Archive of Our Own

The sickly sweet smell of roses wrapped in dew-damp cellophane was almost enough to chase the remnants of sleep away. 

Almost. 

It was entirely too early to be awake in Robin’s opinion, especially when he had only just gone to sleep for the night a mere few hours before. Yet here he was, on his third cup of shitty coffee and holding a carton of roses for some event he didn’t bother listening to the details of. 

He yawns, scrubbing a hand down his face and not even attempting to bite back the unflattering motion. It wasn’t like anyone important was around to notice. If he had to suffer, well, he was entirely within his rights to ruin the aesthetics of the assholes who decided that they absolutely needed their flowers first thing in the morning.

“And you’re sure there’s five dozen roses?” The bookstore clerk repeats, glancing at the box in his hands dubiously and making no motion to grab their shit, “Long-stemmed?”

“Yup, stems and petals and crap,” Robin says, dully, “Lots of them.” 

The clerk gives him a funny look for that, but finally, graciously, signs off on the delivery and takes the awkwardly bulky box. Usually, he would try to have a bit more decorum, but it was hard to care too much when the exhaustion was needling under his eyes. 

With a snooty-looking clipboard tucked under his arm, Robin wastes little time in offering a barely there nod, pushing the door open with shaky, caffeinated hands. It chimes behind him, irritatingly cheery and commingling with the singing birds that seemingly revel in his misery. 

The exhaust of the blue, branded pick-up truck, still running on a low purr just outside the shop, steams the air in a steady motion. He notes that the painted logo, Carmen’s Garden, inscribed in a flowery kind of calligraphy on either side of the hatch doors, looks a bit faded and would probably need a retouch soon. He adds it to his mental list, which would undoubtedly be forgotten until the next delivery day, and tries not to feel insulted by the wheezing sound the truck makes when he places his weight on the side step. 

He allows himself a few moments to press his forehead against the steering wheel, reveling as the warm air chases the chill and defrosts his stiff fingers. 

February really was a bitch in the flower business. 

It takes a little more pep talk than it should to straighten himself up, the main energy belaying in the idea that there was only one box left in the bed of the truck. One that, conveniently, would find its home in the parlor across the street. Why they couldn’t just make the trek themselves and jaywalk their way out of paying a delivery fee, he didn’t know. Probably to avoid having to haul the containers, admittedly not without splinters, back on their own. 

Robin reaches into his pocket for a cherry lollipop that crinkles mockingly as he tears the wrapping and presses it to the inside of his cheek. An aggressive sort of energy that releases the emergency brake, presses the clutch and gas, and shifts the gear.

He parks the car in front of the flower shop, flipping Ernesto the finger when he blinks at him from the counter curiously. 

The dark gray brick across the street blended well with the black and purple colors highlighted in the sign. Neon colors bleed into the periwinkle sky, a soft glow despite the growing light. The sign was new, having been repainted to a more occult-like vibe, a redesign evident in the comings and goings of deliveries like these. Though he was willing to bet no one else had to come knocking on the window at this time. 

Inked in The Stars

Tattoos, piercings, and divination  

It was beneath that lilac glow of stretching shadows and early-morning fog that he saw him. Slouched against brick and mortar, silhouetted by the dancing reflections in the open window. It was dark inside the parlor, dark enough that it seemed to disappear entirely under the focus he commanded, simply in existing in the vicinity. 

His eyes are what Robin notices first, even as far away as he is, deep and dark, vacant in a way that wasn’t entirely there, and… sad. Sad in a way that made his chest ache, a strange sort of familiarity curling like vines in his lungs, compelling him to slow and eventually stop in his tracks completely.

There wasn’t anything particularly special about him, the stranger in front of the tattoo parlor. The ends of brown, frizzy curls peeked beneath a simple beanie, choppy in a way that he thinks the boy must have done at home. He wore a jacket that seemed a size too big and just this side of baggy, though all his clothes fit a bit too loosely. 

Long legs and long limbs, curling in on themselves and diminishing any sort of presence, made him seem almost small, almost invisible in a way that felt practiced. If not for the white blunt in his hand and the impossibly sad look in his eyes, he might have passed for any fleeting glance of a faceless body on an ever-moving street. 

His mouth was moving before he could second-guess it, a dry monotone that his brother always referred to as his mezquino tone, “Let me guess, wanted some fresh air?”

To his credit, the mystery boy didn’t seem the least bit startled, blinking slowly at him with an unreadable look on his face that Robin found himself unconsciously matching.

“Something like that,” The boy says, finally, a low rasp to his voice that suggested disuse, that settled a bit too warmly in Robin’s chest.

 “I think you’re shit out of luck there,” He points out, nodding to the no-smoking sign displayed in the window, “The owner is a bit of a hard ass about it too. I’ve heard that it’s in your best interest not to get on their bad side.” 

Dark eyes blink at him again, before they soften into a crinkle, amused, “I appreciate the advice. Do you always make it a point to rescue strangers?”

Robin scoffs, shifting the container in his hands to rest a bit more comfortably on his forearms, “If that’s what you want to call it. But, no, I don’t usually make it a point to be awake at ass’o clock in the morning.”

“You didn’t exactly strike me as a morning person.”

“Really?” He raises an eyebrow back at him, “You look like exactly the type of person to be awake at this time.”

“Is that an insult?”

Robin shrugs and feels his own lips curl in response to the boy’s levity, even as he watches his eyes shift away, a step above nervousness and two below anything disinterested. 

“So,” The stranger says, “Why are you awake at ‘ass’o clock in the morning, then?” 

“Deliveries,” He shifts the box in his hand as emphasis, something that he sees the boy narrow on, “Apparently, people need their flowers right at the crack of dawn.” 

“You work at a flower shop?” 

Robin would feel a bit more insulted at the incredulousness in his voice if he weren’t already aware of the juxtaposition he posed between his stained Caifanes t-shirt and freshly wrapped knuckles that couldn’t entirely hide the split skin underneath. It wasn’t like he was entirely reverent in how he carried the flowers in his hand either, a laxness that always stressed his brother out.

“Do I not look like a model employee?” Robin asks, dully, and gives the stranger a dirty look at the scoff that escapes him, “No, I don’t really work at a flower shop. It’s a… favor. For my brother. He owns Carmen’s. Went to a fancy business school and is pinching pennies, trying to budget for a new hire so. He pays me with coffee to help him out with deliveries.” 

“Smart,” The other offers, “Nice of you to help your brother out like that.”

“Para eso estamos, la familia. So here I am. Awake. At an ungodly hour to drop off…” He trails off, pausing to squint at the content, “Uh… camellias.” 

“Primrose,” The stranger corrects, amused, “Model employee, huh?”

“I may not know my flowers,” Robin says, voice neutral, nodding his head to the unlit stick in his hand, “But I know a blunt when I see one.”

The humor siphons from his face, eyes dulling with that familiar vacancy, “Going to narc?”

“Yeah, right,” Robin scoffs, “Like I wasn’t lighting that shit every weekend in high school. No, I’m not going to narc, but I sure as hell didn’t look that depressed when I was about to get high.”

“Depressed,” The boy repeats, tension easing from his shoulders, “Yeah, well, kicking it isn’t exactly what I call a good time.”

Robin whistles lowly, “Trying to quit?” 

“My sister hates it,” The stranger offers, shaking his head, “Our dad —“ He cuts himself off, looking momentarily baffled at his own vulnerability, “Sorry, I don’t know why I’m talking so much.”

“I asked,” Robin shrugs, moving closer and shifting the box again, “C’mon, spill your sad story to the flower delivery boy. It’s not like you’ll have to see me again.”

The boy gives him a strange sort of amused expression, seemingly debating something before conceding, “Yeah, okay.”

“So. Your dad.”

“Drinker. Won’t get into it, but he was an asshole.”

“Naturally.”

He watches the lightness return, momentarily, relaxing the tension that seemed bottomless. 

“I never wanted to drink alcohol because of that, but it’s hard to,” The stranger flaps his hand, still half-curled around the blunt, “Stop thinking, I guess. Relax without help. So I started smoking. Just some shitty weed to make things a little quieter. I knew she didn’t like it for more than one reason, but we got into it a few months ago, and she compared me to our dad and…”

“It fucked with you,” Robin finishes.

“I haven’t been able to look at it the same way,” He agrees, “I don’t want to smoke. But I haven’t been able to completely stop either, and, well, that’s fucking with me too, I guess. Everyone uses words like ‘sober’ and ‘relapsing,’ and it pisses me off. And the worst part,” The scoff sounds almost raw. “The stress makes me want to smoke, but I can’t even do that because every time I do, I get like, a bad trip. Like the guilt is just a block in my mind, so I don’t even enjoy it. But I can’t stop either.”

“That’s really shitty,” Robin offers, “For what it’s worth, I think you trying to stop already makes you different.”  

The boy offers him a half-hearted nod at that, a sense of defeat in the fall of his shoulders that made him almost jittery with the urge to chase it off, to fix it. 

“I can’t relate to everything, but I know how annoying the cleanse was for me,” He tells him, “It took me a few years to stop.”

“Weed?”

“Alcohol, weed, tobacco,” Robin shrugs, “Sometimes the tobacco still kicks my ass. I’ve been doing a little bit of everything since I was a kid. It was a uh, ¿como se dice?, kind of expected to, y’know.”

“Rite of passage?” The boy offers, and Robin nods, grateful.

“Yeah, it was a rite of passage, becoming a man. So it was a little harder to quit because my Tío didn’t really understand why I was stepping away from it.”

Dark eyes crease in a brief indecision before hesitantly asking, “Why did you?”

Robin pauses, a beat too long, and leans against the same wall. Tipping his head back, regarding the quickly lightening sky as he considers himself.

