I explain, but even if I’m trying to keep calm – I’ve had this conversation with so many customers in the past – I can tell that the friend is getting irritated and the cousin is fuming. “We normally ask our customers to check in a dictionary first or ask someone who actually speaks the language because, believe it or not, half of the people I tattoo ask me to cover some dumb shit they got when they were drunk or young or didn’t have a clue what they were getting on their skin. So no, I am not going to do your tattoo today.”
“Is the other guy here?” his friend asks. “The American.”
“Shepard only works mornings, and we both work weekends, but we follow the same policy, so it wouldn’t make a difference.”
Baz simply stares at me, grey eyes like the winter sky, until he finally opens his mouth to speak.
“Let’s go, lads,” he tells his friends, opening the door and making it jingle loudly as he exits without a word.
“Hang on a sec-” Dev tries to argue, but Baz simply shakes his head and is already walking down the pavement. Dev groans and swears under his breath, then he grabs his friend by the wrist and storms out of the shop, banging the door loudly.
I stand there like an idiot, my body still trembling with rage as I try to breathe through the anger and remind myself that I deal with knobs on a daily basis, so there’s nothing new here. But no matter how hard I try, I still can’t shake off the feeling that Baz was here, that he came to the place that I spent all of my energy and savings to set up, my safe haven.
He was here, and for once he was alright. Almost nice.
What the fuck is going on?
Baz
I wasn’t expecting him to be so professional.
I told Dev it was the stupidest idea ever, that he was drunk and didn’t have a clue was he was doing, but Niall was feeling sorry for him, because Wellbelove won’t even consider going on a date with him. Niall kept on saying she doesn’t deserve Dev, that he should move on.
I personally think Niall would like to jump on my cousin’s cock himself, but I don’t want to get in their way and complicate matters. I also don’t fancy becoming the third wheel, and they’re my only friends.
“That bloody twat,” Dev mutters, kicking a stone and making it bounce against a wall as we walk towards the car. Niall takes the keys directly from Dev’s trousers pocket, hand lingering on his bum for a moment longer than necessary - come on, what straight friend would do that? – and he sits behind the wheel of Dev’s car without a word.
“You could always book an appointment for tomorrow morning,” Niall points out, starting the car without asking us where we would like to go. I’m pretty sure he’s going to drop me off at home so that he can spend some quality time with Dev. Alone.
“Nah,” Dev mutters, sniffling loudly from the backseat. “I think I’m going to call it a night.”
“But it’s only eight o’clock on a Friday night!” Niall whines, pouting into the rear view mirror. “We could get something to eat. There’s that place that does falafel. You seemed to like it last time.”
“Hmm,” Dev hums from behind me. “Alright.”
No one asks me if I fancy a falafel, obviously.
I sigh and stare at my phone.
I go on Snow’s website and start browsing.
Simon
“Who’s your last appointment?” Shep asks, putting his coat on. It’s Saturday evening, and I was looking forward to going home and ordering some pizza, but apparently my weekend has to wait.
“Some random bloke who asked for a consultation after our closing time,” I reply, munching on some salt and vinegar crisps and licking my fingers loudly. Shep smiles at me and takes something out of his bag.
“Here, have some chocolate,” he says, throwing a mint Aero bar at me.
I could marry this man.
“Thanks, mate,” I say, grinning at him. “See you later at home! Try to convince Penny to get pizza.”
“She texted me to say she was making carrot soup,” Shep replies with a grimace.
I groan and shake my head. Penny’s decided we all need a healthier diet, and I’m considering moving house.
I open the chocolate bar and start eating it as I work on a design on my iPad. Niamh wants a goat on her left bicep, and Shep drew the animal already, but I’m supposed to add daffodils in the background. Ebb would have liked this tattoo. She had a kid tattooed on her left shoulder, and I remember being fascinated by it the first time she wore a vest in the hottest day of summer.
I remember her warm voice as she explained how the artist had done it, how much it had hurt and that it felt okay, almost good, to get through the pain to have something memorable engraved on her skin at the end.
There’s a knock on the door, and I’m pulled out of my memories.
“Come in!” I shout, and I immediately freeze when I realise who has just entered my shop.
Even with those black sunglasses and that blue scarf over his head that makes him look like a particularly posh grandma, I would recognise him anywhere.
Tall, ruthless, annoyingly handsome.
“Good evening,” he drawls, closing the door behind him and unceremoniously sitting down on the sofa in front of mine.
“What the fuck are you doing here, Baz?” I ask, thinking that after soup, this is the last thing I needed at the end of a busy week. Has he come here to tell me his cousin is upset because I wouldn’t give him the tat he so desperately wanted? Is he here to take the piss or argue about the bloody limousine?
