cause i need something more than everything

rain and sunflower

w/ c.s

g/ tattoo artist!au, slice of life, blooming romance

a.n/ have a word vomit. i was out in the rain earlier accompanying someone. any tattoo parlour referenced in my writings is based on the one i frequent to and there were sunflowers on the living room table. so this happened.

t.w/ needles

The spring rain pelting the roof brought San gently out of his slumber. He tucked his exposed leg under the blanket as the chill tickled his foot. The alarms on his phone were long deactivated because he always slept through them. Yet today, he woke up early. 9 A.M. on a Sunday. The two day weekend didn’t sit well with his internal clock. Something was different today, something was to be unearthed and he wanted to savour it. He gathered his bearing slowly, soul returning to his body peacefully and mind starting to discern reality. San stretched under the soft fleece blanket with a satisfied whine followed the singing of relaxed muscles. His friends called him a cat or a fox depending on the day.

San hoped his roommate didn’t take the only automatic release umbrella they owned but alas, of course, he would be left with the manual one. First come, first serve. He didn’t bother with breakfast after freshening up. He threw on his favourite hoodie and jacket before locking up the apartment. All black as usual. His messy hair hidden under a New York Yankees cap and a mask covered his face, the clear-framed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. A classic Choi San look as the customers would say. He adored the compliments, only jokingly told his customers off when they called him by his full name. Why are you so unaffectionate to me?

His fingers numbed almost immediately, the chilly wind sunk into his flesh and bit at his nerves. The rain splattered the back of his jeans but at least his feet were rather warm from the thick socks and boots combination. He could never be late, there were only a handful of trains operating on Line 6 and if he missed one, he would have to hail a taxi. The train pulled in on the platform and San stepped in after letting the passengers exit first. To work he went. He felt the stares thrown in his direction, the disapproval from a couple of elderly and the fascinations from children. He smiled behind the mask, eyes crinkling into crescent moons. The children shyly smiled back before shuffling closer to their mothers.

San loved his job. Of course, his family and friends came first but individualism and creating was his passion. It made his blood run with adrenaline at the thought of creating. Sure, it stressed him out at one point or another but nothing burned him more than the buzzing of machines in his ear and needles prickling the skin. His and others. The electronic announcement alerted him of his arrival at his stop. Itaewon. One of the bustling hip areas in Seoul. The rain didn’t let up yet but he enjoyed it regardless, the umbrella over his head and chills in his bones. There was something about the blue and bleakness on rainy days that he enjoyed. His favourite café was closed so he went to the convenience store, walking past the block where his workplace was located. The red neon sign above the doors was visible from his peripheral sight, tempting him to turn back and enter.

The cashier knew him by name and he exchanged pleasantries, staying around the register to chat for a little bit as the store was rather empty. His corner on the eat-in spot was always spotless, today there was a small sunflower left on his table. Well, it seemed like his secret admirer knew his schedule. He figured it was either someone from the parlour or the store. The cashier would not divulge any information regarding his secret admirer. He was only told whoever left those flowers for him was a safe person. He broke into a smile as he poured hot water into his cup noodle. There was a fluttering feeling in his chest. Perhaps he should design a sunflower later.

San waved goodbye to the cashier and tucked the sunflower on the front pocket of his jacket. He didn’t bother opening the umbrella, jogging down the block and turning a sharp right, ‘WONDERLAND INKS & METALS’ bathed him in red hues. Here he was free. Here he was more alive than ever. They didn’t have bells on the door but the parlour assistant always knew when someone entered the studio. The sound of tattoo guns whirring soothed him and so did the calming playlist resonating on the first floor. Anxiousness was dispelled from his body. This place was truly a wonderland to him. A warm smile, a touch surprised, bloomed on the assistant’s lips. He was early, once in a blue moon occasion but always welcomed.

