seasons. : a fireafy fic

chapter seven

(a/n: trypanophobia warning, chapter contains descriptions of needles)

The satisfying crackles from the vinyl record playing on his music shelf bounced off the walls of his basement studio apartment.

Firey softly tapped his feet to the beat, brandishing a bright silver needle in his hand. He clicked his lighter, hovering the needle into the flame until it was red hot. He nodded his head when the needle seared with heat, confirming it was sanitized.

As the instrument cooled, he hummed, scraping the soles of his shoes on the linoleum floors of his basement apartment, and poured a bottle of black tattoo ink into a small, plastic ink cap. He dipped the needle into the ink, tapped off the excess, and began poking the needle into his client's skin.

Flower inhaled sharply and grimaced at the pain of the needle entering her thigh skin, her eyes screwing shut. Her hands gripped the armrests of the chair she was sitting in.

"I didn't know you liked Joy Division," she said, her voice not giving away any of the pain she was feeling.

"I didn't know you had a low pain tolerance," Firey responded, not really looking for a meaningful conversation.

"You knew," she retorted, not taking the insult. "You've tattooed me before, remember?"

"I genuinely don't remember anyone I've tattooed," Firey admitted. The nylon material of his red and white windbreaker moved with his shoulders as he shrugged. "Except Teardrop."

Flower's mouth fell open in shock. "Teardrop has a tattoo?"

"Yeah," Firey nodded his head in response. "She was the only person who didn't make sounds of pain. 'Cause she doesn't really talk."

Flower shook her head, causing pink strands of hair to fall neatly around her shoulders. She adjusted her yellow headband as a result, while saying, "Do you just hurt everyone you tattoo? Maybe I should travel further into the city, so I can get a tattoo from a real place."

"I'm cheaper."

Firey didn't actually mind losing any of his business. A real tattoo was worth the money. But knowing Flower's character, she was a bit of the stingier type, despite probably being a shopaholic.

Every time he saw her, she had a new outfit. He wondered how much money she made to afford buying fast fashion almost weekly.

Perhaps shopaholic wasn't the right word. Maybe shoplifter was a more appropriate description.

But he didn't care enough to actually know.

"Why don't you just get a real tattoo machine? With the amount you make at your greasy job and the amount you make from people like me, I'm sure you can afford one." Flower pressed, her face stretching into a devious smile.

Firey bit his lip in concentration as he replied, "I hate to break it to you, but a tattoo machine doesn't hurt less than the needle."

"Cold. The things I do for beauty," Flower muttered, looking down at the rose tattoo Firey was working on.

It's not like Firey did a messy job. His lines were clean, his work never blows out, and the tattoos heal amazingly. Because he was hand poking every single bit of pigment with a needle, he just took a long time. And it HURT.

He knew. He's tattooed himself before.

Some of his clients were just a little impatient. He remembered the more impatient ones more than the ones who sat and took the pain. Flower seemed to be the latter.

Firey DID remember Teardrop, however. It was when he had gotten a tattoo machine.

Teardrop had visited with Gelatin, Lollipop, and some other people. Possibly to help her communicate and for some form of moral support. He didn't really care for the reason, back then. He just felt it was a little weird that so many people were coming to his apartment. He remembered being so nervous, he actually cleaned his apartment before they all showed up.