“I kept losing time, I guess,” He says finally, “When I was drunk or high, or trying to find shit, it was like I kept losing days. I didn’t have a lot going for me in school. I didn’t have the grades, friends, or a general sense of what the fuck to do with my life, so it didn’t matter. But once I did, there weren’t enough hours in the day to be wasting by being fuckin’ wasted.” 

He watches the boy nod, slowly, thoughtfully, soft curls brushing against his eyelashes, shadowing his pale skin, a little less vacant, a little less sad. 

“Here,” Robin shifts the crate to one arm easily. If the movement demonstrated an ease in doing so, made the muscles of his arm tense without showing off, or made a thrill shoot up his spine at the momentary flicker of those eyes, well, that was on a need-to-know basis, “I had to try a few things before it started to stick, but this really worked for me.”

The stranger takes the offered lollipop with a hesitant hand, raising his brow, “Candy?”

“Yup,” Robin confirms, “The sugar helps, and it lasts for a while, it’s building a new habit, y’know.”

For the first time, a real smile brightens the boy’s face, softening the edges into something warm and sweet. Far from the vacancy, from the air of someone who seemed all too content to melt into mortar. Robin couldn’t quite look away from it, the barely there freckles hidden under the wrinkle of his nose, the crinkle of his eyes.

“Really?” He says, smile coloring his tone, “Cherry?”

Robin blinks and frowns, “What’s wrong with cherry?”

“Nothing,” The boy raises a hand to cover a smile, “You look like exactly the type of person to enjoy cherry lollipops.” 

“The fuck does that even mean?” Robin almost chokes on a laugh, “Is that an insult?”

He shrugs, looking all too pleased with himself.

“Alright then, purista de piruleta,” Robin challenges, “What flavor doesn’t earn your scorn?”

“Grape.”

“Grape?” He couldn’t help the incredulousness that colors his tone, something the other scowls at him for.

“What’s wrong with grape?”

“It tastes like cold medicine!”

“It does not!” The boy argues, a vehemence in his eyes that was oddly endearing, “And you’re one to talk, cherry just tastes like cough drops.”

“Ok, now you’re just lying to try and make up for your weird taste. Honestly, buddy, just own up to the fact that you probably got excited every time you were sick because you got to have that asqueroso syrup. Be grateful I’m willing to share the real shit with your tasteless ass.”

Robin grins as the other laughs, a quiet sound that makes his shoulders shake, taking a step back with the superior lollipop in his hands. 

“I’m guessing that quitting worked out for you, considering you have the time to warn random strangers about smoking, criticize their candy flavors, and make old movie references at ‘ass o’clock,’” The boy huffs at his minute startle, a breathy little laugh that was almost as enrapturing as his next words, “The Gay Deceivers, right?”

Robin nearly drops the delivery, straightening his shoulders, pushing off the wall, and taking a step closer, “You know it?”

“I used to stay up late to watch the old flicks,” He offers, one corner of his mouth lifting. 

“Are you fucking with me?” Robin couldn’t find it in himself to be embarrassed, not when he could see the genuine satisfaction in the other’s eyes, a media literacy much too hard to come by. “Dude, I haven’t met anyone who remembers that movie. Where the hell have you been hiding?” 

“Don’t get too excited, I haven’t seen most movies. I just happened to know that one.”

“What does that mean? I mean, you’ve seen Enter The Dragon, right? Rocky? A Clockwork Orange? Texas Chainsaw Massacre? Rocky Horror Picture Show?” With each listed title and additional shake of the other’s head, he finds himself more and more horrified, “Jaws? You haven’t seen Jaws?! Do you live under a rock?”

“I mean, I really have just watched the older movies. Y’know, like the horror ones that show up real late at night. The Tingler, The Thing That Couldn’t Die, Curtains? Do you know those?” The stranger offers a helpless cant of his head, oblivious to the way he was sure his own excitement sparked with every passing title. 

“Do I know The Tingler? Are you kidding me? I would give a fucking arm to have been around for that first roll-out to theaters, y’know, in one of the seats they hooked up to buzz or in one of the theaters where they hired those actors to spook the audience?”

“You’re crazy,” The stranger exclaims, shaking his head, though there was a new energy behind his words, one that felt almost as close to the mass thrumming inside of Robin’s chest, “That movie scared the crap out of me the first time I saw it! If I were in one of those theaters, I probably would have booked it the moment someone breathed too loudly.”

“You’re one of those,” Robin realizes, delighted, “The kind of people who scream in theaters and throw popcorn everywhere, aren’t you? Oh man, I need to see your reaction to Texas Chainsaw Massacre for sure.”

“And you’re one of the sadistic fucks that drag people like me to them for precisely that reason,” The other grumbles, unamused, though there’s a pink tint to his cheeks, to his ears that weren’t quite covered by the black beanie or his mess of frizzy curls. 

“Okay,” Robin grins, only just biting back the urge to offer to hold his hand, to protect the popcorn, of course, “Candy flavor aside —“

“It’s not just candy, I also love grape soda —“

“Flavor aside,” Robin raises his voice pointedly, “You have potential, you just need a little education.” ‘Nice.’

“Education,” The stranger repeats, a sly kind of expression, “That I’m sure you have an opinion on.” 

“I’d be willing to employ my services for someone in need.” ‘Nice.’

 He watches him huff in amusement, shaking his head, looking down, over his shoulder, then to his eyes. There was an intensity to the look that made his fingers feel almost staticky. 

The stranger leans closer, his face a carefully constructed neutrality, “I’ll be sure to send them your way if I come across them then, cherry.” ‘N - Wait.’ 

With that, he steps back and pops the lollipop in his mouth, “Thanks for the cough drop.”

Maybe by the grace of god, before he could say something stupid like, ‘give me fifteen minutes to find a blueberry stick, and we’ll make the damn grape ourselves,’ the door to the parlor opens. With a raised eyebrow, a girl with dark braided hair and a faded flannel took a step out to cross her arms. 

“Y’all have been standing out here long enough for the damn sun to rise. I’ve been waiting to sign off on this delivery for the past hour,” She glares at Robin before shifting her gaze to the stranger, “Boss lady needs you, better toss that shit before coming inside.”

“You,” Robin fumbles, “You work here?”

The stranger smiles at him, a bit meanly in his opinion, flicking the blunt into the trash. “It was nice talking to you.”

Even as the girl sighs, exaggeratedly, and comes down to manhandle the crate of flowers out of his arms, he still can’t look away. “I didn’t catch your name.” 

“It doesn’t matter, does it?” The boy shrugs, holding open the door for the girl, practically dragging him inside, “It’s not like we’ll have to see each other again, right?”

The door clicks behind him, leaving Robin with his snooty little clipboard, one lollipop down, and a heat to his face that almost felt like a sunburn. 

__________________________________

one

“I still think you should’ve gone with Flores para Carmen.”

“And I’ve already said more than once,” Ernesto huffs, dropping the bag of fertilizer into Robin’s waiting hands with a relief that beads on his brow, “Why I decided to go with Carmen’s Garden.”

“Maybe if you explain it again with even more business school words, I’ll remember this time.”

His younger brother shoots him an exasperated look for that, one that he won’t even pretend was dissuading in the slightest.

“First impressions are important, and you know just as well as I do that most of the customer base will glance over the name and immediately decide to buy half-dead stems from a chain store instead.“ Ernesto rolls his eyes, “Blah blah statistics, something something branding, yada yada moving the needle. Robin, are you seriously tuning me out again? On a question you asked?”

“If you couldn’t tell I was being sarcastic, you need to get your culo back to school, menso.”

“I’m establishing myself as a brand at this point, so it’s a little too late to change course.” Ernesto ignores him, heaving the last bag of fertilizer with visible effort, “Are you still up to doing the deliveries again next week? I have a little extra so I can afford to actually pay you —“

“Cut the crap, you know I wouldn’t take your money,” Robin interrupts, ruffling his hair enough to skew his glasses and taking the bag with an ease that earned him a half-hearted glare, “Focus on getting through the month, estúpido. I’m fine with deliveries, and I’m fine with the coffee.”

“You have to be running on fumes by now,” His brother argues, uncertain, “Mamá said you didn’t even go home after work, you came straight from the venue to do deliveries.”

“I napped in the break room,” Robin tries to placate, sighing when it only seems to make him feel worse.

“Don’t sacrifice your dreams for mine,” Ernesto looks away, busying himself with organizing the tools on the bed of the truck as if they wouldn’t roll around the next time it was out on a drive. “You’ve been working on the music thing for too long to let me mess it up.”

“I’m not giving up anything,” He rolls his eyes, “Dumbass. Have I ever picked a fight I couldn’t win?”

“You pick fights with Mamá pretty often,” Ernesto mutters, wincing at the punch it earns him, “No, okay? You don’t pick fights you can’t win.”

“This is the same thing,” Robin tells him firmly, “I help because I can, that’s all there is to it. You’re the nerd of the family, you went to that fancy school, and I know you’re going to be successful. Until then, we might have to make a few sacrifices, but it won’t be forever. The hard stuff will pass; we just have to knuckle down.”

Ernesto holds his intense look for a long moment before nodding, voice small, “Thank you.”

“Fuck off with all that,” Robin rolls his eyes, “Anyway. That tattoo parlor across the street. Do they have another delivery next week?”

“Probably not,” Ernesto shakes his head, “Gwen would rather die than admit it, but I’m pretty sure she just placed an order to get us some extra income for the week. She usually orders her herbs from abuela for the divination stuff.”

“Gwen?”