His favourite matcha latte soon arrived at his table, a routine at this point. The assistant always spoiled him. San wondered if the assistant was his secret admirer but he banished the thought as they spoiled each artist equally. It irked him a tad that he wasn’t the favourite. He adored the assistant with his heart. He always kept a watchful eye to his surroundings but his admirer was slick. He shucked off his jacket, sunflower placed gingerly on the table, and hung it on the coat rack. A fellow tattoo artist clapped him on the back, praising him for his early attendance which San rebutted to not count on it with a laugh. His spot in the studio was on the first floor right behind the reception counter. He could see anyone coming in and out unless he was preoccupied. He caught sight of himself on the floor-length mirror, the golden trimming shining under the warm yellow LEDs. The tattoos on his hands were visible and he pushed his sleeves up, the black inks crawled up his forearms and disappeared under the bunched fabric only to appear again on the side of his neck. The canvas of his skin had been filling up over the years.

The assistant returned to his section, an iPad in hand, he patted the bed chair for them to sit and he settled in his own swivel chair. San knew he was one of the most sought out artists in Seoul. It was rare for him to not be busy. Several projects were waiting for him, his week had been booked. He had the liberty to set his schedule and he did so with gusto. There was a specific sunflower request that piqued his interest. A sunflower of your liking. He appointed that for Wednesday. He knew he would stay up the entire night designing the tattoo. This was his secret admirer, he was sure of it, his instinct never betrayed him. The glimmer in the assistant’s eyes flickered on the metaphorical lightbulb. Ah. He was right after all. He bit his lip to hide the grin that was threatening to surface. He couldn’t wait for Wednesday, it was always his best day for whatever divine intervention he didn’t believe.

He told the assistant to call in the sunflower requester to come in for a consultation anytime before Wednesday. He would come early until then. San could hear the gears turning in the other’s head and he leaned in, bumping his forehead against the assistant. He loved it. He loved how he could fluster someone so easily, especially the one he adored gave him much triumph. San grabbed the assistant’s hand just as they were about to leave his area and led them back to the chair. A pretence of wanting opinions on his latest creations lulled them into his hand. It wasn’t a full-fledged lie. The parlour was empty with the exception of a special appointment upstairs or someone was inking themselves or each other. It wasn’t supposed to be open hours before noon but here they were. They loved the place as much as he did, overflowing with the same passion coursing in his veins. He started to sketch a rough outline of a flower, tossing ideas to the assistant who was nestled comfortably on the tattooing chair with one of his plushies. He got to the sunflower. Ideas furnished into a blueprint with his specific questions being answered. He hummed, letting his hand detail the graphite flower. One of his fastest creations yet his proudest. He turned his sketchbook around and the wide-eyes marvelled expression was all the confirmation San needed. A sunflower of his liking.

“Shall we start today, Sunflower?”

Chapter 4

Morning took its sweet time coming, though Ginny supposed her inability to sleep had much to do with it. Her mind was running a mile a minute, speeding through scenarios and potential questions she'd be expected to provide answers for, imagining what would happen if Dutch didn't care for whatever first impression she made. How many members were there? What kind of people would she be living with? And for how long?

She desperately wanted to believe that Arthur was right, that they were mostly good people. She hoped she could fit in, but knew from her experience in this small town so far that she was likely going to be fighting an uphill battle on that front. She tried to talk like the people around her, careful to avoid phrases and words that might be ahead of this time. Despite the clothing she wore, she knew she didn't look like she belonged. Would this problem improve or worsen in a camp setting? Would there be a hierarchy that she'd need to follow? Would she get special treatment, and consequently would she gain enemies from being brought in by Dutch's supposed right-hand man?

How long would she have to pretend to be someone that she wasn't?

She'd packed as soon as she had returned to her room, and then thought perhaps the backpack would look too odd. Would anyone question it? Could she just pass it off as being a common item from back home? It was all that she had, however, and so she left her few items and clothes packed into it – modern clothes and broken iPhone carefully tucked beneath everything else at the very bottom of the bag – and thanked whatever chaotic forces got her into this mess that it was a simple and worn LL Bean canvas bag and not a bright patterned bag with fancy pockets and velcro.

She kept the journal and map out for most of the night, studying both of them by candlelight until she was sure she'd memorized every punctuation mark and crossroad. When she grew bored of that, she stood and paced back and forth across the room, practicing what she might say when Arthur introduced her to Dutch. Then, she figured it would do no good overthinking conversations that haven't even happened yet, so she packed her journal and map into the bag and set everything on the floor next to the bed so she could attempt to get some sleep.

