Sighing, Ashton rubs the sleeve of his too-dressy collared shirt across the backs of his eyelids. The button on the cuff pokes his eye, and it feels like a call-out. He’s too dressed up, he looks out of place. Toocovered,if nothing else. Which isn’t to say that tattooed folks can’t be modest—naturally, that’s false and would be a terribly judgemental view to hold. Either way, the whole point of a tattooconventionis to show off one’s body and as much art decorating skin as possible. It’ssupposedto be a positive, empowering experience.
That’s definitely the point, and his body is aesthetically pleasant to look at, both sculpted and toned—yet here Ashton is, buttoned up solidly from head to toe. Acting like he cares more about looking the part of a corporate stooge rather than flaunting the walking canvas he is.Lame. So lame.
Lame, but necessary,he reminds himself.
Currently, the only visible sign that Ashton isnotthe stuffy ink-virgin he appears to be at first glance pokes out from his collar to curl lazily around the right side of his bare neck. Just a tendril of light blue, highlighted masterfully with bright white accents, meant to appear as if his internal power source is leaking from a deep cut in his skin. Ashton adores that particular tattoo, might go so far as to call it hisfavorite.He designed the pattern and the magical component himself so that when he tilts his head a certain way and with intention, the ink sparks to life. It swirls freely in a misty, almost glowing haze that twists and curves gently through the air before settling back onto his skin, dormant again.
As a tattoo artist himself, Ashton knows that he should be setting a better example for others—for his profession—at least at a convention.He should be in a t-shirt or less, laying it all out there, unwilling to act or evenfeelashamed of what some…asshole exdid to him. It’s frustrating. What Whitaker took by crossing the lines that he did shouldn’t have the power to dampen his love for the art… or for himself.
Really, if anything, Ashton’s willingness to be transparent, to get loud about his ruined ink could help others who may have experienced the same thing. People who might feel shame and fear, might be paralyzed out of coming forward to have their tattoos fixed, their psyches healed. Ashton knows, all too well. He evenwantsto be that guy—a role model, or something close to it.
Still, walking the walk isn’t simple. Facing up to this type of mess is practically trauma therapy. Certainly not the easiest thing to do when ink—especiallymagicalink—is so intensely, innately personal, and wherebigemotions come so strongly into play.
Say, for instance, when those emotions are tied up in both a personal relationship and an entire livelihood, all flushed down the drain and swirled away together in one fell swoop. Some might go so far as to label that misery, though Ashton is usually not so dramatic.Sure, he’s made some mistakes, and he knew that he broke Whitaker’s heart when he chose to be honest about his (lack of romantic) feelings for the man, but he truly thought they’d end upfriendsand stronger for it.
Instead, Ashton found himself partnerless, friendless, jobless, and with a humiliating ink pattern decorating his back. One that he has to look at, think about, and suffer its existence every single minute of every single day. As someone who modifies other people’s bodies for a living, it’s not the most ringing endorsement of either his talentorhis judgment.
So, no. Ashton will not be strutting around with his own personal canvas on display. Not this year, anyway, and perhaps not ever again.
The damaged inkis,however, the reason he’s here at all, subjecting himself to the potential humiliation of running into his smarmy ex-boyfriend-slash-employer in the first place. This particular convention hosts the best of the best, and that’s what he needs now. Essentially, inside that building is every single one of the verylimitednumber of artists that Ashton would evenconsidertrusting to get near him with a tattoo machine.
That is the hardest part of a cover-up, after all, never mind one of this magnitude—finding someone who can betrustedwith it. Not merely with the design or the artistry, or even the skillful infusion of magic itself, but with thehistory. With the repair process of something that’s essentially infused with a person’s psyche. This tattoo is baked into who he is as a person,entwined withhow he sees himself.
And someone he thought he could trust turned that into a weapon, wielded it with the sole intention of causing pain.
Damn, that hurts.
