Truthfully, he’s been mentally ready to “let it go” like a Disney Princess, ever since texting with Link the night prior. To prove that (to himself, if no one else), he’s out here flaunting the goods like it’s Fleet Week and he just turned twenty-one. Instead of wearing his normal, business-casual, crisp white button-down, Ashton threw caution to the wind by selecting a tight-fitting black t-shirt that hugs his chest like a second skin. Italsoallows the very tips of his wings to spill from the bottom of the sleeves, revealing where they curve around the back of his biceps.
After adding a pair of skinny jeans and boots, Ashton has it on good authority (he snapped a mirror selfie and winced his way through sending it to his brother Austin for approval) that the outfit is doing him a number of favors. He’s anxious to see if Link reacts, if he has anything to say, frankly, because this new and improved attitude is due in no small part to Link himself.
The nearly nonstop texting has made it clear that their flirtatious interactions have tenuously crossed over the line from professional into something not-entirely-platonic, but no farther than that. In truth, Ashton couldn’t say whether he’s feeling more disappointed or more relieved by the boundaries both he and Link seem to be hovering within, though he can admit that for the time being, it’s probably for the best. His tattoo isn’t the only thing they need to consider, there’s also the fact that Ashton is due to start taking clients at the Soul-arium this week—tomorrow, actually.
While it’ll be a relief to be out of his living room, and he certainly wouldn’t want to damage this valuable, fledgling partnership, Ashton would be lying if he claimed not to be intrigued by the possibilities. The past few days have been extremely pleasurable, he’s enjoyed talking to Link immensely, and he’s fairly certain—if the frequency and volume of return texts are any indications—that Link feels the same way.
They’ve covered a vast range of topics by now, and messaging Link has objectively become the highlight of Ashton’s day. Doing so is the first thing he thinks about upon waking, and the last before falling asleep at night, usually to the squint-inducing brightness of the phone’s LED screen lit up beside his head.
Texting Link is just soeasy.Link is no different over the phone than he is in person, except thatnotbeing face-to-face seems to make it easier for him to open up about his own insecurities. Ashton can understand and appreciate that just fine, especially when it’s brought themhere.Against his best intentions going in, it does feel as if they’re building something, maybe even something big.
Early as it might be, Ashton’s heart clenches in his chest when he considers the possibility that someday, he might walk out the Soul-arium’s front door, never to see Link again. After all, that’s what normal clients do, once a tattoo is finished—barring scheduling another, of course, which… he could do, in perpetuity. Theoretically.
The fact that he’s thinking this way is telling. Early or not, it’s apparent that Ashton is in deep. It almost feels pointless to try and fight the losing battle of pretending that he’s not developing someseriousfeelings for this man, and quickly. Even still, whenever he considers letting his guard down, the ghosts of Ashton’s history, his past mistakes, resurface with a vengeance. They vie for air time in his head, warning him to proceed with caution, to slow down, to guard both his heart and mind, to protect the life he’s rebuilt.
It is different, though,Ashton finds himself thinking, late at night, after his phone screen fades to black and ceases buzzing with Link's replies.This isn’t Whitaker.
For starters, Ashton is no wide-eyed ingénue. He’s also not an employee of Link's, but rather a contractor, in charge of both his fate and finances. He isn’t bound by any non-compete clauses, isn’t dependent on others for a weekly paycheck, the way he was at Sainted Angels. If he doesn't source his own clients, he won’t have any. If one of the Remingtons refers someone to him, or if he picks up the rare walk-in, Soul Survivor takes a cut, but that’s both industry standard and something Ashton can control.
Hell, the flexible schedule might even allow him the opportunity to return to school, to perhaps take some new classes or pursue a degree that could translate his desire to teach others into ability. With a bit of education, he’d feel comfortable taking on apprentices, holding workshops, or maybe guest lecturing at the University. His skills are niche, yes, but they’re solid, and his charms are both innovative and top-tier.
Plus, it’s always been a passion of Ashton’s to spread knowledge where he can. To support the next generation of artists, especially those with the talent and drive to unify art and magic. A few nights ago, he brought that bouquet of ideas to Link, inordinately encouraged when—even through text—he seemed completely for it. In fact, Link wassoexcited and enthusiastic, Ashton couldn’t help but feel slightly relieved that there were screens between them. That Link was unable to see him dabbing at his eyes, overwhelmed with unexpected emotion.
Whitakernevershowed interest or care for what madeAshtonhappy. Never created room or left space for what he might want out of life.