“Gwen Blake. She’s an artist in the parlor, the one who told me about this space? Her boss is pretty nice. He’s always checking in on us. Gwen sends customers my way after a reading, too, and I try to do the same for them. We all try to help each other out around here.”

Robin hums, “Do you know the other employees there?”

Ernesto gives him a confused look but indulges his question, “Uh, Mr. Reyes owns the parlor officially, but I know Gwen is a favorite to take over eventually. She’s the reason they added divination to their services and started rebranding. There are a few senior artists and piercers, but I don’t really know them. Why?”

“No reason,” He brushes off, “Just. Trying to put a name to a face.”

“I don’t think you have to worry about it, like I said, they aren’t likely to order again.”

“They’re your neighbors,” Robin points out, “Isn’t that someone worth knowing?”

“Well, technically, the insurance place next to us is our closest neighbor —“

“Ernesto.”

“What’s going on?” Ernesto asks hesitantly, “You’ve never been this interested in the customers before. Susie said you practically booked it after dropping off the roses.”

“Look, I’m just interested in following up with someone who works there, that’s it.”

“At the tattoo parlor?” His brother stared at him, baffled, “You hate tattoos.”

“I do not hate tattoos.”

“You refused to even look up when we went with Tío Julio to his appointment. Your face turned green when it bubbled up, and I thought you were going to be sick when he offered to let you poke it. You’ve never even looked in the direction of a parlor.”

“I did not turn green,” Robin snaps back, “And tattoos don’t make me sick. It was just an off day.” 

“Robin, the number of times you’ve let your knuckles bleed everywhere and get infected because you didn’t want stitches is extremely concerning. You’re sc — you hate needles, okay? I don’t think there’s any denying that.”

“I don’t hate needles, I hate wasting my time on something that’ll just heal on its own.” 

Ernesto squints at him. Business school, at the very least, had made him bolder, less prone to taking shit. Unfortunately, the new attitude seemed most consistently directed at him. 

“Okay,” His brother says, slowly, “Then if you really are that curious, why don’t you just go over there? You don’t need a delivery to visit a shop around here, y’know. They’d be grateful for the business if you’re… serious about getting a tattoo.” 

Robin bites back the instinctual protest, knowing that doing so would only make him look more suspicious. If he were to argue about the fact that he never said anything about getting a tattoo, his brother would undoubtedly question what exactly he was interested in enough to pursue this line of questioning. 

“Maybe I will,” He mutters instead, stubbornly. 

“Gwen is still building her portfolio, so she has openings,” Ernesto offers, perhaps to be helpful, but more likely in trying to call his bluff, “I bet she could fit you in within the week.”

“I’d prefer to talk to the specific artist,” Robin evades eye contact, thumbing a new hole in his shirt in a manner he’d describe as anything but sulkingly. 

“Who you don’t know the name of.”

“Fuck off.”

“Listen,” Ernesto tries, “If you book Gwen for a consultation, she might be able to point you in the right direction. At the very least, you might run into that artist the minute you walk in, so what’s the harm in going over there and trying?”

He hated it when his brother made a good point, which, unfortunately, was often. It was a wonder his head didn’t swell with all the satisfaction in his expression at the visible acquiesce. Robin shoves him away, cursing under his breath in a way that brightened the younger’s demeanor. 

“Are you going now?”

“I need at least a few hours of sleep before my shift,” Robin rolls his eyes as Ernesto deflates with poorly concealed guilt, “Working production, so it might be an 8 to 8 shift again, but I’ll be doing house next week, so I’ll finish earlier in time for the deliveries.”

Ernesto’s face twists unhappily, “Seriously, Robin, don’t run yourself to the ground because of me. I’ll understand if you can’t run deliveries, even if it’s to catch up on sleep or… get a tattoo. It would be good for you to do more things for yourself once in a while.”

“Please, if you think this schedule is fucked, you obviously don’t remember my senior year. I don’t think I slept more than a couple hours a night, trying not to get held back again and working the garage.” His younger brother levels him with an unimpressed look until he sighs, “Look, I get it, okay? More naps and shit.”

“Among other things, but it would be a start,” Ernesto sighs, “Can you help me bring the lilies up front before you take off?”

…

“No, on the left. No, the – the lance-shaped petals. N – Robin, please.”

“I’m not a fucking florist, Ernesto!”

“You don’t have to be a florist to tell tulips and lilies apart!”

Later, as he glances at the parlor across the street, he tells himself that there was no way he was going to get a tattoo just to talk to a cute boy again. 

Even if that boy had an understated appreciation for cult classics and scrunched his nose when he smiled, a real, genuine smile, that made Robin’s chest feel a maddening combination of tap-dancing blood cells and a maze of trigger-happy bear traps scattered through his lungs. 

Still, his brother was right. There wasn’t any harm in just stopping in, was there?

two

It’s another week before he has the chance to even think about the stranger again. 

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Wishful eyes seemed to seek him out without permission, absently hoping he might stop by the flower shop, to which he found himself frequenting a bit more often than before, much to his brother’s befuddlement and tentative appreciation. 

Robin was a bit useless at differentiating flowers, and he had been told several times before that he didn’t exactly have an eye for aesthetics, but he was trying, okay? Personally, he didn’t think flowers could look bad in any combination. He didn’t see the point of variation if a fistful of gardenias taped together would achieve the same thing as a fancy arrangement. One might think that offering just the flowers, sans the ribbon and other inclusions, would be a good alternative to the cheap assholes who came in at the last minute for birthdays and anniversaries. Ernesto decidedly did not share his perspective. 

After proving to be little more than a hindrance to his brother while the shop was busy, especially with their mother and uncle around to help at the back of the house with limited space, he was told non-too-gently to make himself scarce for a while.

It was in this, the unexpected free time during a rare, more rested day, that he found himself in front of Inked in the Stars.

The wide window was easier to peek through during the day, a black padded chair with a client and an artist, visibly engrossed in their work. It wasn’t the stranger, much to his disappointment, though he supposed that was a good thing for all the artists seemed as if little less than an earthquake could tear them away from their canvas. 

Clear glass did little to hide the absent-minded swipe of a rag over beading blood, the client pale and looking anywhere but the thrumming tattoo gun in a focused hand. 

Robin looks away, queasy despite his best efforts and willing the image of bloody, inked skin and a fine point-needle out of the back of his eyes. Honestly, he had no idea what the fuck he was doing, and he likely would have remained outside much longer if another customer hadn’t opened the door, glanced at him, and held it open. 

“Hey, welcome,” An older man nods at him from the front desk, Cal as the tag helpfully informs, “Do you have an appointment?”

“No,” Robin says, a carefully maintained monotone, “I was hoping to book a consultation with… Gwen?”

“Tattoo or divination?”

He bites back the urge to blanch, off-guardedly and stupidly, he mumbles, “Uh, tattoo.”

“One second,” Cal tells him mildly as he disappears behind a curtain for much more than a second. He tries not to feel too out of his depth as he waits there, discomfort in the base of his spine that curls tighter for every hum of ink and the passing smell of hand sanitizer. 

After a handful of moments marked by stifled breathing, the man returns with a short girl with ears seemingly made of metal, with how many piercings she seemed to wear. 

“Hey,” She says with a small, benign smile, “You’re Ernie’s brother, right? You look like you could be twins. He said you might stop by sometime for a consultation.”

“Yeah,” He nods, “Sorry to drop in.”

“No worries, I’m Gwen, but I’m sure Ernie already told you that. I’m still building my clientele, so all business is good business as far as I’m concerned. Why don’t you come on back, and we’ll talk about what you’re looking for?”

Feeling more than a little guilty for taking up her time, he follows her to an open workstation, past several other artists in progress, and at least one person in the middle of a tongue piercing. 

“So,” Gwen says, once they settle onto a couple of stools next to a workbench, “I have a reference book of my own and one that we use for the parlor as a whole. Did you have any ideas about what you might want?”

“Uh,” Robin bites back a wince, “No, not really.”

“That’s okay! Ernie mentioned that you weren’t the biggest fan of needles, so there’s no need to commit today. We can just look through some of the designs and see if anything sticks out to you, yeah?”

There really wasn’t any good way to mention that he really had no intention of getting a tattoo, and so Robin simply nods and watches her flip through her reference book.

It was clear that she was a fan of spiritual designs, both religiously affiliated and those leaning on the more supernatural side. From intricate crosses, symbols he couldn’t quite identify, ghosts of varying friendliness, and even flowers, one of which he was a bit proud to say he could identify as a primrose. What was more surprising, however, was the extensive section of space-themed drawings nearing the end of the book.

The zodiac signs and stars seemed to fit better with her brand, especially with a mirror image of what appeared to be a combination of the Gemini and Cancer designs inking her exposed forearm. The solar system, astronauts, and spaceships seemed to be a little out of nowhere in comparison.

Clearly, he didn’t hide his reaction very well, as she paused and offered an understanding smile, “Sorry, whiplash, right? My brother was actually the person who taught me how to draw when I was younger, and it was always space-themed. He’d make the lineart, and I’d color them in until I got tired of red spaceships for the hundredth time. I had to change a few designs to make them actually feasible to tattoo, but it felt wrong not to include them.”

“They’re really good,” He offers, truthfully, eyes dragging on the clusters of stardust and a lonely astronaut drifting on the page. 

“I know,” Gwen grins, self-assured and confident in a way he could admire, “These would probably be more your speed if this is your first tattoo, too. I know you’re not the biggest fan of needles, so a small design would help you test the waters. The best place would be in a less sensitive area too, somewhere that isn’t too close to the bone. How are you feeling about it?”

Internally, he curses his younger brother for undoubtedly talking too much, shifting on the leather of the seat uncomfortably as he says, “It’s all really good, you clearly have a talent for this. It’s just that I was actually hoping you might be able to point me to someone I talked to the last time I was here.”