He gently tugs at the scarf, making it slide off his head and revealing his soft-looking hair. The sunglasses are folded and deposited in a case he fishes out of his leather bag. He looks like a businessman ready to make the deal of a lifetime with his suit and waistcoat, but then I notice the little details that I normally fail to grasp when looking at him from a distance.
There are bumblebees on his shirt, the most delicate rosebuds embroidered on the expensive fabric of his tie. The scarf looks old, the fabric a little worn-out around the edges. There are dark circles under his eyes, a slight tremor to his fingers when he takes his phone out of the pocket of his jacket. And his eyes. His eyes are so beautiful from up close, silvery and light, warmer than I thought they would be, blue specks around his pupils and such long eyelashes that curl up at the end.
“I would like to discuss a design for a tattoo with you,” he announces, and my jaw drops.
Surely he’s taking the piss.
“Yeah, and I want to become a ballet dancer,” I retort, putting my iPad on the nearest table and crossing my arms. I catch him looking at the screen, a curious expression on his face.
“You did the flowers,” he says, pointing at the photos on the wall. “Those tattoos…I know you did them. I checked your website, and there are some pictures of your past creations.”
“What about them?” I ask, ready to defend my work, eager to tell him to get lost if he dares to come here and insult me.
“I think they’re beautiful,” he whispers, and we both freeze for a moment.
I know he’s joking, but my heart still skips a beat, my stomach doing a little backflip as I notice the faintest of blushes spreading on his pale cheeks.
He’s got to be joking.
“Y-You…” I start, shaking my head, unsure what to say.
“I would like you to draw a flower on my skin,” Baz continues, crossing his legs and leaning against the back of the couch, fingers interlaced over his knee as he seems to regain his composure. “A red camellia.”
“What?” I mutter, still dumbfounded by his request.
Why me?
I can’t believe he likes my work, so this must be a ruse.
He’s plotting something, but I have no idea what, and I’m determined to find out.
“Here,” he says, showing me the screen of his mobile phone.
It’s a picture of a camellia, the red petals intricately superimposed with the yellow pistils sticking out in a cluster in the middle.
I like it.
Our neighbour has a pink camellia in his front garden and the petals always end up on our side, which annoys Penny, but I don’t mind. I look at the photo in a daze, wondering when Baz is going to tell me it’s a prank.
“I know what it looks like. I’ve done camellias before,” I say tentatively, rubbing at the back of my neck, threading my fingers through my curls and tugging mercilessly as I feel the anxiety rising. What’s his game? What does he really want?
“Good,” he simply says. “I’d like it on my left shoulder blade. Just a few inches long.”
“Are…are you sure?” I ask, wondering where the catch is.
“Positive,” he replies serenely, then taps the screen of his expensive-looking mobile to open his calendar. “Would you be available after eight o’clock in the evening?”
“What?” I ask, grabbing my agenda from the table behind me and flicking through it, opening pages at random. “I can find space whenever you want.”
“I don’t want anyone to see me,” he explains, and both my eyebrows fly up as I study him.
Interesting.
Baz Pitch doesn’t want anyone to know he’s getting a tattoo. I wonder if he’s scared his dad will tell him off.
“Let me guess,” I say slowly, tapping a pen against the pages of my open planner and looking him straight in the eye. “You don’t want me to tell anyone about the tattoo, right?”
“No,” he replies slowly, uncrossing his legs and leaning towards me. “I would like you to be…discreet.”
“Hmm,” I hum, scratching the freckled skin of my forearm, right next to the sword Shep drew on me when we first met, back when he was still working at the Mermaid Tattoo Parlour. Baz’s eyes follow my hand, staring at my skin and tilting his head as he looks at me in fascination. “Do you have any other tattoos?” I ask, because I’m dying to know.
It’s not the first thing I wonder about the people I meet, just want to know about the ones I’m interested in.
Do they have any scars?
Any moles or freckles like me?
Any birthmark that sets them apart?
I crave to know the history written on people’s skin, to find out if anyone has drawn anything permanently on them.
I don’t have many tattoos myself, which I know is a bit unusual for my job. I just want every single one of them to matter, to have a distinctive meaning that will last until my skin is all wrinkly and stained with age. I refuse to cover them up. Whatever I pick gets to stay. I’ve got scars all over my body from the rough childhood that I didn’t choose, but the other marks I put there, those will be out of my free will.
“No, it’s my first,” Baz replies, and I feel a strange heat surging up my stomach, setting my blood on fire as I stare at him unblinkingly.
I will be the first to draw on him.
His pale and marble-like skin is a blank canvas only I get to paint on.
The thrilling feeling makes me grin, despite myself, and I shift on the sofa, moving closer to him. I can smell his expensive cologne, the fresh scent of clean skin underneath it, and I take it all in, the way his cheeks flush and eyes shine when our gaze meets again. I think he’s excited about it, possibly not as much as I am.
