Chapter Text
Lang Buddha is having a pretty shit day so far and it was barely past 8 o'clock.
Kneeling behind a trash can as gunshots rang through the street had every average dick and harry looking out their windows to see the absolute spectacle this new gang had started stirring up. He held what felt like a lung to his chest hoping that the long slash of exposed flesh wasn’t going to infect and kill him in a dirty piss alleyway behind their house. He’s been in some– literal– shitty situations but this be the height of shame he could never recover from. People would be forced to leave plastic flowers in front of a hack job cross with his name on it, anniversaries spent with his friends forced to peel stripper panties and cigarette buds off his tombstone or worse yet, worst of all, he’d have died to some blonde fuckwit and his crew of low tier trigger happy yes men.
Staying undetected is definitely the best move.
He’s gotten separated from the boys a little bit over an hour ago and knowing vaguely how this crew rolls it isn’t insane to assume they’re probably in their own tight spot right now.
There had been some talk about a new gang popping up in their area who had a particularly brutal way of going about things; robberies, stabbings and outright ocean dumps have been on the rise since February.
The plan was for them to meet and ease some of the early tensions before things got out of hand but Lang didn’t account for this very loud and aggressive group to be run by a Wile E. Coyote frenchman that spoke words like he shot bullets, which was very fast and lacking any coherency. That initial meeting didn’t ease tensions in the slightest but when they started demanding for their shit like they had any right to it was when he started getting really pissed. It didn’t take long before they had devolved into full blown screaming matches that, of course, escalated again when his snake of an ex–employee had hovered his hand on his back pocket when Luciano took a step forward.
All negotiations were thrown out the window and it’s been a mad dash ever since.
Lang had tatters of his shirt, which he had managed to rip off from the seconds between getting shot and ducking into an alleyway for cover, applying enough pressure so it would be secure enough for him to lean against the building.
His old bones weren’t as used to bullet wounds as they used to be and that isn’t more apparent now that he had been severely lacking in keeping up the cardio. Some don he was.
He can feel when things were really starting to get dicey when a dangerous amount of blood suddenly gushed out of the lower side of his stomach and spots were starting to appear on the edges of his vision. Optimism was for younger men with better spirits, not bitter old fucks who’ll die just as forgotten as they lived. Perhaps it was a mercy this new crew had rolled in, sure they’ll be mourners but after a couple months? A year? He’s been here long enough to know it’s easy to be forgotten in Los Santos even if there are still people alive to tell your story. His story ended on a low note though, can’t help that. He would kill for a last cigarette.
There is the scuffle of shoes on gravel coming up behind him.
It’s done. He closes his eyes, hoping that the boys at least remembered that he’d like a closed casket. Knowing his family Gigi will remember and those other bozos are going to be useless for at least a couple days(Any longer then Lang would seriously wonder why he got them in in the first place being so emotional), they’re lucky she joined this circus.
There was someone tugging on his hands that were pressing down on the bloody mess that was his chest. On instinct, uncaring of what consequence this would cause he grabbed the hand and pinned the stranger against him, dragging them down to his level and shoving a knife into the others ribcage.
“Don’t fucking touch.” Lang barks, figuring that if he was going down he'd go down swinging.
“You’re injured.” The other person states, a little too matter of factly for someone with a knife digging into them. “I’m–I’m just trying to help.”
Lang snorts. “Right.”
The stranger sighs but, being as close as they are, Lang can feel that this confidence wasn’t a show. There didn’t even seem to be a slight uptick in heart rate or anything, only compliance for what could possibly be his death. Lang has had people piss themselves with worse moves, screaming and snotting all over the place with just a well placed look and a couple threats, but this guy…it wasn’t fear. It was something new and– last day or not– it was something interesting.
He opens his eyes.
“Oh holy shit.”
Lang had never been a religious man. No real reason behind it, could be he was too busy or too wretched to think a greater good could save his soul but here, right now, he swore he was looking at an angel.
