The buzzing starts up again, the feel of linework resuming over Ashton’s ribcage, and he takes a second to detach himself from the discomfort. Talking to Link about other things helps. He clears his throat. “Where was I?”
“The ribs,” Link suggests. “Front left.”
“Ah, yes. The obscure lettering just below my rib cage was done in an ancient, dead language. The language of the angels, supposedly—something I was randomly drawn to. The actual inscription functions as a healing charm, cleverly built in. I’m not sure that it would do very much if I were, say, stabbed straight through the heart, but for stubbed toes and papercuts, it’s fairly effective. To be fair, I haven’t tested its limits. As we discussed during planning, it should speed up the healing of the work you’re doing, allowing for more sessions closer together.”
“Damn. I gotta get me one of those,” Link replies enthusiastically, his free hand bracing against Ashton’s shoulder. It’s difficult to remember that Link is in professional mode at the moment, that he isn’t being flirtatious. That doesn’t stop his bleeding warmth and physical touch from feeling good, though, needles aside.
“I’d be happy to replicate it for you. Whitaker taught me the charm, and he’s very protective of the formula. Naturally, I’d like to make it one of my staple offerings at an accessible price point going forward.” Link snorts in appreciation, and Ashton smiles. “Really, the only other big pieces I have are the flowers covering the side of my stomach and opposite ribs,” he says, a hand moving to reflexively brush over the massive, colorful assortment of blooms and vines that curl around his abdomen and up his flank.
If it wasn’t for the wings, Ashton probably would have extended the pattern much farther onto his back, but as it turns out, skin is a limited commodity. It’s a favorite, though. The florals aren’t complicated, and there’s nothing particularly magical about the design, save for the way the plants can rustle as if blown by a gentle breeze and the bees hop peacefully from flower to flower. Strange as it might seem, Ashton enjoys watching them immensely, the same way he does their living counterparts. He finds the lowkey, subtle enchantment interminably soothing.
Not everything has to be flashy and made for show.
“Oh, and a map of the world—a globe, I suppose—on my right thigh. It spins. Very technical stuff. That’s it, though.”
“Mmm,” Link says. “Liar.”
“Fine,” Ashton relents, sighing. “There is also an obligatory, text-only, typewriter-font ankle tattoo that says, ‘too much heart,’ are you happy?”
“Yes,” Link replies smugly. “Hey, we’ve all got one.”
“Speaking of which, Iwouldlike to have a guinea pig inked at some point. I just can’t figure out where to place it, or if I’d be terribly disconcerted by him appearing randomly on my neck, the way Beauty does for you.”
Clearly caught off guard, Link laughs loudly, pausing his tattooing to bend over and guffaw, stopping the pen until he can regain control of himself. Sighing in amusement, he pats Ashton’s flank and drops his forehead briefly to a patch of untouched skin, hot breath ghosting across Ashton’s ribs and distracting him thoroughly from whatever train of thought he might’ve had going. Link doesn’t seem to notice the way his canvas is melting into a human puddle, since he sits up and resumes his work without any further teasing.
“Damn, Ash,” he says, a hint of admiration in his voice that Ashton enjoys immensely. “You really are something else, sweetheart.”
The casual term of endearment has Ashton tingling all over again, but he forces himself to relax and let Link do his job. For the next hour or so, the salon is quiet, save for the tattooing machine and the murmur of conversations floating in from the atrium. To his surprise, Ashton actually dozes off right there in the chair, lulled to sleep by the familiar buzzing of Link's equipment in his ear. That same sound used to grate when he was in Whitaker’s chair—now it’s soothing, like an old friend.
The discomfort from the linework is surprisingly minimal; whether because he’s used to it, the healing charm is working overtime, or Link is just that talented, it doesn’t matter. With Link's practiced, light touch and careful hands, it amounts to the same thing. No one needs or asks for a break, and therefore, Link is easily able to accomplish everything he set out to do in their introductory session without difficulty.
Ashton only wakes to Link rubbing aftercare balm onto the skin of his back and shoulders. It’s enjoyable, which isn’t surprising, though Link is perhaps a bit more thorough than strictly necessary. Not that Ashton is about to complain—it’s been quite some time since he’s been touched so gently, so soothingly. He considers pretending not to be awake in the hopes that it might continue, but that seems unfair to Link, who is probably more than ready to relax himself.
After yawning and blinking his way back to a normal, fully-alert state, Ashton waits until Link has secured a piece of plastic wrap over the span of his new ink before sitting up straight and turning around to check in. He shiftsjustfar enough for one of his knees to press flush against Link's thigh.
“Hello, Link,” he says sleepily.
“Hey there, Ash,” Link replies brightly, a sweet smile brightening his face as if he’s pleased to see Ashton all over again. “You did great, we kicked linework’s ass. Miles to go, but it’s a damn good start.” Gathering up the strewn remnants of his trash, Link snaps his nitrile gloves directly into the garbage can before lifting both his arms high above his head and stretching luxuriously, allowing himself averyindulgent yawn.
“I should let you get to bed,” Ashton says regretfully, standing and shaking out his own stiff muscles. Gingerly, he pulls his t-shirt over his head and down to cover Link's work. It’s not discomfort-free, but he’s had worse.
Even though he’s expecting it, when Link nods and smiles ruefully, Ashton’s heart sinks in his chest. He can’t help but feel moderately disappointed that Link isn’t arguing or asking him to stay.
It’s silly that he’s so reluctant to leave. After all, he’s been in Link's company—had Link's handsall over him—for hours upon hours tonight. Not only that, but he’s returning first thing in the morning. He’s hardly evenleaving,just going for a nap and a shower before work, a job where Link will also be, since it’s his place of employment, too.
However silly, it helps that Link appears to both understand and feel the same way, wiping his hands on a rag as he follows Ashton out. All through the empty atrium, all the way up the stairs, and for several charged minutes of lingering in the doorway, Ashton tries to think of reasons not to walk away, because Link islookingat him like he wants to say something. Itispossible, of course, that Link simply wants to ensure that the door is locked behind him, but Ashton’s not actually delusional enough to buy into the musings of his own insecurities.
Not tonight, anyway.
Leaning against the open door with his head pressed back against the frame, bottom lip pulled in between his teeth, and ink-stained towel slung over his shoulder, a lazy exhaustion pervades Link's entire being. It makes Ashton want to gather him up and tuck his tired body into bed (beside him), a caretaking urge he’s not sure that he’s ever experienced prior to today.
Despite the unrelenting eye contact Link is giving him, Ashton resists acting on anything. He steps away, moving backward up the exterior steps instead. As Link watches him go with eyelids heavy, Ashton raises a parting hand and attempts a wink.
“Goodnight, Link,” he tells him.
“Goodnight, Ash,” Link replies, his smile drowsy but still flirty as Ashton’s logical brain forces his feet to turn and walk away. “Text me when you get home,” Link calls after him. “Drive safe.”
“Thank you, Mother,” Ashton replies over his shoulder, but he’s smiling, too.
