“So I flexed,” Ashton says, diving back into the story head first, the ice rattling in his glass.
The wind howled, the rain poured, the lightning flashed, and Ashton flexed.
He flexed, and then watched in the mirror as his new wings came to life for the first time and his dreams of what they might be went swirling down the drain. To Whitaker’s credit, they did appear behind him, just as planned. Just as they worked together to create and have them do. Except, despite the wings rising proudly into the space above Ashton’s shoulders, they remained every bit the contorted, monstrous messes he saw inked flat onto his skin.
There was no evolution, no magical moment where the wings transformed from ruined to healed, and Ashton was very abruptly forced to accept that there wouldn’t be. That the disaster he saw was what he would be stuck with.
Overwhelmed with sadness and fury, Ashton found himself choking on air, staring into the mirror, and then the ceiling, struggling to process the details. The way that even the limited feathers hedidhave were drawn damaged and twisted, a few of them appearing tofall offas he stood there watching. His wings were truly grotesque, more like sticks than wings at all, and they were clearly created to look as if theyhurt.
They did hurt. Not physically, of course, save for the echoing burn of the needle pulsing against abraded skin, but in every other way somethingcanhurt. For everything his wings were supposed to represent and display, this was the polar opposite.
To Ashton, it felt as if he was staring at the physical manifestation of every insecurity, every dark and warped feeling he’d ever harbored about himself made tangible and brought to life.Damaged.This was how Whitaker wanted people to see him, this was how peoplewouldsee him, now and forever.
And Whitaker laughed. Helaughed.
“A year later and I’m only just now working up the courage to look into having it fixed,” Ashton admits softly. He’s still glaring down at his lap, focusing intently on his fingers and where they’re wrapped around the now-empty tumbler. His head is a little fuzzy, limbs warm and heavy with the effects of the alcohol, and he’s unabashedly glad for it. This was a hard enough conversation to have, no need to endure it sober.
And perhaps that’s why, when Link's hand inches closer, when itfinallycloses the distance, squeezes his shoulder, and stays there, Ashton leans into the touch without really thinking about what he’s doing. It’sdefinitelywhy he’s able to summon the courage to look up and meet Link's gaze.
When he does, though, it’s a strange comfort to see that Link looks horrified, not at all as if he thinks that Ashton is being overdramatic or ridiculous. That alone allows him to exhale a sigh of relief and to relinquish some of the anxiety he’s been holding onto while spilling his guts.
“Ash,” Link says, shifting closer on the couch as his grip tightens on Ashton’s shoulder. His expression is incredulous, his wide, green eyes blinking as he shakes his head in disbelief. “That shit isreallyfucked up.”
Unable to help it, Ashton laughs. Link's words are just so…pure,considering the complexity, the layered nuance of the situation, and all of Ashton’s feelings surrounding it. For his part, Ashton has wallowed and dwelled, over-analyzed and second-guessed himself for ayear,now. Over and over he’s tried to be objective: organizing his memories and boxing up his emotions, only to pull each one out in turn and consider it carefully in context. He’s returned to the situation repeatedly, taking months to gain distance, to work up the courage to face each difficult piece from an objective point of view.
Hearing the reality of it stated so plainly, so bluntly—it does Ashton’s soulgood.
Smiling widely back at Link, he laughs again and then Link joins in, and soon they’re giggling somewhat drunkenly, heads tipped carelessly onto the back of the couch, their faceswaytoo close together. At that moment, Ashton knows that he made the right choice in coming here, for more than one reason. He’ll just take whatever comes next one cautious step at a time.
“Alright,” Ashton says, once they’ve both regained a modicum of control over their respective emotions, though neither of them moves away. Emboldened by the sustained proximity, Ashton’s fingers develop a mind of their own, working their way across the couch cushion to cover Link's hand where it rests splayed against the fabric. “So, do you think you can help me?”
Link's smile is blinding as he grins in reply, nodding confidently, without any sign of hesitation. “Oh, hell yes,” he replies.
?
Chapter 3
A week later, hunched over preliminary sketches laid out across Link’s workbench in the library, they begin to hammer out the project’s many details. Aprojectis definitely what this particular tattoo is, as the planning, complex artistry, and magical infusion needed to pull it off are inarguably next level. While Link seems confident in his skills, he’s also quick to admit that the execution will still be a challenge, albeit one he’s both excited and anxious to take on.
After quite a bit of hemming and hawing, Link ultimately predicts that Ashton’s tattoo cover-up will take a minimum of five sessions. Potentially more, but definitely not less. Subsequently, Link hinges his willingness to take Ashton onofficiallyas a client on one thing, and one thing only: a promise.
They’re sitting across from each other, and Link looks him square in the eyes when he declares, “You can’t look. Like, at all. Not ’til it’s done.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“As a heart attack, baby. I’m all-in, but you gotta swear you won’t try and activate the magicorpeep the ink on your back until the design is finished and I give the ‘OK’.”
“Fine,” Ashton says reluctantly,warily,side-eyeing Link with everything he’s got.
“Hey, I know it’s a big ask, but sometimes these things getseriouslyworse before they look any better,” Link explains. He gazes at Ashton thoughtfully, almost critically, like he’s trying to suss out whether he thinks Ashton can be trusted to keep his promise and not peek. “Also—and you know this—there’s no telling what’ll happen when Whitaker’s charms interact with mine. Gotta give a guy time to wrestle that shit into submission.”
Ashton raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t disagree.
“Can’t have you sliding into some kind of depression spiral, staring into your bathroom mirror and thinking I jacked you up worse.’Speciallywhen I’m not even there to defend myself.” Link bites back a smirk as Ashton stares at him, steadfastly unflinching and not actually answering his question. Link just blinks innocently and doesn’t relent, so after a minute or two of silence, Ashton throws up his hands.
“Alright,” he relents, leaning back in the chair he’s currently occupying, rough sketches lying forgotten between them. “I was lying the first time I said I wouldn’t, but I’m being honest now.” It’s the truth, or close to it, though Ashton knows that the temptation will be near-impossible to resist. The issue is that what Link isreallyasking for in this promise istrust, and when it comes to this tattoo,trustis precisely what Ashton struggles with handing over.
In the end, Ashton supposes that Link's request is not only doable but worth it, considering that said trust has to go both ways. It’s not as if hecouldn’tsteal a glimpse when he’s alone in his apartment—Link wouldnever even know.