Black locks swooped over the brightest green eyes he’s ever seen in his life. A sharp jaw that connected to a surprisingly toned body, wearing some kind of uniform alerted Lang that at least it wasn’t anyone actively out to get him but still didn’t help his current problem. There was a flustered quality to his face the longer he stared but he couldn’t help himself, he was a dead man either way at least now he’d have died staring at something miraculous.
“Sir,” The angel looks nervous, which was a very normal reaction to a man bleeding out behind a garbage bin– not that he was the best judge of normal “I want–I want to help you.”
“Yeah? How’d you like to help me, beautiful?” There is a slight possibility there wasn’t enough air circulating to his brain because the words coming out of his mouth would’ve had to be waterboarded out of him in any normal circumstance.
“What!? I–I–uh–that’s not–” He trails off into mumblings and various high pitched noises. Was he straight? Shit, flirted a little too close to the sun on that one.
Shame.
"How you planning on helping me out, hm? Gotta write down my last will? Give me a blowjob? Clean my fucking feet!? Get on with it before I die pissed and haunt your ass!” Lang snaps, some of his suggestions earning yet another (adorable) round of sputtering before the man finally sobers to the situation.
“Please,” That annoyingly smooth and deep voice pleads. “I–I know I can help you and…I really doubt you wanna die here so if you–if you wanna avoid that I uh…I need my hands…”
Here is where Lang remembers he had essentially pinned the man under him and– he cranks his neck to check– yep, had the others hands in a bruising grip behind his back.
“How do I know you don’t have a gun?” He asks with a trained paranoia.
For some reason, the stranger finds this very amusing.
“Do I look like I have a gun?” He asks, like a smart ass.
Lang isn’t so easily convinced. “Looks can be deceiving all on their own baby, let alone when it’s attached to a pretty face.”
“Uhh—“ Stranger huffs, and the creeping flush that rides up his neck was a lovely thing to watch, if not incredibly distracting. “They don’t give guns to florists, man.”
Langs brown furrows. “What?”
There’s some shuffling— he reaches into a pocket on the back of what Lang now sees to be an apron— before he produces a card. A business card.
This day couldn’t get any stranger. “…Comfy Corner huh?”
“Yep.” The stranger hums, craning his neck so he can look at his card as well.”It's uh pretty new…and close.”
“You trying to make a move, huh, pretty boy?” Lang flirts, slowly easing out of his position without jolting his side too much, the pain starting to sink now that the adrenaline was dying.
“Just–helping out.” He finishes lamely, stumbling back now that his hands were free and looking to his injuries, almost assessing the damage. “Can I touch you?”
“Least…buy me dinner first…” Lang heaves a deep sigh but reluctantly nods as he moves to lean against the building opposite of them a spasm of pure agony jolting through his spine as he bumps part of the garbage can. “You wouldn’t happen to have–”
Before he can even finish his sentence the man quickly went to work as soon as he gave the a–okay. Bandages unfurling from the top pocket in the apron he wore. Now that he was so close it gave Lang the opportunity to look at the man willing to go all out for him like this.
He wore a deep forest green apron with a logo stitched into the centre, it was against a clean button up white shirt, brown slacks and for whatever odd reason, glow in the dark sneakers. These details will likely be very important in the long run but as the man worked quickly and quietly there was little else to do to distract from the pain.
Now that he was so close he could see a neon blue cat pin that matched his odd choice in footwear. It didn’t stand out much with the uniform but there were gold initials in the centre that were curious either way. T.C.
Might be a promise ring type, the kind of uselessly sentimental crap Americans are known for, hell maybe this guy had a highschool sweetheart waiting at home for him.
Before he can ask that burning question the reality of the situation caught up to him.
“How’d you know how to do this shit?” Lang grunts, eyeing his quick hands as they wrapped up his ribs with a speed that promised experience.
“I don’t know, lived here long enough I guess,” He smiles self-deprecatingly. “You pick up a few things.”
“I don’t recognise you.” Lang is good with faces, maybe not everyone in the city but definitely everyone on this street. It wasn’t due to actual interest but out of necessity, after all it’s better to know all the faces that enter your life then be blindsided by your nobody neighbour.
He raises a shoulder in a ‘what can you do’ motion. “We’ve met before.”