“Alright,” I say a little nervously, closing my planner and then opening it again. “I’m free any day of the week after eight. When would you prefer?”
“I…erm…” he fumbles, taken aback, and I nearly snort, because it’s the first time I see Baz Pitch flustered. Was he expecting me to say no? Did he think I was going to come up with an excuse? “Would Wednesday be a suitable day for you?”
“Wednesday’s fine,” I reply, jotting down a B at the bottom of the page. “I won’t tell Shep, and I won’t show the design to anyone.”
“Thank you,” he replies, his back going stiff as he puts the phone in his pocket and sits up.
“How many camellias?” I ask, opening my iPad and searching for pictures, trying to get an idea of the composition I could make, my brain already running a million miles per hour as I start thinking about how to do the sketch. I’m going to start as soon as I get home. “What position? Just the stem or some leaves too?”
“I’d like one flower,” he replies after a moment, “a stem and a few leaves.”
“Any buds?” I ask, showing him other tattoos, some disappointingly bad in quality. I know I can do much better than that. Mine will be the best fucking camellia in the whole world, because it’s going on Baz Pitch’s skin, and it will need to match its obnoxiously perfect owner.
“Maybe one bud,” he murmurs to himself, then seems to think about it, his bottom lip trapped between his index finger and thumb as he considers it. “Yes, that would be most appropriate. A closed bud. Three leaves. Nothing else.”
“Good,” I say, because I like simple things. “How big?”
“Three inches,” he replies, showing me with his hand.
My brain starts working, painting the picture in my head before I get to do it with my fingers.
I feel so stupidly giddy about it.
I get to draw on Baz.
“Alright,” I say, standing up and then sitting back down like a moron. He must think I’ve lost the plot. “If you leave your email address or phone number, I can send you the preparatory sketches I make.”
“Sure,” he replies, pointing at the planner in my hand and gesturing for me to pass it to him when I stare at him and don’t get what he wants.
“Oh, here you go,” I say, scratching the back of my neck as I watch him write his mobile phone number and email address on a blank page at the back. I rip it off as soon as he hands it back to me, startling him. “Shep and I share this,” I explain.
He nods and gets up, brushing some invisible lint from his trousers.
“I’d better be off then,” he says, looking around and then finally meeting my gaze.
I hold the piece of paper between my fingers, his mobile phone number pressed against my skin.
I have Baz’s number.
He gave me his number.
“Are you still pissed off because I didn’t tattoo your cousin?” I ask, the question suddenly bubbling up inside me and spilling out of my mouth. I don’t even know why I need to know, but it seems important that he’s not annoyed at me. No more than usual, at least.
“No,” he replies slowly. “I think you were extremely professional. And my cousin is an utter idiot.”
Baz thinks I was professional.
Bloody hell…
I blink several times and then stand up, noticing once again the few inches that make him tower over me. It’s not a lot, but he always feels so much taller. Must be the suit.
“Okay, then,” I mumble, unsure what to say now.
He seems to linger in my shop, opening his mouth and closing it as if he were searching for the right words to say.
“Truce?” he asks, offering me his hand.
I stare at it for a moment, at his perfectly manicured hands, long fingers so elegant and blue veins visible underneath the pale surface of his skin.
Truce.
My body moves of its own accord, gripping his hand and giving it a firm shake, possibly too firm by the way his eyes widen as he looks at our joint hands with his lips slightly parted. I can’t help but rub my thumb against his skin, to feel if it’s as soft as it looks, and I almost gasp when he does the same. He’s colder than me, probably because he was outside in the chilly air of the night and I’ve been roasting inside.
We part, and a little voice in my head whines that it’s too soon. I shush it and brush a wild curl off my forehead instead, then venture my gaze up, to meet his grey eyes again.
I used to think they looked sad.
I used to get annoyed at how cold they were.
I catch a glint in them now, a soft note that I didn’t know they could have, not when staring back into my own eyes.
“Truce,” I repeat.
He nods before he leaves.
Baz
“What about that bloke who works with me, the one with curly hair?” Niall says, torturing his salad and then setting it aside with a groan. He hasn’t been eating much lately, and I wonder if it’s got anything to do with my stupid cousin.
“Not interested,” I reply, putting my fork down and motioning for the waiter to bring the bill. I only have ten minutes left before I have to be back at the shop, and I don’t want to be late in case Father decides to come and check how we’re doing.
“He seemed to like you a lot,” Niall insists, taking his wallet out.
“Well, the feeling wasn’t mutual then,” I reply as the waiter finally approaches with the bill. I hand him my card, my foot tapping nervously under the table. “Besides, I’m not interested in dating anyone at the moment.”
Except for Snow, but that’s a dream that will never come true.
“But you’re young and fit,” Niall argues, and the waiter shoots him a glance. Niall winks at him, making him blush.
