Gathering up his dirty clothes, muddy coat, and purloined towel, a warm and cozy Ashton exits Link's room and makes his way towards the kitchen. After a minute of hemming and hawing, he opts to leave his shoes where they are, which happens to be lined up neatly next to Link's desk, drying out. While he knows that Link is probably correct in his assertion that not everything is a sign from the universe, the whole wet-sock thing still hits uncomfortably close to home. Ashton’s not about tempting the fates when an alternative isright there.
His quiet, socked-foot approach provides very little warning to anyone listening, which results in Ashton being gifted the chance to hover in the doorway and watch Link work. Itisa gift—Link is just so full oflife,and it’s difficult to feel anything but happy when he’s around. At present, Link is facing away from the hallway door and therefore him, singing along to the radio and dancing, quite literally, as if no one is watching.
A grin spreads across Ashton’s face as Link spins around on one foot, holding a pan of eggs dramatically out to the side as he screeches into his spatula, belting out the high note of the song that’s currently playing. Forgoing subtlety, Ashton allows a laugh to escape from his throat and it catches Link's attention. Link's head jerks towards him, cheeks flushing prettily as he opens his mouth, presumably to defend himself.
Except, he doesn’t. No actual words make it through Link's lips, just a semi-pained, tiny squeak that reflects the way his eyes turn glassy and unfocused, gaze roaming over the length of Ashton’s body.
Well. That certainly answers Ashton’s question from earlier in a way that hashimblushing and ducking his head, like he was the one playing popstar in the middle of the kitchen. As quickly as it comes over him, though, Link's shell-shocked interlude dissolves and his normal persona returns. It’s so brief that Ashton almost wonders whether he imagined it, tilting his head curiously as Link bustles over to help himself to the dirty clothing, using a foot to nudge Ashton into taking a seat at the table.
“Hang tight,” Link says, juggling the laundry while simultaneously spooning some eggs and bacon onto a plate and placing it in front of Ashton. He winks before disappearing out the door, leaving Ashton alone again, eggs notwithstanding.
Without any good reason to refrain, Ashton shrugs and tucks in, only realizing once he’s halfway through the plate (and the steaming, delicious cup of coffee Link must have poured before he came in), that he was starving. Anxiety has been his constant companion for the past twenty-four hours, and that always makes him forget to eat.
By the time Link reappears, Ashton’s plate is clean and he’s moved on to checking his phone, worried that he’s cutting things close. His first appointment should be arriving within the next half an hour, his station isn’t ready, and there’s still an open wound on his face.
“Clothes are in the washer,” Link announces, sitting down next to Ashton and flinging open the first-aid kit that’s in his hands. Once again, Link's proximity causes Ashton’s breath to stutter in his chest, the pure joy of having him only a few inches away almost overwhelming. He’s easy—casually leaning into Ashton’s space, close enough for his coffee breath to ghost across a cheek as he peers critically at the cut.
Muttering some explanation about angles, Link grasps Ashton’s chin and gently tilts it down and to the side. He uses a single finger to brush away a lock of hair before wetting a piece of gauze with hydrogen peroxide and dabbing away. The corner of his mouth quirks up when Ashton flinches.
“Cold,” Ashton says, by way of explanation.
“Mmhmm,” Link agrees amiably, though he doesn’t stop what he’s doing. “There. Just need a coupla butterfly bandages to hold this sucker closed, and you’ll be good as new. Probably brewing up a hell of a bruise, though. Better practice your, ‘you should see the other guy,’ speech.” Link is already unwrapping said bandages as he speaks, and when Ashton doesn’t protest, proceeds to apply them to his face.
Ashton, meanwhile, is trying his damndest to focus on the fading sting of his cut and the blooming ache caused by Link pressing his fingers into the skin next to it. Not the most pleasant sensation, but the alternative would be acknowledging his body’s push to convince him that leaning in and catching Link's lips with his own isthemove. Worse, his heart seems to have jumped on board with the belief that this averygood idea, leaving his brain struggling to keep a hand on the wheel.
Hoping that Link doesn’t think much of it, Ashton’s eyes drift closed. It’s a lot to process—the gentle warmth of Link's hands, the spicy scent of his cologne, and especially the ridiculouslysoftexpression he’s wearing on his face. Individually and collectively, each of those things is working to amplify his desiresandmake them extremely difficult to ignore.