“Bullshit.” The reply is automatic because that’s—impossible.
He laughs which was—possibly due to the blood loss but—absolutely miraculous to watch. His face crinkles a bit and the slight smile lines fill in the biggest smile in the world.
Beautiful people being happy always felt a bit like gloating to him, they were already handed every opportunity they could want, why do they get to feel joy on top of that? Now though, here, it’s hard to be too bitter about that kinda happiness, the view was worth it.
Even if Lang’s half sure the laughter is aimed at him.
“Guess I didn’t make that big of a first impression…” He says as the laughter died down making Lang roll his eyes.
“I don’t think that’s possible, buddy.” Lang notices him tense and sobers from his lusty pining for the time. If he was this skittish he was either lying (which, why? What was he trying to hide?) or they had met and it didn’t end well. “but ok yeah, let’s say we had met before. What kinda things you getting involved in where someone like me would have a meeting with someone like you.”
He flashes a new smile that was noticeably, almost cartoonishly, cheery.
A coverup.
Anybody else wearing it he’d say it was a pretty good coverup but he’s already seen the real deal and you can’t replicate that kinda magic. “Well uh–you like flowers?”
“Sure.” Got that from his mother, God rest her soul.
“Ever buy flowers from me?” That particular question took a bit of reflection. Once again, he wasn’t a big flower guy but he knew the crew had that kind of soft spot for sentimentals. Gigi has definitely gotten flowers for housewarmings and whatever benign social event she's invited to. Tony and Luciano were romantics at heart and Luciano especially frequented flower shops whenever big anniversaries were happening or even when they just felt like giving a loved one flowers. Tony being single nowadays helps lessen the pollen in their house which his allergies thank him for. Had they mentioned this shop specifically? He couldn't remember, new flower shops weren’t high on their list of conversation topics.
“Do I look like someone who buys flowers?” Lang settles on saying instead. There was a possibility they had bought bouquets on their own time which, on record, has nothing to do with him and mentioning them at all would be ridiculous but this way felt less like outright lying.
He grins a little too smugly. “I don’t know looks can be deceiving, right?”
“Hope that's a promise of flowers later you asshole.” Lang pushes his shoulder too hard to be an accident but not hard enough to bruise. “Would’ve been easier leaving me here to die.”
“Speaking of easier…” For the first time since he started doing basic first aid he looked a little concerned. Although Lang would never admit it, there was a spike of fear that ran through his heart, jump–starting another bout of anger.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” The paranoia was bleeding in again now that it had been allowed to fester in the quiet. “You wanna see me die, huh!?”
“No, no, no– It’s good now, I got it stabilised and you should be good to just sleep it off but no uh…I meant that we really shouldn’t be hanging out here for too long…” The stranger scans the area one last time, a muted grim expression that slowly turned into determination as the street stays silent and empty. “...I know a place. You could… well, you think you could trust me enough to follow me a little longer?”
Lang, personally, felt the question was ridiculous. “I let you live didn’t I?”
The laugh—goddamn, when did he get a laugh kink? Why is it so distracting!?— he lets let out shouldn’t sound as good as it does, especially since he was attempting to threaten him and somehow it got perceived as some kind of joke.
Lang allows himself to be moved as the man—he really should ask for a name if he was gonna be handled like this— tucks him under an arm and, although Lang dwarfed him by a good amount, there is an unexpected strength under those baggy clothes.
He can’t help but be lookout for their small move to this mysterious second location. Keeping an eye out for any sign of danger or his bois which, given how the scene looked, spelled nothing but death to the florist.
‘He smells like coffee beans.’ Is a wry thought that really didn’t deserve to be as loud as it was. There was something else with the coffee beans, something subtle— could be a particularly robust cologne or maybe he just naturally smelled like burning firecrackers and a log cabin fire.
The stranger scoots them closer to the building to find that there was a whole built in store that, yep—was just located exactly where those fuckers started shooting at him that day. Florist man probably watched the whole thing through those windows, he seems like the nosy type.
“You see me get fucked up out there?” He has to ask, a little pissed how pristine of an angle they had in the middle of such influential crews.