The girl deflates a bit, looking disappointed, “Look, I know my portfolio isn’t as extensive, but I promise that I can deliver a product you’d be happy with.”

“It’s not that,” Robin assures, quickly, “I’m sure your work is just as good as the reference. It’s just that… this person made a pretty strong impression on me.” 

Her eyebrows knit at that, confused, as she asks, “Was it from a prior consultation?”

“No, it was — it was from when I made a delivery a week ago. Monday morning?”

“We don’t open very early,” Gwen frowns, “So that might narrow it down. Do you remember their name?” 

“I didn’t catch it,” He admits, a bit embarrassed at the carefully restrained look she sent him as though she was biting back every urge to ask if he was stupid, “But he had curly brown hair and brown eyes. He was wearing a beanie, a green jacket, and a striped scarf?”

He sees the moment his words dawn on her expression, confusion melting into something guarded and sharp. 

“Sorry,” She says, sounding anything but, “I can’t help you.”

Robin blinks at her, nonplussed, “What?”

“You were never interested in actually getting a tattoo, were you?” Gwen crosses her arms, eyes narrowed into a frosty glare, though she doesn’t wait for his response before shaking her head, “For the safety of our artists, I’m not at liberty to disclose any personal information.”

“Look,” Robin shakes his head, “I’m not trying to be creepy, really. I know how this might sound, but we had a pretty long conversation, and I just wanted to follow-up with him.”

“A long conversation, but you don’t even know his name?” She says, flatly. 

“It didn’t… come up.”

“Look,” Gwen huffs, “If he were interested, he would have told you himself. If you’re looking to mess around with someone, look somewhere else. I don’t care if you’re Ernie’s brother, you do not want to piss me off.” 

“Are the two of you —“

“No!” She snaps, sounding so disgusted that the hint of doubt immediately shrivels up to die, “Just — Just, fuck off, okay? If I find out you’re trying to harass him, I swear to god I’ll tattoo a dinosaur dick to your forehead.”

Robin blinks at her, watching her face redden with agitation, and briefly considers asking what would be the difference between tattooing a dinosaur dick and a regular dick on someone’s forehead. 

In the end, he decides that she probably wouldn’t appreciate being tested right now and offers a simple, “Okay, sorry to bother you.” 

It’s hard to feel bitter when he sees a breath of relief on her face, a fierce protectiveness that he couldn’t entirely begrudge her for. Attempting to explain that withholding a name seemed to be the stranger’s version of a challenge didn’t seem like it would go over well in the moment. 

“For what it’s worth,” Robin tells her, aware that she seemed to value his word as much as a bag of rocks at the moment, “I’m not the kind of person that messes around, and I’m sure Ernesto hasn’t implied that I was either,” She doesn’t confirm or deny, merely stares at him suspiciously, “If he mentions me, I’d appreciate it if you’d let him know that, well, the offer still stands.”

“That’ll be $20 for the hour,” Gwen, still crossing her arms, raises an eyebrow, as if there weren’t a FREE CONSULTATIONS sign directly behind her.

“I don’t think that was an hour.”

“We have a no-tolerance policy on unpaid bills. Feel free to get lost, our banned list is always open.” 

He huffs, reaching into his wallet and passing her the bill, “I can’t even call this blackmail, I’m not getting anything out of it.”

“That’s because it’s not blackmail,” Gwen sniffs, “It would be closer to extortion.”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“You’ll figure it out.”

Robin tries not to feel too disappointed as he steps out onto the street, because logically speaking, he couldn’t exactly be justified in being disappointed.

He knew he tended to build certain moments up in his mind, grandiosity and a touch of cinema magic in his own memories. His mother told him again and again that he always seemed to build himself up for disappointment by placing too much weight on inconsequential moments that amounted to nothing more than the reality of the moment.

Robin was doing it again, he was sure, placing too much weight on a single conversation with a stranger he hadn’t even known the name of. 

Even still, there was a strange kind of certainty in believing that there was a connection, a familiarity he had never felt so quickly before. Though he has to wonder if that familiarity, too, was a product of his own imagination.

Maybe that stranger wasn’t interested, after all, Gwen did have a point. If he really wanted to talk to him again, wouldn’t he have left him with something to go on? Would he have looked for Robin with the same kind of intensity that he felt in himself? 

Robin had never really had a friend, as pathetic as that might sound, and for that, he never thought himself lesser for it. There was never anyone worth giving a damn about outside of his family, and he wasn’t about to waste what little energy he had on someone undeserving. Still, he couldn’t deny that it had been lonely at times. The feeling that something fundamental was missing, a phantom limb operating independently just out of reach.

Maybe his mother was right. 

It would save him a lot of pain if he just screwed his head on straight and thought a bit more realistically.

three

“Last couple of songs before we switch to the audio systems and go on wind-down. There’s an extra shift in breakdown if you want it, but you’ll have to sit around for a few hours.”

Robin, lightheaded in the way it was easy to be in a crowded venue under the shine of too hot lights, grimaces, “Thanks for the heads up, not sure if I’ll be able to stick around, but I’ll let you know.”

The manager nods, looking unsatisfied with the indefinite answer, “You played well tonight. We got a line-up for next week, too, but they’ll need a drummer. Up for it?”

“Yeah, I’m still sharp,” He confirms, “Did they give a rundown?”

“Sending their list in the next few days, we’ll print you a copy when we get it. From what I heard, it’ll be a longer shift, maybe 10 to 2. We can do $60, drinks on the house as usual.”

“You know I cut down on that shit.”

“Well, we’re not paying extra just because you don’t want to get your money's worth.”

Robin rolls his eyes, opting to take a swig of his water rather than respond to that particular remark. 

Working at the venue was a mixed bag in many respects. The unpredictability of his work hours and the tolerability of who he’d be working alongside were only a couple of those concerns. 

He’d be lucky to receive a heads-up on his shifts for the week, only a few days in advance, and often he was asked to pull hours that would be considered unreasonable for any other human being. Such was the nature of show business, as the manager would often say, though he thought the response was more likely meant to evade responsibility for his contributions.

It was hard to shake loyalty, though, and if there was one thing Robin could confidently describe himself as, it would be loyal. 

His boss, Spike, had taken a chance on him when he was still a hot-headed, fresh out of high school graduate. Still trying to figure himself out, Robin was well aware that he had very little to offer, especially when he was carrying a chip on his shoulder that sometimes looked a bit too suspiciously like his father’s hand.

Spike somehow saw potential in the self-taught skill, learned with only his dead father’s guitar and his uncle’s tone deaf encouragement. The man had invested time in both helping him improve and become familiar with the business, even if the beginning shift work left him half-dead on his feet. 

Upgrading from a backstage hand to house musician was a big fucking deal for him, and it had taken a lot of effort to get him to where he was now.

Sure, it wasn’t exactly the hotshot dream of traveling the country and becoming a famous soloist, but he was doing what he loved for an only slightly shitty paycheck. Pulling the extra shifts in production typically made up for the scarcity, and the reduced rent he was offered to live upstairs made it feel like a goddamn steal.

The last song of the night ended on appreciative, faceless applause for all the stage light and formless shadows. Even as he knew it was much more directed to the outside performers, he still reveled in it. The success, the swell of satisfaction in knowing that he contributed to the energy of the room in a way that was as instrumental as any pitchy vocalist or half-a-beat-behind drummer.

It’s as he’s uncoupling the guitar strap and nudging an off-kilter speaker out of the obviously half-drunk performer's way, that he realizes that fate can be a little funny sometimes. 

At the edge of the crowd, opposite the bar, and practically hugging the wall, was a head of frizzy brown curls. 

It was probably embarrassing, the way he froze, latching on to the boy whom he had just convinced himself to give up on seeing entirely only a few days before. He couldn’t find it in himself to be, though, embarrassed that is, because… what were the goddamn chances?

His mother's voice lilts in his ears, “Te estás haciendo ilusiones otra vez, hijo.” a defeated kind of resignation that he bats away with proverbial hands. 

He thinks he might set a new record for clean-up with how quickly he moves. Packing his guitar and straightening the speakers, swiping glasses and dropping them off to the barkeep, and after a moment of hesitation, takes advantage of his perk in complimentary drinks.

“Shockingly, they don’t serve grape soda here. Probably because they have, y’know, taste.”

The boy turns, a flicker of surprise in his expression, though far from profound enough to suggest that he hadn’t known he was in the room before there was a cold soda pressed to his hand.

“Buenas noches, uva,” Robin offers a quirked lip, “I’ve gotta say this is the last place I expected to run into you.”

It was easy to see the discomfort in the other’s expression, even when he was halfway across the room. If not for the way his dark eyes kept darting to the exit, his shoulders curled in as if to melt into the wall, or the downturn of his lips, it was easy enough to recognize that a venue with an extensive bar probably wasn’t where someone with a bad taste for alcohol would want to be.

Still, it does something for the crawling uncertainty in his spine to see that discomfort shift into something pleased, the slightest twitch of his shoulders down, as if he were a welcome surprise rather than a horror movie score waiting to happen. There was a lollipop pressed between his fingers, a residue of purple on a bitten lip. 

“Were you hoping to run into me?” The other huffs, taking the soda with a small, grateful-looking smile, “At least you know this wouldn’t be where to look.”

“And yet, somehow this is where I find you,” Robin raises an eyebrow, “C’mon, I’ve been on my feet for the past week and, trust me, this is not a good floor to pass out on.”

Despite his words, he doesn’t move immediately. Waiting for the boy to seemingly debate something to himself, looking around the room, before offering a nod that at least looked assured.