Everything is different with Link. Every single thing.
Even now, he can feel that difference—it’s in the way Ashton’s fingers tingle as they twist together nervously. The way his heart pounds just a little bit faster and his mouth turns dry at the mere expectation, theanticipationof seeing Link, live and in person.
Unwittingly, a smile spreads across Ashton’s face—he can’t help it, he’s just so…happy.Halfway up the three steps that lead from the atrium into the library, Ashton stops short, frozen by that simple realization.
Happy.He’s happy. It’s been a long time since that was a word he would think to use to describe any feelings he might have about himself or his life, but here he is, and it’s… easy.Obvious. He’shappy,and a not-small part of that has everything to do withLink.
While Ashton is standing there, doing his best impression of a Madame Tussaud’s display and processing a moment inside of his own head, Link appears. He steps out from one of the alcoves on the left side—hisside—of the room, wiping down his favorite tattooing machine with a clean, white towel. Link isveryparticular and proud of his equipment, treats his machines like children.
He looks up when he notices movement in the doorway, recognition causing a grin to spread slowly across his lovely face, lighting up his emerald eyes and crinkling them at the corners.
“Hello, Link,” Ashton says, and it comes out almost breathless, his entire demeanor slightly more overt in broadcasting his interest than he might necessarily prefer. That’s the price of being blindsided by his thoughts, missing the chance to center himself before Link washere,with no safe place to rest his gaze.All Ashton can do now is smile ruefully and—if the way his cheeks heat is any sort of tell—pretend that he has no idea he’s blushing. “It’s very nice to see you.”
Honestly, it’s possible that Link doesn’t notice his reaction, since his own pleased expression shifts quickly to thinly-veiled lust as his eyes drift over Ashton’s outfit.
“Hey, Ash,” he replies, somewhat distractedly. Speaking of blushing, when Link realizes how terribly transparent he’s being, his cheeks turn pink all the way down to his neck. He ducks his head as he clears his throat, spinning on his heel to set the tattoo gun down on a table, and Ashton suspects it’s strictly for something to do.
When he turns back, he tips his chin toward Ashton’s arm. “Do the thing,” he says eagerly, unambiguously requesting a live demonstration of his previously-declared favorite of Ashton’s tattoos. During the past week (and on repeat request), Ashton has sent video after video showcasing him doing the trick over and over. Link's a tattoo artist, he’s seen it all, and Ashton truly thought that the novelty would’ve worn off by now.
Apparently not.
Glancing down at the artwork depicting a thin, silver blade inked carefully onto the sensitive skin of his inner forearm, Ashton flashes Link a predatory grin before flicking his wrist in practiced motion. When he does, the weapon—which is no ordinary knife, but a tri-edged sword featuring a long, rounded hilt—slips smoothly down the length of his arm and into his hand. A second sweeping motion has Ashton drawing back to create the illusion of “releasing” the blade, sending it off like the skill is second nature in his arsenal.
At the moment, he’s close enough to make Link endgame. He sends the weapon spinning, flying end over end in Link's direction with intent to maximize the dramatic finish. With a tiny jerk of Ashton’s fingers, the blade finds its target, appearing to embed itself fully in the center of Link's chest. Buried to the hilt, it disappears abruptly in a puff of purple smoke before reappearing on Ashton’s arm.
“Awesome,” Link declares in amazement, staring down at his own chest and then up at Ashton in awe, like he’s never seen a simple illusion before. “You’re awesome.”
“The magic that brings your inked version of Beauty to life is far more complex and subtle,” Ashton retorts, deflecting the praise easily, but sidling up to Link all the same. He stops speaking as Link reflexively turns into him, bringing them chest-to-chest. There’s a pause, as if they’re both unsure what to do next, and with good reason. Whatisthe proper greeting between brand-new friends who have been in near-constant contact, flirting incessantly for a week straight, but haven’t actually been up close and personal in the same time frame?
You’re overthinking it, Ashton,he chastises himself, taking in Link's warm, green eyes and subsequently opting to move on instinct. It hasn’t failed him yet, not where Link is concerned.
Stepping further into Link's space, Ashton slides arms up and around his shoulders, cupping the back of his neck. At first, Link stiffens beneath his touch, and Ashton flinches, thinking he’s made a terrible mistake. Thankfully—thank God—almost immediately, Link relaxes again, shaking his head slightly as if to clear it and exhaling softly.