The other shrugs like it wasn’t a big deal which, it really wasn’t, but Lang can’t help but retroactively be annoyed to have an audience on that embarrassment of a fight(wishing only a little bit that the stranger had watched instead the many other shootouts he’d wiped entire crews of; that would’ve been way more impressive). “Hard not to, they uh–weren’t being very subtle…”
“That’s cause they’re dumbasses that’s run by an insecure insect that thinks he can suck up on every living thing in the world and people won’t try and swat at him cause he gives the world his dumpster fire of a personality.” Lang hisses through clenched teeth, now no longer from pain but from fury that they had managed to nail him anyhow.
“Oh God,” Lang hears him say under his breath which dispelled some of his doubts of this guy being some kind of Company long con, no criminal sounded that scandalised (or guiltily amused) by light cursing. “I mean, if you say so…”
He was then settled into a chair and, feeling around his ribs, Lang realises with a start that the blood had finally stopped pouring out. The, now confirmed, civilian watches him a little anxiously.
“So uh…what do you think?”
Lang nods as he checked over the work and, although noting the many common mistakes, can tell it was a solid enough job to keep him alive. Just as he was about to comment that he looks up to see what the other man is actually referring to and mentally slapped himself.
The Comfy Corner was not fancy in any stretch of the word, A hole in the wall in the most literal sense. It was rustic, literally leaning into the natural rust of some of their exposed pipes and circuits; the copper counters and light fixtures created an industrial but warm atmosphere. He pictured the florist part well enough with flowers and vines wrapping around almost every inch of their little shack. The small cafe portion was a surprise though with a little station shoved in the back right, leaning into the earthy natural tones with brown countertops and coffee machines. The cafe tables and seats stretched throughout the shop each as humble as the venue but not any less charming.
“Hey, we gonna get the police on us for breaking in or what?” Lang took his time to look at every detail, a little impressed that even with the obvious lack of funds it hardly ruined the atmosphere they were trying to create. A slice of home a flower pot away. “Or are you the owner or something?”
He grins, a real one this time. “...Might be.”
Lang whistles low. “Not bad, not bad at all.”
“It’s a little scuffed but you know we’re trying our best, trying our best…” He nods, trying not to look as proud as he is. “Business might be slow but that’s just the way businesses go, isn’t it? You get rough patches.”
"How new is new?"
He rubs the back of his head sheepishly. "Oh ahh, about...probably...like- a week in."
Buddha sputters. “Oh hell no, you should not be getting rough patches a week in. Who you got on your marketing anyway? I didn’t see a peep of this advertised anywhere by anyone,” Lang took one last glance around as if manually trying to find the problem. “You’re firing your marketing team by the end of this and if you need any other tips on who to fire just give me a call, I already got a good idea of the next one.”
“Oh God,” He groans, rubbing his eyes tiredly as if this was not the first time he’s heard this complaint. “Any uh–anything specific?”
Lang already had a reason lined up. “I may not have tasted your coffee but I bet it tastes like battery acid and piss, sir. I’m basing this purely on how unclean that station is looking right now, no disrespect intended.”
“Jesus, that’s uh graphic.” He tilts his head. “You don’t think they avoid us cause of uhm–the flowers? Having so many hanging vines can be a bit dank…”
“Huh?” Lang grumbles, hooking a foot over another chair and using it to lean on. “I got eyes, don't I? I like the vine, keep that, it reminds me of the forests in São Paulo but, see I haven’t tasted the coffee so clearly that's the part you gotta fix.”
“That’s…” He hands a mug over, lost in thought. “huh…okay.”
Lang raises a brow. “What?”
“It’s nothing I uh–my sister does the coffee.” He smiles half–heartedly. “I’ve never heard a complaint yet so I don’t know…they usually mention my ah, well the flowers being a lot sometimes…”
“Yeah?”
The man nods, unable to look him in the eye. “I'm not the best judge on stuff like this, you know how it is. I made this store just cause I liked flowers and a couple people were starting to question my taste after I kept choosing all the dangerous ones which is probably pretty fair-"
“-What happened to those flowers you owe me?” Buddha interrupts suddenly, boring into eyes that refuse to look at him. “You running a business or what?”