It’s much quieter just outside the main room, a sparse few tables with one, rarely and yet thankfully free for the taking. Cheap wood that shrieks against the paneled floor, and still feels like a drop away from heaven on his stiff joints.

“I heard you playing,” The boy offers, “I know you said you didn’t really work at the flower shop, but I was surprised to see you in a band.”

“Not a band,”  Robin corrects mildly, “I work as a house musician, for the performers missing a few instruments. I rotate with a few others in the venue, but this is the only place I play.”

“Really? You sounded really good with them.”

“That’s because I’m really good,” He grins, a bit smugly. Sue him. It was a good show. 

The other huffs good-naturedly, shaking his head but offering no denial. 

“So that’s why I’m here. What exactly brings you to your personal brand of hell?”

“That obvious?”

“Aside from the tortured expression on your face… yup.”

“I’m supposed to be here with my roommate,” He says, a grimace to his face that showed exactly how pleased he was by this situation, “I’m supposed to be — well, I’m supposed to be meeting a couple of his friends, but they got a little distracted by the bar. I guess I lost them.”

“Nice of your roommate," Robin comments, sarcastically, “Picking here of all places.”

“He’s a good guy,” The other protests, “He’s just social, and he doesn’t know about the, uh, stuff I told you about. Like I said, I’m not usually so talkative.”

“Trust me, I get it. Considering the fact that I still don’t know your name.”

He smiles at that, a shy scrunch of his nose that lightens the remnants of tension from his face as he says, “You’re the one who said we wouldn’t be seeing each other again.”

“That was before I realized you could recognize a Gay Deceivers reference,” Robin tells him seriously, “Or how uneducated you were in good cinema. Really, it’s my moral responsibility to follow up with you at this point, so would you just make this shit easier on me and tell me your name, or am I going to have to keep referring to you as uva?”

“What’s that mean?”

“Grape,” He grins at the laugh that earns him.

“Finney,” The boy offers, finally, his smile anything but diminishing, “My name is Finney.”

“You’re shitting me,” Robin shakes his head, “Your name is literally Fin, like the end of a movie! You have zero excuse to not be a movie expert by now.”

“You know, most people would sooner associate my name with a fish finn before a movie card,” Finney says, dryly. 

“And you wouldn’t have an excuse not to have seen Jaws in that case either. Honestly, Finn, work with me here.”

“Maybe I’d consider it if I didn’t have to keep referring to you as cherry in my head.”

“Robin,” He offers his hand, mockingly, pausing a moment too long when the other takes it with a surprisingly soft palm. 

Unlike his own, which seemed to be covered in scars and calluses alike, there was a gentler nature to his limb. Calloused on the index and middle finger, rounded fingernails, and maintained in a way that seemed all too intentional. 

“Robin,” Finney repeats, “Like the bird.”

“Amá always hoped I’d get my father’s voice. Unfortunately for her, I’ve always been more of an instrumentalist.” 

The boy, as he hoped, smiles at his words, though Robin couldn’t help but feel disappointed when he finally pulls his hand away, cold as it was. 

“I don’t know about that,” Those dark eyes practically shine under the warm light, “I’d like to hear you sing at least once.”

Robin snorts, “Sure, I can serenade you with a rendition of Killer Klowns.” 

“Joke's on you, I like that song.”

The familiar swell of excitement rose once again at the recognition, leaning him forward with two hands on the only slightly sticky tabletop, “Okay, but what’s your opinion on the movie? Fair warning, answer wrong, and I’m ditching you here and now.”

Finney blinks at him, “There’s a movie?”

“Did you —“ Robin practically chokes on the taste of his own bafflement, “Did you seriously think there was a song about killer clown aliens on a murder spree as like, a thought exercise?”

“It could’ve been a metaphor!”

“Please, I’m begging you to try to explain that metaphor.”

“I don’t know, it was kind of like The Blob, right? Something about nostalgia?”

“Have you seen that?”

“…”

“Finn,” Robin gapes at him, “Not even the reboot? It’s still in the drive-in!” 

“It’s hard to make time!” Finney protests, “I’m busy, okay?”

“And yet you have time to torture yourself by going to a bar.”

“That’s different,” He insists with a huff, “I’m trying to be a good roommate and meet people.”

“How’s that working out for you?”

“Well, I got to meet you, didn’t I?”

Robin felt his face heat a bit at that, something that was hopefully hard to see under the spotty lighting, “I’ll give you that. For someone with horrible taste, you at least recognize good company.”

Finney rolls his eyes, “You can’t talk about taste when you’re drinking a Dr. Pepper.”

“Finn, you are on such thin fucking ice that you’re knee-deep in the Antarctic. Insulting my drink only works if it looks like the melted Jolly Rancher on a sidewalk that no one wanted. Next thing you’re going to tell me is that you love pecan ice cream or something.”

“Mint chocolate chip, actually.”

“Oh my god, what is wrong with you?!”

“Let me guess, you like vanilla.”

“How do you not understand that you cannot insult flavors that are internationally loved? You have no footing to stand on.”

“There’s nothing wrong with mint chocolate chip!”

“It’s toothpaste in your ice cream!”

“Okay, you’ve obviously never tried it before, you’re just being picky.”

“I’m Mexican, gringo, picky isn’t in my dictionary.”

They continue to bicker back and forth, pointed jabs delivered under the guise of irritation, though it wasn’t very convincing with the half-hidden smiles that continued to peek through.

“Finn, I swear I will leave you here if you say a word about Doritos. You’re on my last fucking straw with your weird ass taste, and I am this close to taking you out myself.”

It was Finney’s turn to lean closer, dropping his chin onto his fist, lip quirking, and eyes sparking with a mischievousness that immediately left him suspicious, “I won’t comment on your taste if you let me get a closer look at your Blue Nile patch, the one next to The Chameleons and Joy Division.”

Robin stares at him, the venue that still practically vibrated the floors a mere background hum compared to the stutter of his heart, because yeah, apparently it was that fucking easy. 

“... Every time I think I think you’ve crossed one too many lines, you redeem yourself and drag me right back to where we started,” He sighs, exaggerated, and shrugs his denim jacket off, mindful of the patches.

Finney shrugs and accepts the material, thumbing the different names with a thoughtfulness that made his heart palpitate.

“So is this another case where you happen to know one or two of these bands and it’ll be up to me to save you from yourself?”

The other boy snorts, graceless and endearing all at once, “No, I think even you would consider me to be properly educated by your standards. Though I can’t play like you. I don’t recognize a couple of these Spanish bands, but The Smiths aren’t exactly niche, and I’m wearing a Peter Gabriel shirt as we speak.”

“Oh come on, now you have to take off your jacket so I can see,” Robin half-teases, though he doesn’t exactly protest when the other rises to the challenge, handing back his jacket to slide his own halfway down his chair.

The movement was just enough to reveal the pale expanse of his upper arms and the barest hint of his forearms. Not bulky but obviously toned, lean muscle that was unlikely to be hauling around speakers or bags of fertilizer, but far from spending all hours of the day hunched over a workbench.

Just underneath the sleeve of his blue Peter Gabriel shirt, there was a splash of dark ink in the form of familiar-looking stars. Planets and stardust that extended down to his fingertips, that more than likely crawled up his shoulder and stopped just below his neck. He found himself wondering if there might be a lonely-looking astronaut hiding under the fabric, if maybe there was a comet streaking along his collarbone, a sun sitting on the crest of his shoulder. 

He’d seen those stars, seen them very recently, expensed across a scowling girl’s reference book. Though he probably shouldn’t be surprised at the fact, considering how protective she was, there was obviously a very strong friendship. 

Finney raises an eyebrow, undoubtedly awaiting his verdict, and maybe he was just tired. He was definitely tired, but the venue lights seemed to cast a warm incandescence around him that stole the oxygen from his lungs.

“There’s hope for you yet,” Robin finally finds the words, a bit breathless if he thought about it too much, but it was hard to think right then, when he was looking at him, “I like your tattoos by the way, they suit you.” The blush on his face catches in his eyes, tracking the way he raises a hand as if to cover the ink that, on anyone else, would have left him thinking of nothing else but his own discomfort.

It was hard to associate tattoos with anything but the mental image of a fine-point needle and bubbling skin. The mental image of how his uncle’s skin would rise in the winter, on rainy days. Discomfort that sat heavier than he’d like to admit.  

On Finney, though, he found himself having a much harder time seeing anything but artistry. He wasn’t lying when he said it suited him, not when it seemed to sit on his skin as naturally as the freckles on his nose. 

If it looked like that, like the stardust on his skin, maybe tattoos weren’t as bad as his hindbrain seemed to think. 

“Thanks,” Finn says, softer than anything they said before, something almost intimate in a space that was constantly interrupted by moving people and shrieking door. 

“Y’know, if you ever wanted to learn, to play, I mean, I could teach you.”

Finney blinks at him, taken aback, and anything he might have said was interrupted by an exasperated, worried voice. 

“Finney, holy crap, there you are!”

A harrowed-looking boy, with a few others waiting at a distance with disgruntled expressions on their face, latches onto Finney with two arms on his shoulders, giving him a look-over with barely concealed, jittery concern, “I completely lost you in there, are you – are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Bruce,” Finney assures, looking taken off-guard at his intensity, “I just needed some air.”

“That’s fine, but…” He lets go of Finn to drag a slightly shaky hand through his hair, looking stressed enough that Robin almost felt bad if not uneased by his presence, “Next time, could you just give me a heads up? I thought something happened.”

“Yeah, sorry.”

Bruce sighs and takes a step back, seeming to visibly shake the nervous energy off his shoulders and recollect himself. It was then and only then that the other boy seemed to register Robin’s presence. Pausing to stare at him unabashedly, eyes dragging from how their knees were practically touching to Finney’s quickly reddening face.