“Sorry, but I’m late for work. I’ll catch up with you later, Niall.”
The waiter seems happy that I’m leaving him in the lovely company of my best friend.
Hopeless fool – Niall only has eyes for Dev. He will flirt with the waiter for five minutes and then get depressed when he realises he’s not Dev.
I wish I could do something about it, but I’m hopelessly in love myself with no way out.
My phone vibrates just as I rush through the door.
“Delivery at the back,” Fiona calls from the office, and I notice Dev struggling with Miss Hobbs at the desk (she’s probably changed her mind and wants grey flowers now), but I quickly hide at the back of the shop to sort out the new delivery, or least pretend to as I get my phone out of my pocket.
Another message from him.
My lips curl up into a smile, despite myself, as I look at the fourth sketch he’s sent me since Sunday evening. It’s absolutely stunning, and I can’t stop staring at it as I zoom in with my thumb and index finger to admire the details.
Snow drew this for me.
He’s going to paint it on my skin.
I still can’t believe he accepted to do it – I was convinced he was going to laugh at me and tell me to fuck off.
He seems excited about it; God knows why. He’s like a Labrador puppy when it comes to tattoos, I guess.
“Baz, are you done?” Dev asks, his voice sounding panicky. “I could do with a hand.”
“Coming!” I reply, giving the sketch one last glimpse before I finally reply.
Looks great.
Wednesday can’t come soon enough.
Simon
I’m a nervous mess as I wait for him. Shep texts me to ask if I’m sure I don’t want him to help with this commission, but I tell him not to worry. I hate to keep things from him, and he could clearly see that I was being awkward as fuck when I told him I had an out of hours appointment so I couldn’t have dinner with him and Penny.
There’s a soft knock on the door, and I sprint to answer.
Baz is wearing a scarf over his head and sunglasses again, in spite of the street being dark and empty. There are just a few shops at the end of this road, and they’re all shut at this time of the day so the only people in a mile radius are me, him and the elderly lady who likes to walk her chihuahua at impossible hours of the night because he’s afraid of people. I spot her in the distance, and Baz quickly comes inside, shutting the door behind him.
“No one saw you, James Bond,” I tease, and he frowns at me, taking his scarf off (I can’t help but notice that it’s red today – seems fitting). I want to ask him what he’s so scared of anyway. It’s not like his dad is going to disown him just because he’s getting a tattoo, and his friends seemed to be open-minded about it anyway. But that’s none of my business, so I motion for him to follow me into my studio and point at the chair where he’s going to sit when I start.
He seems a bit nervous, even though it’s hard to tell when he puts on that air of haughty indifference. But I’ve been studying him long enough to notice the cracks in his armour. I see the way his eyes wander around the room, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth for a fraction of a second as I show him the paperwork he needs to sign and explain how I’m going to proceed.
“Are you still sure about it?” I ask, softer that I probably intended, and he nods once, then twice.
“Yes,” he says, and he looks determined, as if ready to fight an invisible enemy.
“Any health problems that I need to be aware of?” I ask automatically before I get the equipment ready.
“I’m anaemic,” he replies, eyes locking with mine as I stare at him in surprise.
“Oh,” I simply reply.
Is that the reason why he’s so pale?
“I checked online, and it shouldn’t be an issue,” he adds quickly, as if worried that I’ll say I won’t do it. “I’ve had something to eat before coming here, and I don’t think I’m going to faint. I started taking my iron tablets again, so I should be fine.”
“It’s okay,” I reply, which seems to make him relax. “Just let me know if you’re feeling unwell. The tattoo might take longer to heal, so it’s important that you follow the aftercare instructions, but it will be fine. You’ll be lying down since I’m doing it on your back, so at least if you pass out, you won’t end up on the floor.”
He nods and shifts in the chair, reading the paperwork and signing it with an elaborate swirl that leaves me mesmerised. His signature is so fucking pretty. I desperately want to tattoo it somewhere.
“Snow?” he asks, snapping me out of my mental sketches.
“Hm?” I hum, looking back at his face.
“I know we’re not friends,” he announces, and that’s probably the understatement of the century, “but I need this tattoo to be perfect. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t let the animosity between us get in the way of your work.” I frown, and I’m about to retort that I’m a professional, but I notice the way his cheeks flush before he adds, “I chose you because you’re fucking great. Your flowers are perfect, and…I want one…on my skin.”
I stare back at him, speechless, dying to get started on this tattoo.
I want him to take his posh clothes off, so that I can see his skin, to find out if he’s as perfect as he looks with his armour of expensive suits on. I want to discover if he has any blemishes or imperfections that would make him feel more human. I want to get to know him in the visceral way that only naked skin and ink-soaked needles allow.
“Let’s get started,” I say.