Upon reflection, Link supposes that he’s been given the adult equivalent of a reward cookie more than once in the past twenty-four hours, which is fair. Speaking of which—while their encounter the previous night (and the epic Round Two they shared around five a.m. after Link came back from the bathroom) went a hell of a long way towards soothing fraying edges, towards reassuring Link that Ashis,actually, all kinds of into him (at least as much as he is in return), this is still going to be a bigday.
Ahugeday, really. One for the books, and one that represents an enormous step in their little fledgling relationship. Inevitably, Link is staring down the barrel of finding out whether he’s managed to deliver on his lofty promises and his own projected confidence. Whether his time, talent, and hard work actually translate to a final product that matches Ash’s expectations (and everything that he deserves to feel when he looks at himself in the mirror). Most importantly, today they find out whether Ashton regrets the enormous amount of unearned trust he dumped so freely into Link's lap.
Yeah, alright, so “huge” might even be understating what’s at stake here, just a smidge.
Despite that, Link is absolutely not the kind of douchebag who’s interested in making this giant step in his boyfriend’s post-traumatic recovery efforts abouthim. No sirree, Bob.Which is why he’s suffering silently, doing his best to shove all of his feelings, all of the worries swirling determinedly around the inside of his head down and away, so that he can keep the focus solely on Ash.
The stage is set: any exterior factors that Link can control, he has. There are no other appointments booked in for today, which hepersonallychecked and double-checked. Sam did try to schedule a freaking four-hour session midday, was carting around some giant tramp-stamp sketch intended for the ass of her new, piping hot flavor of the week. Luckily, Link caught wind of that and told her where he’d shove her tattoo machine if she so much as tried it.
To be fair, Sam understood, and maybe Link didn’t need to be so harsh, but the last thing Ashton needs is some groupie hanging around the Soul-arium, trying to get laid. Plus, this new girl of Sam’s hasrankenergy. Mellie is her name, which is as suspicious a moniker as Link’s ever heard, and she’s always following Sam around with her camera out and TikTok open. Shit’s got “clout-chaser” written all over it, and Link doesnotlike the vibe.
Sure, he wants Sam to be happy, but honestly, Link’s secretly hoping this specific love interest gets her Sam fix and loses interest before the holidays. No other way to describe it—on top of constantly trying to boost her follower count, this Mellie chick has “carrots and raisins in the stuffing” energy, and that shit isnothappening on Link’s watch.Some things are sacred.
Either way, after years of living in each other’s pockets, Sam is smart enough to know when to take a hint, to pick up on when Link needs some space. This time, it only took the one little threat to get her there, andboom—peace and quiet. Link's damn happy his sister made herself scarce last night, and he sincerely doubts that she and Ruined Stuffing will be back any time soon.
Begrudgingly, Link supposes that if Mellie can keep Sam’s ass busy and out of their hair for the majority of the weekend, then, in turn, he can muster up enough appreciation to let her clout-chasing ass stay foronegame night.
One.
On the flip side, without any uninvolved bunker occupants to worry about disturbing them, he and Ash wind up getting a significantly late jump on their plans. For starters, they spend the better part of the morning lounging in bed, kissing and groping each other in between sips of coffee and shared bites of toast. Not the most inspiring brain fuel, but it was the easiest thing Link could think to make at the time. In his defense, he was distracted.
Ash is in love with him, and Link's focus was understandably centered around gettingbackinto the body-warmed blanket nest with the guy as fast as humanly possible.
By the time they do manage to drag themselves out from their self-made cocoonandshower,andput on fresh clothing (that doesn’t immediately come back off), it’s nearing one in the afternoon and they’re both starving. It takes a round of sandwiches, a beer each, and another interlude that consists of Ashton pulling Link down onto one of the sofas in the atrium (where he kisses with surprising enthusiasm, considering his already-chapped lips from previous sessions), before they’refinallyready to switch gears.
When they do make the shift, the change is drastic. The mood drops the very second Ashton straddles his chair, and truthfully, Link immediately misses the light, playful tension that’s been present between them through the night and into this morning. If hedidhappen to be the praying kind (he’s not), Link would definitely be sending one up right about now.
