Quickly getting on board, Link's hands start to move, sweeping slow, broad strokes up Ashton’s back with one coming to rest against a shoulder blade and the other in the dip of his lower spine. Link feels deliciously, impossiblygoodin his arms—solid and welcoming, and the two of them fit together seamlessly. Fit together in a way that has Ashton wanting to saythe hell with itwhen it comes to his tattoo, wanting to instead drag Link caveman-style instead into one of the Soul-arium’s many empty rooms.
Preferably, Link's own, but this is no time to be picky.
Link's skin is warm beneath his hand, and thethingsthey could do together surge through Ashton’s head. The way it wouldfeelto drown himself in Link, to press their bodies together and justbefor one night: no history, no caveats.
Or—hell, Ashton’s feeling reckless—howevermany nights they might choose.
Those thoughts should shake Ashton to his core, to the very depth of his being, the feelings and strength of his desire tobe withLink, in whatever way Link wishes to have him. They should, unquestionably.
For whatever reason, they don’t.
They don’t. Not with Link releasing him only to looksoridiculously fondly down the two-inch height difference between them. Not with the way Link's hand lingers on his bicep, nails trailing softly down the length of his arm, making the hairs there stand up in interest. Not with any of those things, and definitely not with the way Link acts just as reluctant to step away as Ashton feels.
No, there’s nothing to fear, here. They’re in this together, whatever comes of it. That much is very, very clear.
“So. You’re looking good,” Link comments as he moves towards his drawing table. Scooping up a couple of left-behind ink bottles, he relocates the duo over to the workstation set up for them to use today. Motioning for Ashton to join him, Link bustles around and makes a valiant attempt to look busy. If Ashton didn’t know any better, he might make the assumption that Link is feeling as nervous as he is.
It’s reassuring.
“New clothes?” Link continues, shuffling supplies around. “You know, ’cause you’re usually more… buttoned up.”
“Sometimes I look like this,” Ashton says, intentionally evasive, suppressing the grin that tugs at the sides of his mouth as he wanders towards Link's chair. “I used to dress this way often, actually. Before.”
“Oh,” Link replies lamely, squeezing the empty bottle in his hand until the cap pops off, startling him and causing him to fumble. “Well, it—it suits you. You look good.”
“You said that,” Ashton teases, though secretly, he’s entirely pleased with Link's reaction, happily pouring fuel upon the fire by pulling saidgood-lookingt-shirt over his head. Casual as anything, he drapes the fabric over the semi-reclined chair before glancing innocently at Link.
Despite the fact that Linkmusthave been expecting some level of disrobing, his mouth still drops open slightly and his eyes glaze over. Satisfied, Ashton smirks and straddles the back of the chair. Wrapping his arms around the leather like he’s comforting an old friend, he settles in to wait. Relaxed, as if there’s nowhere in the world where he could possibly be more comfortable.
Hey, he’s traumatized, not dead, and definitely not new.
“Jesus Christ,” Link mutters from somewhere behind him. He’s clearly fighting for his life, though to his credit, he manages to keep from dropping anything else before finding his place at Ashton’s side. Cheek pressed against the headrest, Ashton struggles not to shiver at the first touch of Link's fingertips grazing his skin, carefully applying the initial ink transfer template that will guide his hands as he begins fixing Ashton’s wings. This is just linework, though. The design will become far more complicated and require skilled freehand to evolve it as time goes on.
“You never finished telling me about your tattoos,” Link says, a hand resting softly against Ashton’s flank as he finds his bearings, machine checked and poised for action. “You showed me the blade and we got sidetracked sending videos. You ready?”
“Of course, Link,” Ashton replies, answering both questions at once as the machine hums to life. Anticipation is always the worst, and he instinctively braces for the initial stroke. Link presses down, and for a minute or so Ashton remains quiet, allowing his body to adjust to the irritating sensations of the needle dragging and piercing. Heisused to it, though, and the pain settles swiftly into something akin to background noise. Ashton inhales and then releases a slow, intentional breath out, ready to try and hold a conversation.
“As you said, I have the tri-edge,” he begins, glancing at his forearm and flicking the weapon down into his hand, just out of habit. Instead of throwing the blade and disturbing Link's canvas, Ashton just flips it, “catching” the pointed end of the illusion before waving it away, back onto his skin.
“What else? There’s the leak in my Grace,” he continues, tapping the side of his throat. The fact that he’s positioned the way that he is makes it easy for Link to get a visual on this one. With a thought, the blue-white light is swirling and shifting, floating just above Ashton’s skin. It’s a miniature version of the glow that’ssupposedto appear when he spreads his wings, appearing to spill from the inked “cut” in his neck.
“Love that one,” Link comments off-handedly. “What, it’s supposed to be like your power source?”
“Something like that,” Ashton responds noncommittally. “My essence, a gift from my divine creator, what or whoever that may be. Perhaps a visual symbol of my intrinsic talents, and how so many have tried to manipulate and use me, evencutme, to access them. Whether with the goal of making me believe that I was less for their existence, or to use for personal gain—either way.”
From his place at Ashton’s back, Link grunts. “That’s pretty damn deep, Ash,” he remarks, needle buzzing busily away. “Not for nothing, but that whole theme fits in pretty organically with your wings. You know, the whole, flying-through-Hell, coming out the other side damaged but alive, stronger for what you learned along the way? That thing?”
When Ashton remains silent, Link pushes on. “I’m just saying. You, uh—happen to put any more thought into letting me make this a transformative tatt? No pressure, just a question. You did say I could ask, right?”
In truth, Ashton is tired of feeling exhausted by his wings. By the whole situation, really. He’s more than ready to move forward, bolstered by the increasing certainty that Link is the one to take him there, in more ways than just the literal. Weighing his options, Ashton hums and shifts slightly, unsticking his chest from the chair’s leather.
“I trust you,” he says, wetting his lips. “Whatever you think will look best.”
Link's foot must tap the pedal powering his pen because the buzzing noise abruptly ceases. “Wait, seriously?”
“Seriously,” Ashton replies, offering a small nod that doesn’t require the lifting of his head. “Continue, please.” He settles down and goes quiet, waiting for Link to pick up where he left off before continuing to describe his assortment of ink.
Link does, but he places a warm, gloved hand on Ashton’s shoulder first, murmuring softly, “The trust isn’t going unnoticed. I won’t let you down.”