“Oh,” He says, and then repeats louder with a sly smile, “Oh! Finney, you found yourself a musician.” 

“Bruce,” Finney huffs, “This is Robin. Robin, this is my roommate, Bruce.”

“Oh,” Robin echoes, his shoulders relaxing minutely, “Nice to meet you.”

“Not as nice as it was to meet Finney, I’m sure,” Bruce side steps the jab the other directs at him, “They are kicking us out to close out the bar, but I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again, right?”

“Ignore him, please,” Finney huffs, shrugging on his jacket and glaring at his roommate.

“He’s not wrong,” Robin shrugs, and grins back at him, “I’m definitely seeing you again. Civic duty, remember?”

The way Finney’s face softens tells him enough. Robin wasn’t imagining this, them. He wasn’t imagining any of it. There was something there, between the two of them, and he was sure that the other boy could feel it too.

four

True to Ernesto’s prediction, the tattoo parlor across the street did not place another order. 

It had been a few days since he watched Finney leave with his roommate, pausing at the door to offer a small wave and a crooked smile pressed between the lollipop bitten between his teeth.

He tries to pretend it isn’t killing him a little, to not spend all hours of the day hanging around the front just to stare at the window across the street, waiting for so much as a glimpse of those dark curls. 

Robin wasn’t exactly being subtle about it. He knew he was acting off, and still, it grated on him to catch his brother's eye for what felt like the millionth time that day. He startled every time, looking as if he wanted to say something and was entirely unsure of how to go about it.

“What is it?” Robin sighs, finally, squinting at his fingernails that seemed permanently dyed green from the past day of helping his brother snap stems.

“It — um,” Ernesto stammers, something he hadn’t done in a while since he had been attempting to ‘project confidence,’ “There was… I didn’t give you the uh, last delivery.”

“You couldn’t have told me that when I was out composting?” Robin sighs and feels a bit guilty when he flinches, “Alright, whatever, it’s fine. Where’s it going?”  

“Um… with you? Home. Or here, if you want,” His brother says, awkwardly.

Robin blinks at him, “What?”

“Finney ordered it for you,” Ernesto confirms, looping around the counter to pick up a colorful bouquet, “The flower choice was a little specific, but he really wanted it to be peonies and marigolds for some reason.” 

Robin takes the bouquet, orange and yellow flowers, a splash of color pressed against the gray of his shirt, the green of his thumb.

“There’s a card,” Ernesto offers, hesitantly.

With a hand that felt almost numb, he sifted through the flowers to pick up the card, loping script and piece of tape catching on the edge of his nail.

TO: Cherry,

I don’t actually know if you like flowers or if I’m just buying inventory for your brother to reuse, but I wanted to thank you. 

For more than just sitting with me at the venue, I guess I’ve wanted to thank you since we met. 

I know I said I was surprised to see you in a band, but I honestly don’t think I really was. You’re exactly the type of person who belongs on stage, and that’s not an insult. 

Anyway, I hope this doesn’t come across as weird. I didn’t get to say it before, but I’d like to see you again, too. Not out of civic duty, I just like talking to you. 

Thank you again.

I had fun.

FROM: 

Robin smiles a little, face warm, when he sees the grape lollipop taped to the card, shaking his head as if that would be enough to dislodge the butterflies in his chest.

“Oh,” Ernesto says, a realization that only expounds when Robin shoots him a look, “Oh. You do still hate tattoos.”

‘No,’ Robin thinks to himself with no small amount of determination, ‘I don’t think I do.’

He’s out the door and crossing the street without a second glance, pushing into the tattoo parlor with none of the hesitation he had before. It was probably a good thing it was still earlier enough that the streets weren’t too busy, though he didn’t think even being hit by a car would be enough to stop him then. 

Cal, to his credit, doesn’t seem put off by his fluster of energy, meeting his gaze mildly to say, “Hey. Do you have an appointment?” 

“No,” Robin huffs, “Is Finney available?”

The man shoots him a funny look, “Finney?”

“Yes, Finney. Is he available?”

“He’s busy,” A familiar voice snares his attention, the girl with dark hair and a look of permanent exasperation eying him with no small amount of judgment, “He and Gwen are in a meeting with my uncle right now.”

“Okay then, I’ll just,” Robin drags a hand through his hair, careful not to dislodge his bandana, “Wait for him if that’s okay.”

“No loitering,” Cal denies mercilessly, “You can book an appointment or come another time.”

Robin deflates, though he would only have to walk across the street and maybe wait for a glimpse of those brown curls. However, doing so would inevitably subject him to Ernesto’s curiosity. Something he really wasn’t in the mood for.

“Book him for a piercing consultation,” Robin stares at the girl who raises an eyebrow back at him, “You want to walk your ass back to Carmen’s? Be my guest. If I have to sit through this shit, I might as well make a little money out of it.”

Cal doesn’t correct her, an apparent group understanding to ignore the free consultation ads plastered across every surface.

“Thank you,” He says carefully, 

“Name’s Mustang,” She turns on her heel, “C’mon, Gwen’ll kill me if she sees you hanging around here. You’re pretty bad at first impressions, you know, and that was an important one.”

“It was?” He asks, a bit baffled.

“Well, obviously,” Mustang arches her brow, “Pissing off the family shouldn’t be your priority, but those Blakes are attached to the hip on the worst of days.” 

“Blakes,” Robin repeats, “As in —“

“Finney and Gwendolyn Blake,” She looks exasperated, “You seriously didn’t know his last name?”

“I didn’t even know his first name until a few days ago,” He grumbles back, rolling his eyes at her judgmental stare, “So, they’re siblings?”

“Yup,” Mustang drawls as she leans back on her stool, “Thicker than thieves and all the protectiveness to match.”

“That makes a lot of sense,” He exhales, thinking back to every interaction with a note of self-loathing at his own density, “I really did screw that up, didn’t I?”

“It could’ve gone worse,” The girl shrugs, to his surprise, “Like I said, those Blakes are attached to the hip. Gwen’s a little protective, and Finney isn’t much better. They like to complain about each other as if they aren’t equally bad. You’d probably have to cure cancer or something to be considered decent enough to date the other one, and I’m sure they’d still find something to be suspicious about. Can’t really blame ‘em, but –” She cuts herself off, maybe recognizing the undercurrent of bitterness to her own tone, she couldn’t quite tamp down. 

“Did you –?”

“Don’t say that shit out loud,” Mustang glares at him, eyes sharp, “I’ve never said anything to her, and I plan to keep it that way.”

“¿Estás enamorado de Gwen?” Robin raises an eyebrow. 

“What did I just say?”

“What, can Gwen speak Spanish?”

“No, but neither can I, dumbass. I can understand what you’re saying more or less, but my ability begins and ends with telling you: ‘vete a la verga.’”

“Good accent.”

“Fuck off.”

Robin huffs, side-eying her as she moodily kicks her boots to settle more comfortably on the stool, “I’ve known the two of you separately for a handful of minutes, but I think you’d have a great relationship just based on your vocabulary.”

Unamused eyes glare back at him for a moment before she straightens, grabs a nearby book off a counter, and says in an overly nice tone, “Let’s talk about your piercing options.”

Robin blanches, “Oh, fuck you –”

“We could always do a simple lobe, which is really the easiest,” She says mildly, “But you’re obviously afraid of nothing, so why not a helix? I would just have to stick you through the cartilage of your ear until we hear a really gross crunching sound and you start bleeding all over my hands. Might have to wiggle a few times, you know, to make sure it’s really there.”

“I was just trying to say that I think you have a good shot!”

“You know what, you’re right, this is really the chickenshit material,” Mustang flips through the pages of her book, an intensity to her eye that told him she had nothing good to say, “Let’s talk about the Prince Albert. All you’ve got to do is take off your pants, sit right there, and we’ll shove one of our pokers right up your –”

“Mustang, what is he doing here?”

Robin looked over, thankful for the interruption, even in the form of the girl who looked at him like he was a piece of crusted gum on the sidewalk. 

“He was interested in our piercing options, but I think he’s going to want to sit and think on it,” Mustang says mildly, “He was just leaving.”

Robin frowns at her, “But —“

“He was just leaving,” She repeats, pointedly, “After giving me $20.”

“The two of you are a match made in hell,” He mutters under his breath, wincing as she handles her book threateningly. 

Robin gives her the $20, side-stepping Gwen’s suspicious glare, as he’s practically hustled out of the parlor by Mustang.

“You owe me,” She says simply, “But if you can get that stick out of his ass and get him to relax a little, we’ll call it even.”

He doesn’t have time to be confused for longer than a moment. The flash of a green jacket walking past the window of the parlor was enough to send him out the door.

“You,” Robin huffs out, “Are fucking difficult to find.” 

Finney turns, blinking at him, “Robin?”

“You got me flowers. You got me — you got me flowers referencing a cult classic, Finn. What the fuck.” 

“Did you not like them?” He frowns, “Sorry, it was probably dumb —“

“Qué estúpido gringo,” Robin interrupts, exasperated, “I fucking loved them, and I just spent sat through your co-worker trying to psychologically torture me just to tell you that before you disappeared again because for some reason you’re never working! Do you know how often I’ve been staring at this stupid window, trying just to get a glimpse of you?”

Finn blinks at him, again, lips pressing together to attempt to smother a smile, the laugh that, despite assuredly best efforts, still escapes him.

“What?”

“Robin,” He says, not even trying to bite back the smile anymore, “I don’t work here.”

Robin stares at him, “What?” 

“I don’t work here,” Finney repeats, amused in a way that made him want to grab him and shake him, “I’m getting my master’s, I work part-time at the library down the street.”