She ended up laying awake for over an hour, unable to keep her eyes closed for more than thirty seconds at a time, despite knowing the exhaustion she would feel the following day. She could not get her mind to stop racing, and so she shot up out of bed, lit the candle at her bedside again, and brought it over to the small mirror by her dresser. She brushed her hair methodically, focusing all of her attention on styling it just so, in the hopes that at least this aspect of her would look the part. It was difficult to gather all of her long hair up, but with the help of a dark hair elastic that she'd had on her since before she woke up in this century, she made it work. It blended just fine into her hair, and she figured no one would ever notice it anyway. She'd gotten a little better at achieving the simple pinned up-do that many young women of the time favored, especially after watching Anne style her own hair a few times.

At this point, she had exhausted any ideas to pass the time, so she spent a long while just staring out the window to watch the sky gradually lighten from a deep black to a dark blue, the stars gradually starting to wink out.

He'd said bright and early, she thought to herself, seeing the sky shifting to lighter and lighter hues as the sun prepared to rise over the horizon. How early is 'bright and early?' And how bright does it have to be?

She started pacing again, hearing the sounds of the town beginning to wake up as roosters crowed and dogs barked. She heard Anne start moving around next door, drawers opening and closing and water being splashed into a basin so she could wash up. Ginny followed suit, deciding washing her face and neck was probably not a bad idea, and at least kept her from staring out the window again. Anne left her room and began walking down the hallway, on her way to begin the day's chores. Ginny almost felt badly for leaving the entirety of the inn to her once again, but she also knew that this was nothing new to her, and chose not to give into the guilt of adding to the other woman's workload.

She heard Mr. French speaking distantly, probably to Anne as she passed the front desk. More time passed, and Ginny took to pacing again.

The sky lightened to a soft pink and threw her room into color, almost making it pleasant. As the light sharpened, however, it only served to highlight the sparse furnishings and dull colors of the wallpaper and furniture. She paused at Mr. French's raised voice coming from downstairs. He sounded alarmed, but she couldn't make out what he was saying. In all reality, he could have just seen one of the few rats that had made their home in the walls downstairs. She smiled at the thought, and then she heard slow, heavy footsteps coming up the stairwell and then down the hallway.

“All right, all right, calm down!” a deep voice called, and instantly she recognized it as belonging to Arthur. She hoisted her bag onto her shoulders and moved to blow out her candle, adrenaline and nerves making her tremble a little. A knock sounded on her door, and she rushed to open it, finding him standing awkwardly in the hallway. “'Mornin' to ya,” he said, mouth quirking up in a half-smile. “Hope I'm not here too early.”

She grinned. “You did say 'bright and early.'”

He ducked his head and smirked, his face hidden briefly under the brim of his hat. “That I did. C'mon, let's go.”

She adjusted her backpack and followed him down the hall to the stairs, shaking a little as the reality and weight of her decision to jump into an unknown setting with a man she barely knew finally hit her full-force. She hesitated at the top of the stairs, and Arthur stopped a few steps down, sensing that she'd paused. His blue eyes analyzed her, noting how she held one strap of her bag in a white-knuckle grip and was grasping the wooden handrail as if her life depended on it.

“You alright?” he asked moving up a step to stand at almost eye level with her.

Her eyes scanned his face, shifting back and forth as she struggled to gain control of her nerves. “My mom always told me to be careful about who I choose to trust.”

He nodded. “She sounds like a wise woman.”

She bit at the inside of her lip, and then finally asked, “Can I trust you, Arthur Morgan?”

He didn't answer immediately, but she could tell it wasn't because he was avoiding the question. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully, so she waited.

“I'm not a good man, Miss Sinclair. I've done a lot of bad things, and I'll probably do more before my time is done. But you can trust me to look out for you.”

They stood there for a long moment, reading one another as she digested his words and matched them up against his actions. Her trembling gradually stopped, and she slowly released her death-grip on her bag and the railing. “I'm choosing to trust you,” she said, and her expression and tone were both grave. He nodded wordlessly, and turned to walk down the stairs again.

This time, she followed without hesitation.

Continue reading on AO3