At one point, Link leans forward to peer over Ashton’s shoulder and down the back of his borrowed shirt, fabric held gently away from his skin, breath puffing at the nape of his neck. “Back looks okay,” Link declares. “Nothing worse than what I caused.” Ashton opens his eyes in time to see Link grin as he slides back in his chair, slamming them closed immediately. He’s never reversed course on a decision so quickly, but there’s absolutely no way he can control himself while Link is so close.
When Link is finished working, he very softly murmurs, “All set, sunshine.” Almost as if he’s reluctant to let go, his fingers trail slowly down Ashton’s cheek. Bracing himself, Ashton opens again, unsurprised to find Link staring intently back. He swallows hard as their eye contact holds, charged in a way that makes him forget that anything else in the world even exists.
Until—
“Ahem.” It’s Sam, hovering in the doorway and awkwardly clearing her throat, and that’s enough to burst the moment. The sound has both of them jerking away from each other, practically jumping to their feet and simultaneously rattling off lame excuses. Sam isn’t having it, but she doesn’t seem particularly bothered, either, sighing and waving them off.
“Yeah, yeah,” Sam says dismissively, with a roll of her eyes that makes Ashton wonder exactly how often she’s walked in on Link doing something like this. That thought doesn’t sit well in his stomach, but everyone has a history. If Link only wanted him for a quick roll in the hay, he could have made a move ten times over by now, and that’s enough for Ashton to put those particular worries aside, if not to rest.
“Ash,” Sam continues, “your ten o’clock is here. She knows you might need a few minutes, I have her set up with some tea in the atrium. I gotta get back, I’ve got a client in the chair. Link—you good to show Ash his station?” Sam’s tone is pointed, and Link looks appropriately chastised, nodding swiftly and shifting on his feet under his sister’s disapproving gaze.
“Bacon?” he offers, holding up the platter and flashing Sam a cocky grin.
Sam rolls her eyes again and raises a hand before disappearing back into the depths of the bunker. Once she’s out of sight, Link looks over at Ashton sheepishly. “You ready?” he asks, jerking a thumb over his shoulder and in the direction of the library. He grabs two strips of bacon and shoves them both in his mouth, talking around the food, which Ashton should definitely not find endearing.
“C’mon, let’s get you set up and ready to kick some tattoo ass.”
“I’m ready if you are.”
Relievedly, the rest of the day passes in a much smoother—if busier—fashion than it began. Despite the slow start, both Remingtons and Ashton wind up with their hands full, inking customers from nearly the minute they step out of the kitchen until the Soul-arium closes its doors to business around seven in the evening.
Ashton’s first appointment takes up a good chunk of the day in and of itself. It’s for a regular, a woman named Tanya who’s on her second session for the third tattoo he’s put on her body. Four hours of coloring and shading turn almostsixtyindividual leaf outlines into photorealistic foliage, and Ashton pushes his limits, laying ink until his hand cramps up. The end result is worth it, though, and he feels accomplished.
This thing with the Remingtons is working. Despite his initial concerns, the blending of his old life and this budding new one seems to be progressing seamlessly. Interestingly, Tanya is the owner of the first tattoo he inked at Whitaker’s studio, an impulse walk-in, lured to the shop by Ashton’s apprenticeship flash sheet posted to Sainted Angel’s social media. He did another piece for her a year later, and then the linework for this one in his own living room.
Not the most professional of circumstances, naturally, but Ashton’s not sorry for doing what he needed to do. More importantly, his decisions led to the retention of loyal clients like Tanya, awesome, collaborative customers who appreciate his talent for what it is and never held his lack of a real studio against him. Tanya once told him that if he set up shop on the sidewalk, she’d be there, first in line.
Still, Tanya seems excited to be at the Soul-arium today, starry-eyed over the Remingtons’ presence and chattering about wanting to book another tattoo just as soon as this one heals. Really, Ashton can’t blame her—the Soul-arium speaks for itself. It’s welcoming, visually interesting, full of attractive people, and it feels like home. It’s unsurprising that clients want to be here and will go out of their way to do so.
As far as the actual process goes, it helps that Tanya is exactly what Ashton needs to soothe his fraught nerves today. She’s the kind of client a tattoo artist hopes for—knows what she wants but respects the creative process. No wiggling or squirming under the needle. Friendly, but not so talkative that Ashton wants to put his pen through his eardrum by the time they’re finished. It’s also a back piece, so there’s no random, awkward eye contact—there’s very little to fuel his anxiety in this sitting.
