Chapter Text
The smell of paint still clung to the walls of the new shop.
Jack Vessalius stood in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, a half-empty coffee in one hand and a set of keys in the other. The tattoo machines were still in boxes, and the walls were bare, but he could already see it: the life this place was going to have. Lines, stories, skin and ink! His own little cathedral of permanence.
Outside, the drizzle made the street slick, neon lights refracting in tiny puddles. Jack wiped a spot of yellow paint from his cheek, trying not to spill his coffee.
He stepped back, squinting at the sign above the door: “Vessalius Ink.” Gold letters on black glass. A little dramatic, but Jack liked it.
Then, as he leaned back to survey the block, he saw it. Next door.
A narrow shop, framed in ivy, topped by a hand-painted sign which read “Baskerville Florist.” The letters were elegant, old-fashioned, too classy for the block: mostly run-down, tucked between a secondhand record shop and a pawn store.
Jack frowned, tilting his head. He blinked. Baskerville. The word slid across Jack’s mind, strangely familiar, like a half-remembered melody. Something about it felt familiar, and not in a oh-yeah-I’ve-heard-that-before way. More like I-should-remember-this. He couldn’t place it, but something tugged him forward.
The windows were misted slightly from the inside, the glass old and slightly warped. He cupped a hand to see through and caught a glimpse of green. Rows of hanging plants. Wooden counters. Everything was carefully arranged, not cluttered or commercial, like a library of petals.
Before he could talk himself out of it, he opened the door. A soft bell jingled above. It didn’t sound like a music box’s chime, but it reminded Jack of one.
The scent hit him instantly - fresh, earthy, not overpowering. Like a garden still waking up.
And then he saw him.
Standing behind the counter, arranging a bundle of white freesia, was a man who looked like he’d stepped out of another century. Black shirt, dark vest, sleeves rolled to the elbow. His hair was tied neatly back, not a strand out of place. Calm, quiet hands moved with a sort of reverence. Every movement carried weight, like he was tending not just flowers but memories.
Jack instantly forgot why he came in, if he even had a reason for it.
Impossibly violet eyes violet lifted, brushing over Jack in quiet assessment.
Jack felt an odd jolt in his chest, quick and unsteady. Like he’d met this person before and was reuniting with an old friend - a soulmate, of sort. Yet he couldn’t help wanting to kneel and apologise to the man.
It was weird. He shook it off with a grin. “So, uh… cozy shop!”
The florist glanced up again. “Do you need flowers?” He asked, voice low and level.
Jack scratched the back of his neck. “Oh, no, no! I’m…” your best friend, he almost said. “I’m just your neighbor,” he said politely instead.
The man eyed him up and down. His eyes lingered, uncomfortably.
“You opened the tattoo studio next door,” he finally said, matter-of-fact.
“Yeah,” Jack smiled, stepping forward, offering his hand. “Jack Vessalius.”
The man didn’t hesitate. His grip was firm, polite.
“Oswald Baskerville.”
Of course it matched the sign. But there was a weight to the full name, a strange familiarity that tickled the edges of Jack’s mind.
The silence stretched just a bit, tense yet comfortable, familiar.
Jack glanced around, eyes tracing the space. “Didn’t expect to find a flower shop here, of all places.”
Oswald’s tone didn’t shift. “Most don’t.”
“It’s nice, though. Smells like… something I could sing about.”
That got a look, not quite amused, but something close. “You write songs?”
“Used to. I hum sometimes if the night’s quiet.”
Oswald didn’t ask more. Just nodded. Not dismissive, but rather as if he understood more than Jack realized.
“You run this place alone?” Jack asked, peering at a framed drawing of a black rabbit.
“I haven’t always…” A beat. He seemed to decide against something. “Yes. And I couldn’t imagine it any differently now.”
Jack nodded. It felt wrong to pry. “I get that. I do most of my work solo too.”
Oswald raised an eyebrow, faintly curious now. “Do you enjoy it?”
“It’s fun,” Jack said without hesitation. “I draw, I make people happy, and I leave a mark. Ink speaks in ways words can’t. You know?”
Oswald was quiet for a moment. Then, turning back to his flowers, he said softly, “Sometimes flowers do the same.”
Jack tilted his head, watching him work. “You think they talk?”
“I think they mean things,” Oswald replied. “Even if most people forget how to listen.”
Jack smiled, caught off guard by the quiet poetry. He lingered, watching Oswald tuck a sprig of lavender into the bouquet, finishing it with ritualistic precision. Effortless? No. Grounded. Controlled.
Jack, chaotic and all motion, found himself frozen in place.
“I should let you work,” he said finally, backing toward the door. “But, hey, if you ever want a tattoo, first one’s on the house. Neighbor discount.”
Oswald’s eyes flicked up with a shadow of acknowledgment, perhaps curiosity. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
The bell chimed as Jack stepped out, cool air brushing his skin.
“See you around?” he called.
“I don’t doubt it,” Oswald replied.
Jack walked back to his shop, the memory of the floral scents, amber light, and violet eyes lingering. There was a strange melody echoing in his mind, one he didn’t yet know how to hum.