To what or who, it doesn’t even matter—he’s willing to try it all. A hope, a prayer, or maybe just good freaking energy, he can vibe with anything that might prevent this whole enchilada—from Ashton’s bestowed trust, to Link's own artistic skills, to his loud confidence about what would be best for this tattoo—from blowing up in his face.
With a deep, grounding breath and a subsequent controlled exhale, Link releases his claim on that stress, zeroing in singularly on the canvas in front of him and the task that lies ahead. As soon as the needle of his pen touches skin, he’s gone. Carried away to a different universe, zen and centered like nothing else in his life allows him to be. He’sfocused,ready to channel the concepts in his brain through the movements of his hands and create somemagic.
Tattooing is an art, sure, but it’s also a skill. A highly-developedskill that Link has been practicing and honing for an entire lifetime, arguably since he was old enough to park his ass on the stool next to his dad’s and watch him work.
This, what he’s attempting here today, is the culmination of all those years of preparation. All thatworkmastering technical processes, instilling discipline, and developing his artistry—thosehave collectively brought him here. No individual piece standing alone is enough: it’s thesynthesisof those parts, the sum of the whole that pulls miracles from ink and flesh the way that Link is known for doing.
“We’ve got work to do,” Link says under his breath, more to himself than anything else. The corner of Ashton’s mouth ticks up in recognition, but he doesn’t reply, just braces himself more firmly against the chair. Link thinks he catches sight of the healing charm’s flare—a quick burst of blue that wouldn’t be noticeable through a shirt—wild.He’s barely touched needle to skin, but it’s like it knows.
Damn,Link thinks, impressed.Ashton’s charms aresmartas hell.He makes a mental note to tell the guy how brilliant he is later, and then dives fully into working on the ink.
It’s complex, but the moving parts coalesce easily right in front of Link's eyes. Everything makes sense: the curve of the dark lines against Ashton’s paler skin, the concentration it takes to infuse the particular magic Link needs from his pen into the ink, the way the design comes to life both on the canvas and in his own mind. Both are equally necessary and important to crafting the final product, and Link lets himself be immersed in it all.
Time flies and Link hardly notices. It’s just him, the tattoo pen, and his badass skills.
Ashton is quiet, solemn, even. From his slumped-forward position, he seems content to let Link do what needs to be done and to refrain from derailing the process with small talk or flirting. Link doesn’t know whether that’s primarily forhisbenefit or if Ashton’s just slipped into some sort of melancholy mood, borderline trance. Either way, he respects the choice and leaves him to his own devices.
It takes four hours and thirty-three minutes for Link to complete the remainder of Ashton’s tattoo and by the end,damn,does his handhurt.It’s good that he finishes when he does—much longer, and Link would have no choice but to stop for the day, lest the details suffer for his muscle cramping.
In under the wire,he thinks, satisfied.
Even still, Link's eye is critical as it sweeps over the design, checking for flaws both magical and physical. Nothing jumps out at him, but he won’t know for sure until Ashton spreads his wings in the mirror. With any other client, a small error—even a magical one—wouldn’t be a big deal. It’s a hazard of the job and happens frequently, even to perfectionists. Sometimes you don’t know what you don’t know, so touching up is a built-in part of the process. You check it, you tweak it, you’re good. No harm, no foul.
With this, though, it’s different. The stakes are higher. Link doesn’t wantanythingtainting Ashton’s moment with his new ink, with his new vision ofhimselfand the images he carries on his body. Ash deserves better than that, after everything he’s been through. It has to be flawless.
So Link does his best to close every loophole he can find, to infuse and secure the most flawless enchantments he’s ever executed, probably in the history of his career. If push came to shove, he’d grudgingly admit that this series of work is superior to even the designs he’s inked on Sam, and that’s saying something.
Finally, maybe twenty, twenty-five minutes after he should’ve called time of death, Link's eyes start to water and burn from concentrating so hard. At that point, even his own exacting gaze and harsh inner critic have to concede that he’s done all he can do. There is always a point when creating—creating anything, really, from a picture, to a story, to a tattoo—where Link notices a shift. A fulcrum tip, so to speak, where continuing toendlessly pick and tweak has already stopped being helpful.
On the downslide (and he’sdefinitelyon the downslide with these wings), those adjustments inevitably throw down the Uno reverse card, each nitpick making things worse instead of better.
