#black needle

So it always baffled him when he came and found a bartender browsing through his personal affects in the store rooms. Today he was working the floor until his night gal came in... Sighing he added another toothpick to the sculpture he’d been making, now it was starting to resemble a martinis glass instead of tooth picks. Each toothpick was symbolic of someone he’d had to let go, he’d lost count of how many faces had come and gone. Still the moment the tinkle of the bell reached his ear the frown vanished. He leaned on the counter and waved “Welcome to the Black Needle.” He didn’t have to worry much, right now were the normal club hours. Occasionally he’d get a consultation request but mostly it was drinks.

Pride was impossible not to have, with his jack of all trades nature, he adopted several secret traits in each business. As the client sat at the bar and asked about a drink, the brunette’s eyebrows raised. Caipirinhas were never a common request, clicking his tongue he chuckled “Of course, a rare drink is difficult, and of course I can make it. I’m the only p- human on this island that can make any drink.” He grinned and set to work making the Brazilian specialty.

There probably weren’t many people as dedicated to perfection as Mizuki, after his mistakes as a fledgling it was no doubt he was wounded by the past. A few moments later he set the cocktail down and waited, watching  his patrons expression, ready to make an attempt if he failed, but the grin was not forgein. Even a dialect was betrayed by a smile. During his lull hours after a shower and before the day he’d practice. Granted it was a rule of thumb to waste none and want nothing, he limited practice to spare his liver. Daily or thrice daily he’d practice difficult, new or foreign brews to satisfy even the most fickle palette.

Soon as his patron began enjoying the liquor and seized talking he resumed his rounds making refills and idle chat, never having to ask what drink they had merely if they wanted something new. He might not be as superhuman as some he’s met, his memory was on par with theirs occasionally. Which was minutely problematic at times. As the clock hit twenty his eyes found the familiar uniform clad ‘angel’ entering the room. A chuckle passed his lips as he set down the final shot and crossed to him “Clear, you’re early as always.” As unique as Clear was after a few months of going through the paces he was fitting into the pace of the Needle. Not tackle hugging him upon entrance was a huuuuuge step after all, and smashing bottles rarely happened.

Mizuki filled the white haired male in on the drinks and preferences of the drinkers, explaining the difficult drinks with a smile and trading the apron that held the cheat cards to the other. “I’m counting on you, just send Soren if you need me.” The husky under the bar peeked out at the mention of his name, prepared to assist in the bar upon request. Upon Clear’s reassurances the bartending nature slipped away and he nodded “I’ve got a client coming in soon, I can come and assist if you need. If not I’ll be with Eri waiting for our canvas.” He smiled and patted Clear on the back “You can do it, you haven’t let me down.”

Heading through a pair of black velvet curtains he crossed the thresh hold of his shop into the parlor. Trading off his blazer and tie for a skin tight red shirt, his trademark leather pants were optional and too troublesome to trade into. The sleek workpants would have to do. Sinking into one of the sofas he pulled a sketchpad across the table and set to work on a design to free his time, an alternative version of what his mind created. The station was already set, he just needed to improve his focus and steady his body. Working in a fast pace made anyone rush, and tattoos were something you should never rush. For ten minutes he absorbed himself into a design of sakura petals and sharks mingling into a glorious swimming based image.

The faint chime of the doorbell broke his concentration and he crossed to the rear door, Rising to his feet he placed the sketchpad on the desk and opened the rear door, often during club hours patrons would enter through the alley to avoid the temptation of drink or running away. A waiver, a release form, a contract and payment receipt later and the young kid was clambering into the chair, eyes lightened with excitement. A simple tattoo, a Rib tag fused with that of a Rhyme tag. Of course this was common, a quick on hit and quit tattoo.

Still he wouldn’t mess up, pulling on his glasses and gloves he opened the rubbing alcohol and filled a sake cup with it. Ordering his ermine to turn the channel on the radio, which she complied with and rested along side the stereo. The leader didn’t need glasses he had perfect 20/20 but it helped him focus and protected him from the possibility of ink splatter, which happened once in the past.

Some people called him meticulous as he sanitized, shaved and resanitized the desired spot for the ink, but he was just careful. Infected tattoos were no fun, he knew that lesson well. Before laying the proof he showed the kid where it would be and checked for adjustments before he got consent. As soon as he agreed Mizuki set to work, tracing the image coloring it and chatting with the teen all the while, reassuring him. Breaking intermediately when the red head was no longer responding, provoking conversations with the slightest bit of interest,