“But,” Robin shakes his head, baffled, “Mustang said that your boss needed to see you. I asked you if you worked here.” 

“Boss lady is Gwen,” Finney shrugs, “Because she’s bossy. She wants to own this place one day, and so Mando lets her practice with the business side of things. I come around every few weeks to help her practice the inventory and budgeting. I’m good at math.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Robin says, dryly.

“I’m sorry, I forgot that you asked if I worked here, honestly,” The other boy offers with an expression that seemed a bit too far from apologetic, “It’s just. You got all worked up. It was a good look on you.”

“You,” He shakes his head, still reeling, “Are driving me crazy.”

“So,” Finn says, sounding as if he were trying to be cheeky but unable to hide the almost shy nature of his words, “You were staring at the window?” 

“Since the day we met,” Robin glares at him, “I spent like $40 on consultations just trying to talk to you.”

“Their consultations are free.”

“No,” He says gravely, “They are not.”

“Sorry,” Finney offers, sounding a bit more genuine than before, “They can be a little much to handle.”

Robin huffs and regards him, the frantic energy of before siphoning into something more tolerable. He looked unsure standing there, the purple sign casting a soft glow not unlike the morning they met. His eyes didn’t seem quite so sad, though they still held a heaviness that he wanted to know. 

“No,” Robin repeats, “They’re really not.”

He holds those dark eyes for a long moment, a breath of electricity that he feels in his fingertips as he says, “I lied before. About moral responsibility, civic duty crap. I just like talking to you, too.” 

Finn huffs, a sly note to his tone, “I lied a little too, I don’t really think cherry tastes all that bad.”

“Well, I didn’t lie about that, grape still tastes like cold medicine,” He grins at the scowl it earns him, “But I could maybe be convinced.”

“I still haven’t seen The Blob,” Finney offers lightly.

“Are you kidding me? No, we’re doing this right. You and me, we’re seeing the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. It’s the best movie. Ever. And it’s a crime you haven’t seen it yet.”

“You just want to see me freak out.”

“I bet it’s a good look on you.” 

The purple light highlights the pink flush to Finney’s face, the shy, almost disbelieving confirmation that staccatos in his own chest. He feels like he’s walking on a cloud when he finally makes it back to Carmen’s Garden, to the very moment his brother shatters all the rose colored glass. 

“You forgot to get his number?”  

five

Finney comes by the next day, a paper slip and a Peter Gabriel shirt that has Ernesto shooing them to the side to talk and talk, and eventually get kicked out for talking too much.

It was easy to talk to him, so fucking easy that it blew his mind sometimes how fast the hours went when he was with him. 

There was never enough time for it, in the flower shop or the library that Robin eventually found while Finney had been trying to do homework during his shift.

“What the fuck is this?” He squints at the long strings of numbers, of signs and symbols, and everything that made his head hurt.

“Homework,” The other boy said dryly, “For our numerical methods in the optimization unit.”

“I have no idea what the hell you just said,” Robin admits, “So you really are good at math.”

“You kind of have to be at this point,” Finney huffs, amused, “I’m getting my master’s in aerospace engineering, so the math part is kind of critical.” 

Robin stares at him blankly, “Aerospace engineering.”

“I like space,” Finn shrugs, looking at his books with much more affection than anyone ever should to something that wasn’t fiction, “I’ve always wanted to work on a shuttle, you know? Designing satellites and exploration systems, of course. But it’s the shuttle that’s always been the goal. Being part of something big like that, that gets to go up there.”

“The astronaut,” Robin blinks, belatedly, “In Gwen’s reference book.”

Finney looks a bit embarrassed at that, “Yeah, I kind of oversaturated her with space stuff when we were kids. I had the bottle rockets, the National Geographic magazines, pictures I taped to the wall, plastic stars on the ceiling, the NASA shirts.”

“You’re a nerd,” Robin realizes, delighted.

“Don’t make fun of me,” He grumbles, turning back to his homework almost sulkily.

“Are you kidding me?” He practically drapes himself along his shoulders, “I fucking love nerds. Me encanta un chico apasionado. Go on, Finn, tell the flower delivery boy about your nerdy interests.” 

“Or I could tell the house musician with a jacket full of patches,” Finney challenges.

“Or the movie nerd with a room full of posters,” Robin grins at him, “Nobody’s perfect, Jerry.”

“Some Like It Hot? That would make you Osgood, y’know,” Finney shoots back, though there’s no hiding the quirk of his lip.

“See, that's the best part about being a nerd,” Robin tells him seriously, “Every time you understand a reference, I —“ Seriously want to kiss you until you’re the same shade as your goddamn lollipop, “Have a renewed faith in humanity. So. Let me be that for you. Tell me about your nerdy space interests so that next time you say satellite, I can say something about how they do more than give us good television.”

“You’re so weird,” The other boy laughs.

“Oh yeah? What do you think that says about you?”

Finney huffs and shakes his head, resting it on his head as he seemingly tries to decide something, before looking at him with those dark eyes and a too-sweet smile, “Waiting for you to make the move and ask me out, so hopeless, I guess.” 

It was a bit hard to describe the reaction that followed. There were only so many times he could visualize himself as a computer reboot without also expressing that it would have to be a really shitty computer system. The kind you have to kick a few times, maybe break out a hammer, and get zapped by a few open circuits, only to also wait an hour thinking you fucked up and completely ruined it before anything meaningful happens. 

“Am I?” Finney asks softly, “Hopeless, I mean?”

“Finn,” Robin says, breathless, “I’ve never wanted to kiss someone so badly in my life.”

He smiles at that, the scrunch of his nose so overwhelming that it felt as though his heart would simply give out.

“This weekend,” The other boy says, and Robin nods, speechless, “Friday, at 7?”

And well, he supposed that was one way to do it.

Or at least, that’s the way it should have gone.

Friday afternoon, Ernesto hangs up the phone in his shop, avoids eye contact, and bites his thumbnail. 

It was a nervous habit, one he recognized from exam season or when the bills came a day too soon. 

“What’s wrong?” He asks, and rolls his eyes when Ernesto immediately tries to brush him off, “I know that look. Don’t fuck around, what happened?”

“It’s,” Ernesto hesitates for a long moment, to the very moment Robin shoots him with a glower, “A wedding party had an issue with their florist, they’re asking for a really big order. A really last-minute order. They practically want to buy out our inventory, but I don’t… they would need it by Monday. I’d have to start now to get even halfway, but even then —“

“Okay,” Robin interrupts him, “If you had more hands, if you had Tío Julio, Amá, and me, would it be possible?”

“You have your date tonight,” Ernesto shakes his head, “You can’t cancel on Finney.”

“A reschedule isn’t the same as a cancel, tonto,” Robin rolls his eyes, “This is big for you, isn't it? Money, exposure, and shit?” 

“If Mamá and Tío Julio help, then we might —“

“It’s a big order for you, and I know you. If there’s any chance of you saying yes, you need more than a might.”

“Robin, I told you that I didn’t want you to be giving up things for me,” Ernesto practically pleads, “I’ve never seen you like this for someone before, and I don’t want to be the one to mess it up.”

“Ernesto,” Robin sighs, leaning against the counter to fix him with a hard look, “This is what we do, okay? We’re family, and family means putting each other first. I like Finn, and I’m going to like him just as much on Monday. If he doesn’t feel the same, then… Well, it’s better to find out now.”

Ernesto doesn’t have a response to that, though he looks unbearably guilty from the very moment that Robin crosses the street and asks for Gwen at the front desk.

She gives him a stink eye that only feels slightly dramatic when she sees him, crossing her arms with a huffy, “What do you want?”

“Finn’s in class today, right?” Robin offers an apologetic wince. “Could you let him know that I need to reschedule? Ernesto needs my help. Please let him know that I’ll call him later tonight and that I’m really sorry.”

If Robin were honest, he expected anything but the way Gwen’s face softens. He was sure from the very moment he uttered ‘reschedule,’ that she’d unleash hellfire on him. 

“Is everything okay?” She asks.

“He’s still trying to find more workers; part of that is not being able to turn down big jobs that could get him an income. We’ll probably be working through the night, but it’ll be worth it.”

Gwen nods, slowly, “I’ll tell him.”

“Thanks, Gwen, tell him I was really looking forward to it.”

“You were, weren’t you?” She muses as he pushes on the door.

“Yeah,” Robin says, more to himself, “I was.”

The next several hours consisted of an endless stream of snapping stems, moving boxes, and trying to both help and stay out of his brother’s way.

It shouldn’t have been especially grueling work if the thought of Finney arriving home to a stupid voicemail asking to reschedule wasn't plaguing his thoughts. He kept his face carefully neutral, especially since he could feel his brother glancing over every few minutes, but it was hard to fight the disappointment entirely.

“I’m really sorry,” Ernesto said for the umpteenth time.

“If you say sorry again, I’m pushing you into the thorn pile.”

At a quarter to seven, there’s a knock on the front door.

Ernesto, knee deep in roses, looks up, clearly flustered if his off-skew glasses tipping off his nose were any indication.

“I’ve got it,” Robin tells him, thankful despite himself for the break. It was surprisingly irritating to handle damp flowers for hours on end, to the point where his fingers were starting to prune.

“I’m sorry, but we’re closed for —“

Under the catch of moonlight, Finney looks back at him with a box in his hands, all dark curls swaying in the cold night air and dark eyes capturing constellations in the sky in a way that was almost cinematic. 

“Fuck,” Robin curses when he finally finds his voice, “I’m so sorry, did you not get the message?”

“I got the message,” Finney confirms, a self-conscious look crossing his face as he looks down, before steeling himself to meet his eyes again, “I’m not an expert in flowers, but I can tell a primrose from a camellia if that’s any help.”