“...You still want those?” He asks, wide–eyed and staring at him with an amazement he definitely didn’t deserve.
“Cause I do, buddy!” Lang couldn’t help but grin when the Stranger absolutely beams back. “I'm no a big flower guy but whatever. Remember I’ve got a sanitation salary so let's not go too crazy out here.”
“I–of course! If you could give me a minute I’ve got– Well I’ve got everything!” To describe the new energy as bouncing off the wall would be a great disservice for the pure glee this man had on sharing with this stranger, who not twenty minutes ago was bleeding out in his shop.
“Then get me the cheapest thing you got!”
The florist part of the back alleyway medic came with a surprising force as he jumped at the chance to show off all his flowers and their meanings. It was…incredibly enduring but there was one particular bunch that looked the best to him.
“What are those?” Buddha points out the cheerful bright red and orange batch a little bit away from the others, sitting on the counter already wrapped in paper. “Why aren’t they in your line up? They’re beautiful.”
It took a minute for him to understand what flower he had found but when he turned to see the specific branches of interest he let out a sigh. “Mhm, as beautiful as they are deadly.”
Lang blinks. “Deadly in what way?”
“In the mildly toxic way.” He grabs them from the counter, weighing them in his hand. “Peruvian lily, they weren’t selling well so I was making up bundles for a quick sale so at least someone will have them by the time they eventually die out-which is why I'm still here on a sunday- but then I heard all the gunshots and ah–here we are.”
“Well then I definitely want this one!” He exclaims, feeling a kingship with the sad wilting bunch of pedals. “They saved my life, in a way.”
The other man giggles. “Yeah I guess they did, I could name them the alleyway special or something after you.”
“Can I just say I think you're doing a great-Don’t–call it that- you're doing a pretty good job here in the florist section at-least. There's little things that'll fuck you though so you gotta stay on top of them like, I won't go all Gordon Ramsay on your ass but I will say the napkin company your using to supply those green ones went bankrupt later last year, you're gonna need to switch up manufactures or you’ll be out of supply soon and without a proper fill you're gonna go without napkins for a couple weeks.”
“Wait, really!?” Although a little embarrassed to be advised so crudely he still made a note of it. “That's...kind of insane how you noticed something so small man like-wow. You sure know a lot about this stuff, that’s kind of cool Mr…Oh!”
Lang nods. “Realised you never asked my name huh? Kinda rude you know, stitching me up before knowing who I am, I could be crazy, a known serial killer.”
His face is red. “Well, you’re not a serial killer!”
“Based on what? Our stellar first meeting?” He quips back on impulse, not intending to be such a prick but physically unable to hold himself back from the challenge.
He shakes his head furiously. “Hey, who’s ever had a perfect first meeting!? I think you’re a cool guy and the fact you thought about stabbing me and didn’t? That's a confirmed good guy to me.”
“Good guy,” Lang repeats mockingly but internally found the whole conversation amusing. When was the last time someone called him that, without being very pointedly ironic? Years it feels like, not since his first ex wife, at least. “Anyone ever tell you you’re too trusting?”
The response is automatic. “Every day of my life.”
“You ever think about listening to them Mr…” Lang trails off, allowing the man to finally finish the skipped line of useless social etiquette they had ignored in favour of saving his life.
“Yuno Sykk.” He clears his throat a little awkward now and, still a little flushed, holds out a hand. “And uh, no I haven’t.”
“Yuno Sykk…” Lang tests the vowels in his mouth, just as sweet as the man who owned them. There was more underneath that composed and nervous disposition he hid behind. What florist was trained in back alley first aid, the kind of health and safety that was quick and efficient but didn’t utilise calling the ambulance or putting any more attention onto the scene? What man could have a guy like him hold a knife into his stomach and somehow talk his way out of it? Who sees a mobster bleeding out in their alleyway and actively chooses to help them?
Who the fuck is Yuno Sykk? He had no idea but if there is one thing he is sure about in any of this…
Lang grins sharply. “Lang Buddha, nice to meet ya!"
He can’t wait to find out.