Shaking his head to clear those uncomfortable thoughts, Ashton swings his legs, letting them smack against the stone wall he’s sitting on. Meanwhile, he exhales intentionally and closes the cover of his book in favor of atleastdoing some people-watching, but his fingers linger on the cracked spine. It’s his favorite: a well-worn(read: falling apart) copy of the first book inthebest fantasy series ever written, and Ashton is prone to carrying it around like Linus and his security blanket. He’s found that reading familiar passages reliably calms fraught nerves and helps him mentally escape whenever a situation is particularly anxiety-inducing.
This mess certainly fits the bill. Anxiety was obviously a given with coming here, so it’s no surprise that the bindings of the book have been tested today.
Thank you, Michael Shield,Ashton thinks silently to himself, running fingers over the author’s raised name where it’s printed across the bottom of the cover. He wishes thatMichael Shield,whoever he is, would show some interest in attending conventions like these (except for books and authors, rather than tattoos and artists), because Ashton would gladly hop on a plane, fly cross-country, and pay any exorbitant amount requested for even the briefest opportunity to stand in his presence.
Perhaps Michael Shield isn’t interested in interacting with fans or being idolized that way, but Ashton would love nothing more than to look him in the eyes, shake his hand, and say “thank you.” As a creator himself, he can’t help but feel that Michael deserves it, too. Deserves to experience tangible gratitude and recognition for what surely cost him blood, sweat, and tears to produce. To know for afactthat the final product has become a source of comfort and a chance to temporarily escape from what Ashton would describe as an otherwise mediocre life.
Those things are important.
Anyway.
With a sigh, Ashton blinks and glances around, realizing abruptly that it’s well into the afternoon. He’s been parked here, at the top of the stone steps leading to the convention center, essentially since the event doors opened early this morning. It’s the perfect place to watch as various customers and artists wander in and out of the building, and to keep an eye peeled for Whitaker.
There’s been no sign of him, thankfully, and Ashton has to admit, he’s getting bored just sitting here quietly as the day wears on and on. Part of him regrets not asking his brother along today for moral support, though on the other hand, Austin would have told him tosuck it up, buttercup,hours ago, and to stop being dramatic in general. Honestly, Ashton’s not entirely ready for that sort of “help”, and from a know-it-all sibling, no less.
He’ll stop leaning into his negative feelings about what happened when he’s damn well good and ready to do so.
Still, if he lingers out here much longer, the artists inside are going to begin wrapping up and then Ashton will be denied the opportunity to see them carving live. He won’t get to observe either the art or magic being demonstrated, never mind hope to confirm any instincts on who might bethecandidate to help him out. With a not-small amount of residual trepidation churning in his gut, Ashton spins around to face the building and hops off of the wall, dusting off the seat of his pants once he hits the ground.
Striding towards the door more confidently than he feels, Ashton makes eye contact with the ticket-taker as he produces his elite pass. Well—technically nothispass, but possession being nine-tenths of the law and all, here he is. The lanyard and tag showed up in his mailbox a week ago and mark him as an artist, a convention invitee, and a part of Whitaker’s team. While the last two are obviously no longer the case, Ashton’s not about to pass up free admission with VIP access.
So he flashes the badge without hesitation and then immediately stuffs it into the depths of his pocket where it can’t be questioned by anyone who might happen to know that Whitaker DiAngelo and Ashton Andrews definitely do not work (or play) together anymore.
The main floor of the convention is pretty much exactly as Ashton expected—the setup is always the same, year to year. Tons of individual booths occupy the majority of the space, each one decorated with its own certain flair. Sample artwork is hung and displayed on various racks and wires, there’s heaps of related merch crowding tables, and most booths have a setup geared specifically for the owners to demonstrate their skills live and in person (plus lines of willing patrons gaming for a shot at the chair).
Conventions are great for business, but they’re a toss-up when it comes to actuallygettingwork done. Some artists come with their own clients lined up, more interested in putting on a curated show than anything else, some do flash sheets only, and some arrive willing to ink up whoever might happen along that day with a wild idea and fifty bucks. Theoretically, he could spend hours watching different artists at work or even sampling the well.
But he doesn’t.
The truth is, Ashton knows exactly where he’s going and to whose booth. He plays it cool just the same—dragging his feet, poking around, and generally pretending that he’s not actually making a beeline for Link Remington andSoul Survivor’s giant set-up towards the very back of the Expo Center’s main hall.