“What?”

“I’m here to help, if I can.” Almost as an afterthought, he adds, “I brought pizza if you’d prefer to take just that.”

“Oh god, you brought pineapple or some shit, didn’t you?” Is Robin’s first response before the rest of his brain catches up, “Finn, I don’t — manual labor isn’t a very romantic first date.”

“I don’t need romantic,” Finney smiles a little at that, though he doesn’t deny the pineapple comment either, “I just like being with you.”  

Ernesto nearly bursts into tears when Finney comes in, apologizing between hitching breaths and thanking him so profusely that he worried the boy would simply implode.

For the next several hours, they work through the arrangements. His mother was asking one too many questions, and his Tío Julio was glancing back at him with a shit-eating grin. Finney seems to fall into a rhythm all too easily, a clear favorite of his mother that he absolutely didn’t need her yelling at him in Spanish from across the room to know. 

Though his mother helped as long as she could with steaming ribbons and building arrangements, it was clear that she was on her last legs by the time their uncle was manhandling her out the door.

It wasn’t without kissing Ernesto and Robin’s forehead obnoxiously and profusely thanking Finney with her hands cupped on his face until he was red that she went.

“I’m going to… um, do front work!” Ernesto fumbled out, giving him a thumbs up that Robin glowers at him for, before leaving with a kick in his step.

“So,” Robin says, when he leaves, “I made you do manual labor for three hours and subjected you to my family as a first date. But you did bring pineapples on at least one pizza, so I think that was kind of an equal trade-off.”

“If you just tried it —“

“Finn, I don't need to stab myself to know it would hurt!”

“Is that why you’re scared of tattoos?” Finn teases.

“Oh my god, what did my uncle tell you?” Robin demands, “Never mind, I don’t want to know. Do not listen to him, he’s a pinche pendejo intent on embarrassing me —“

“I liked your family, Robin,” Finney interrupts, “I liked being here.”

“Oh,” He swallows, “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. I have met Gwen, y’know. That girl must keep you on your toes.”

“She does,” Finn agrees, “It’s always been the two of us, but I think part of me has always wanted a big family like this.”

“Because your dad was an asshole,” Robin surmises.

“This is more of a third date discussion,” Finney snorts, “But somehow you got it out of me within fifteen minutes of knowing me. Sometimes it feels like —“ He shakes his head, “Like I’ve known you for a long time.”

“I would’ve liked that,” Robin admits, sitting next to him on the work table they probably shouldn’t be sitting on, “I think, when I was a kid, I was always waiting for someone like you to come around.”

“You wouldn’t have liked me very much. I was even more of a coward back then.”

“I think we would’ve been best friends,” Robin feels his lip quirk, a truth that felt much too heavy to simply hold, “Maybe you would’ve even helped me from being held back.”

They're close now, a breath of space that was still frustratingly too much. Standing up, Finney had maybe an inch or two on him, here, like this, it seemed to dissipate somewhere in the dark of his eyes. 

His lip is stained purple, and somewhere between carrying fertilizer and flowers alike, he lost his jacket, exposing the stardust beneath the sleeves.

Robin can’t quite help himself from running his thumb over the flecks and lines of dark ink and the reflection of a cosmos he was sure he was holding just underneath that cold skin. 

“You don't seem very scared of tattoos,” Finney looks at him, his head tilted his way, his voice not without a tinge of breathlessness that makes his own face warm. 

“They’re growing on me,” Robin says, truthfully, and he raises his hand to cup the almost frustratingly endearing boy’s face, a mess of curls and smooth skin between his fingers and eyes that are looking, looking at him as if he’s the sun.

Robin kisses him, and he tastes like grape soda and stars. 

His fingers feel like static, an arrhythmic beat in his chest rushing to catch up, to jump underneath his skin and meld with the boy who raises his own hands to run through his hair.

Fuck fireworks and butterflies and electricity and all the movies that had ever spent a dime trying to convince him that bottled-up gestures and swelling scores could ever compare to this, to them.  

When they finally pull away, when breathing becomes an unfortunate necessity, Finney asks between gasping breaths, “Still hate grape?”

Finney’s hands are threaded through his hair, and he could swear to anyone that bothered to listen that he could feel his heartbeat in the pads of his fingers. He doesn’t want him to let go, not for a moment.

“I don’t know,” Robin grins, “I think it might be an acquired taste.”

It’s a little harder to kiss him when they’re both laughing, bumping noses, and stubbornly trying to keep his hand from falling from Finn’s jaw, but Robin was anything but a quitter. 

• one

“You really don’t have to do this,” Finney tells him, the pad of his thumb maybe the only thing that was keeping him in the chair.

“The hell he doesn’t,” Gwen mutters, pulling the stencil from his skin, “It’s the smallest tattoo ever. I will revoke my blessing if you can’t sit through this.”

“I want to,” Robin squeezes Finney’s hand, “And not just because your sister is trying to extort me again.”

“I told you that you’d figure it out, didn’t I?” Gwen says cheerfully, “A woman needs to get commissions one way or another.”

Robin rolls his eyes, though he also pointedly doesn’t look as she readies the tattoo gun.

“It’s a cat scratch,” Finney promises.

“I’m more of a dog person, big dogs, not those little yippy ones. I’m talking fluffy and slobbery and suffocating us every time they forget how big they are.”

“We can get a big dog,” He agrees as if it wouldn’t have been a dealbreaker.

“I love that you’re pretending there’s a choice here.”

“Gag,” Gwen mutters, “Alright. If you think you’re about to throw up or pass out, tell me. I will charge you a huge cleaning fee if you barf all over my station.”

Finney snorts, and Robin scowls at him.

In all honesty, he always knew that he had likely built it up to be much worse in his mind than any reality. Especially considering the amount of fights, broken bones, and gashes he’s collected through the years. Whether it be middle school bullies or bar fights in the most recent years. Still, for a moment, he did think he was going to throw up before Finney started talking to him.

After that, it was much easier to grit past what decidedly solidifies him as a dog person for the coming years. 

“Still with me, cherry?” Finney asks, and he’s sure there’s a lovesick look in his eye when Robin meets his eyes. 

“Always.” 

“Oh my god, seriously, I’m going to get sick if you don’t stop.” 

Finney immediately apologizes, loosening his grip, though Robin only tightens his own in comparison and sends her a smirk.

She scowls threateningly, and it provides her with the sought-after silence. 

As the gun buzzes, Robin thinks to himself that maybe part of why he had always been uncomfortable with the idea of tattoos might have been the permanency of it all.

When he was a kid, there had always been this uncertainty of who he was, where he was going, and whether he wanted to find out at all. The feeling that something was missing, the feeling that maybe he was never meant to last for this long, that maybe his entire existence was a cosmic fuck-up that he had to deal with the consequences for. 

It felt as though the only appealing choice was one that offered the option to run — jobs without college degrees, apartments with a maximum lease of a year, and friendships made in passing. 

There was no permanence in it, no commitment beyond what he chose to extend. 

He thought the shift would have been harder, the decision to turn it all on its head. So it was almost funny how easy it was to do this.

Gwen, finally, drags the rag down his hand one last time to clean the mess of blood and ink. She rolls her eyes when she catches the look on his face and says, “The hand will always be a little more sensitive, but we’ll go over aftercare for it to keep it from getting infected.” 

Robin nods and takes it back, wincing a little at the burn, dragging his eyes down the newly inked skin with a reverence he felt in his throat.

FB on his left ring finger, where he probably wouldn’t be able to wear the actual ring for a couple of weeks. The cold metal sits in the crest of his throat, a matching gold that settles on the hand curled around his pulse. 

The pads of Finney’s fingertips were permanent now, in the dots Gwen had marked, to match the placement of his hand when it was wrapped around his own. Five stars he had drawn when he was a kid, memorialized in her reference book, and now on him. 

He waits until Gwen is moving to the front desk to say it, a little because he’s still smarting from the last time he kissed her brother in front of her. 

“Hey,” Robin nudges the man, grinning when he catches his attention, “I didn’t catch your name.”

Finney, as expected, huffs a laugh, looking away until Robin nudges him again, “And why exactly did you need it?”

“So I can look you up after,” Robin shifts his eyebrows, “To ask you out. Obviously.”

“It wouldn’t matter if I told you,” Finney tells him, matter-of-factly, “I’m changing it.”

Robin’s mischievousness melts into something gooey and disgusting enough that if Gwen were here, she really would have been gagging, “Really?”

“Finney Arellano,” He brushes the hair away from Robin’s face, and he leans into it, gob-smacked and as in love as the day he saw a boy painted in purple, “I think it has a ring to it, don’t you?” 

“I’d make out with you right here if your sister wouldn’t tell her girlfriend to stick me with a Prince Albert.”

“Yes,” Gwen yells from the front, “I would!”

Under the ring of Finney’s finger, he knows there’s a tattoo of his own initials, of a letter he’d share, and somehow that feels more permanent than any vow half-written in his pocket or the Carmen’s Garden commission receipt on the dinner table.

“I think we were,” He says, finally, much to Finney’s bafflement. 

“What?”

“Best friends,” Robin looks at him, at his dark eyes and his nerdy NASA shirt and the curls that he could still feel his fingers running through, “I think we were, we are, and that we will be too. Because there’s no way that we’ve ever lived a life where I didn’t find you.”

Finney looks at him like he’s a little crazy, and maybe he was, maybe he is, maybe that’s all he ever wants to be for him.

“Alright,” Finney says with a huff, “Then next time, don’t take so long.”

“As you wish.”

“Princess Bride?”

“I knew there was a reason I’m marrying you.”