#levijean

Jean was both in awe and jealous of the craftsmanship. He wondered why the guy didn’t go back to the original artist for the touch-up, even considered asking for a moment before he decided better of it. He would probably just be ignored again.

“And you’re all done,” Jean said after a few hours, which was probably longer than it should have taken, but considering it wasn’t his work, and the thing was pretty detailed considering the placement, he wasn’t about to rush it and fuck it up.

The guy stood, flexing his arm to remove the cramp that was surely there from keeping still for so long. He went over to the mirror Jean had set up on the wall and turned so he could see the back of his arm, head cocked as he squinted at his elbow.

“Not bad,” he said after a few moments.

Jean supposed that was some sort of compliment, so he let out a relieved sigh, but the feeling didn’t last too long. Jean did touch-ups free of charge on his own work, but on someone else’s...well, he didn’t really have any precedent on pricing because this was the first time it happened. He had supplies to pay for, though, so he figured it should be something.

“How’s two hundred?” the guy asked.

Jean blinked at him. “What?”

“For the ink. Two hundred.”

“That’s,” Jean squeaked out, surprised. He was thinking fifty dollars. Maybe. He cleared his throat. “That seems a little...high?”

“Don’t short sell yourself. Not about to tell you how to run your business, though.”

“I, uh, that’s, I,” Jean stammered.

“Think about it. I’ll come back next week. Got an entire arm, you know. Two of them. ”

Jean’s gaze traveled down, flitted between both of his arms, then sprang back up. “You want me to do more?”

The guy shrugged and nodded. “Said it wasn’t bad, didn’t I?”

He did, but Jean didn’t realize at the time that he was supposed to take it as high praise.

“So you want to or what?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes.” Jean answered without hesitation. “I’d love to. The art’s amazing, and to get to be a part of that...yes.”

A ghost of a smile briefly touched his lips before he passed Jean and headed for the door.  “See you later then,” he said as he stepped outside.

+++++

The more sessions they had, the more talkative Levi - which, Jean found out when he returned the second time, was the guy’s name - became. Not by much, really, but compared to the stone cold silence he was initially greeted with, it was a vast improvement.

He learned that Levi had a weird sense of humor that mainly consisted of poorly timed shit jokes. He also learned that Levi despised coffee with so much passion that Jean started keeping bags of tea around the shop just for him. Which, apparently, were “fine” but nothing compared to what a handcrafted blend tasted like. Jean was skeptical there could be any difference at all until Levi took him to a cafe and made him drink a honeysuckle hazelnut rooibos blend that elevated his tastebuds to a different plane of existence. Jean insisted they go there after Levi's session every day since, and Levi certainly didn't complain.

It was going well. And then Jean fucked up.

He was to the point where he was starting to re ink Levi’s other arm when he couldn’t keep the question that had been nagging him since day one at bay anymore.

“So who did it?”

“The butler, with a plunger, in the kitchen.”

Jean snorted. “Well, that's one gross mystery solved. But I mean your ink. Who did it?”

Levi visibly stiffened.

“Stop,” he said.

Jean lifted the needle from where he had it hovering over Levi’s skin. As soon as it was far enough away Levi hopped up from the chair, grabbing his sweatshirt and yanking it over his head as he stomped towards the door. It was all so fast Jean barely had time to call after Levi before the shop door slammed shut, making him flinch.

“Shit,” he mumbled.

Jean rubbed at his neck and sighed. He probably could have asked that in a better way. It was obviously a sore subject, and he should have realized that considering all the ways Levi seemed to dance around it. Jean couldn’t take the question back, though. The only thing he could do was apologize. He tried texting and calling - even closed the shop briefly so he could go down to their normal cafe and see if Levi was skulking there - but Levi never answered and Jean couldn’t find him anywhere.

He didn’t see Levi again until he was getting ready to close the shop for the night. The ring from the door called him out of the back room, and Jean froze.

There was a moment of tense silence and then Levi spoke.

“You're looking at him,” he bit out.

“...What?”

“Who did my arms. You're looking at him. Been looking at him.”

Jean could feel his jaw slowly dropping. You had to have a lot of skill to tattoo yourself on one arm, let alone both of them.

“Holy shit,” Jean whispered.

“It was just a stupid thing I started when I was younger to keep me from doing stupider things. But after the first one I just kept going, kept improving, learned to fucking love it.”

“So why don't you--”

“Essential tremor.”

Jean furrowed his brows.

“My hands shake,” Levi explained. “Started a few years back. It's not all the time, not consistent. I have good days and bad. But if I can't keep them still when I have the gun...” He squeezed his hands into fists momentarily then let them go limp at his sides.

“That’s why you had me do the touch-up,” Jean said, putting the pieces together.

Levi nodded. “Saw your work, read reviews. You seemed…”

“Not bad?”

Levi gave him a crooked smile.

“And can I still?” Jean asked.

“Do flies go to shit?”

“And do you...still want to get tea with me?”

“The flies, Jean.”