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It takes Marcus less than ninety seconds to determine that his four o'clock is an aggressively annoying piece of shit.
"So, um, yeah, I guess this is, um, this is the one, right?" the guy is stammering, cheeks flushed pink beneath a faint layer of freckles as he brandishes a folded square of expensive-looking sketchbook paper. "That's what, um, that's what everyone told me, at least. That I'd, um, that I'd just know when I saw it. So. Yeah. This one."
Marcus grunts and slants an accusing glare at Parkinson, who isn't even pretending to be paying attention to the magazine she's flipping through at her end of the counter. He never should've fucking hired her.
"Right," Marcus finally says. "First time, then?"
"Yeah, he's a virgin," Parkinson calls over, not at all helpfully, the tasteful trio of diamond studs in her nose winking as they catch the overhead light. "I made a note about it, Marcus, it's in the book."
The guy—Oliver Wood, according to his appointment card, which is just fan-fucking-tastic—chuckles nervously. "Is that really...you really call it that?" There's an awkward beat of silence. "Being a virgin? That's. I mean. I'm not. I've just never gotten a—"
"What's your pain threshold like?" Marcus interrupts, cracking his knuckles, one by one by one. "High? Low? You want...whatever on your ribs, that's gonna hurt."
"I—well. High? I think?" Wood prods at a cut on his upper lip with the tip of his tongue, and Marcus gets a fleeting impression of pink and soft and wet before shutting that shit down with a quick stab of viciously irrational anger. "I played, like, most of last season on a broken foot."
"He's a hockey player," Parkinson simpers, loudly popping her gum. Marcus deeply regrets talking her out of a butterfly tramp stamp three years ago. "And—hey, you love hockey, don't you, Marcus?"
"No," Marcus lies, pretty blatantly, probably. "Not really into sports. You mentioned you had a piece for me to use as a reference?"
Wood startles, disgustingly bright hazel eyes going wide, and then he fumbles for the square of sketchbook paper, pushing it reverently across the counter. "I—yeah, one of my teammates, their, uh, their girlfriend's a graphic designer? And she drew that for me? I mean, it was my idea, you know, like, I really...it's personal, but she, um, she drew it. So. Yeah."
Marcus unfolds the paper and almost immediately wishes he hadn't.
Christ, that's a lot of fucking red.
The drawing itself isn't bad—a decidedly rough around the edges, steel-gray coat of arms jaggedly divided into fourths, each panel depicting a different image transposed over a different background; like an out-of-order timeline, Marcus thinks, the team logos and the memories associated with them and the intricately disguised sticks and pucks and faceoff dots and it'd be fucking clever, honestly, if it wasn't so fucking ugly.
"What the fuck's that?" Marcus asks, squinting at the final quarter-panel of the shield. It's a ruby, maybe, princess-cut and a garish, glittering crimson. "Is it a KHL thing? Fucking Russians."
"That's, um. No. Well." Wood forces out a laugh and scratches at the back of his neck. His fingers are long. Callused. Elegant. Capable. Marcus coughs, furiously, into his fist. "It's...come on, man, it's. You know. The eye of the tiger."
"The eye of the tiger," Marcus repeats flatly. "Really."
"I just—it's...my Junior team, you know, it was—" Wood flaps his hand. "A joke? Kind of? Our, um, our...pre-game song. It's. I mean. Sentimental." Another awkward pause. "Nostalgic?"
Marcus slowly levels Parkinson with his most murderous scowl. "I'm firing you."
Parkinson rolls her eyes. "No, you're not."
"Whatever the opposite of a raise is," Marcus continues, clenching and unclenching his jaw. "You're getting that."
"Is it—are the tiger stripes too much, then?" Wood asks, frowning in concern. His eyelashes are so absurdly fucking long that they fucking flutter when he blinks. "Or—is it the colors? My old mask was black and gold, which is why we, um, we went with that scheme for the—"
"How big do you want it?" Marcus grits out.
"How big do I...what?"
"The tattoo," Marcus says, crossing his arms over his chest. "How big do you want it?"
Wood audibly swallows, gaze pinned to the bunching, flexing curve of Marcus's right bicep, where delicate furls of green and purple and silver and blue ink are peeking out from the sleeve of his t-shirt.
"I want it...big," Wood says, grimacing when Parkinson snorts out a frankly hysterical giggle. He clamps his bottom lip between his teeth and then gestures vaguely to his torso. "Just...all across my ribs? If you can, um. Fit it."
Marcus glances up, meeting Wood's eyes for the first time all afternoon, and ignores the quiet little lurch of anticipation that erupts in the pit of his stomach. He's normally a lot better at saying no to this kind of bullshit.
"I prefer to do a free-draw directly on the skin for bigger pieces," Marcus eventually mutters. "It takes about an hour, lets you kind of...try it on for a day or two, see if you really like the placement. The size. Whatever."
Wood nods fervently. "Right, yeah, sure, I can—I can do that."
"Right, yeah, sure," Marcus echoes, and then spasmodically jerks his chin towards the back room, where his station is. "Let's go."
Wood stands uncertainly next to the padded leather bench. "Um, what should I—"
"Shirt off," Marcus interjects, nostrils flaring as he yanks open one of his desk drawers. "Get on your side, arm above your head—ribs aren't flat, so some of it might wrap around. Need to see the whole area."
There's an aggravatingly distracting flurry of sounds; shoes being kicked off, a t-shirt being tossed aside, a creaking, withering groan as Wood settles himself on the bench. Marcus stares, unseeing, at his collection of pens. Felt. Semi-permanent. Brush-tip. He picks one at random, uncapping it with a huff, and then turns back towards Wood.
Marcus's mouth goes curiously, instantly, desperately fucking dry.
Wood has followed Marcus's instructions with a kind of technical precision that shouldn't even really be applicable to something as fucking simple as laying down on a goddamn table, and yet—he's on his side, hips flat, knees curled, the sturdy, rippling plane of his abdomen on picture-perfect display, a crooked trail of wiry auburn hair winding down from his navel, disappearing into the waistband of his boxers, and there's a smooth, pale, lightly freckled expanse of skin stretched over his ribs in almost obscene counterpoint to the dark berry-pink of his nipples, and his shoulders are broad and his waist is narrow and the muscles in his back are long and lean and taper into fucking dimples right above his ass and Marcus can't—Marcus can't—
"This alright?" Wood asks, adorably earnest. "Or did you need me to—"
"No, yeah," Marcus croaks, clutching his pen and rocking back on his heels and violently resisting the urge to reach down and adjust himself in the fucking too-tight hipster jeans he should've never let Parkinson bully him into actually fucking wearing. "You're—that's fine."
The corner of Wood's mouth tilts up in an idiotic grin.
Marcus wonders if it's physically possible to punch himself in the face.
A little less than twenty-four hours later, Marcus is panting in the middle of the Crossfit locker room, heartrate still sky-high, glowering down at his phone as he re-reads what just might be the world's most nonsensical fucking text thread:
(2:12 pm) hey marcus its oliver
(2:12 pm) oliver wood
(2:13 pm) you drew on me yesterday with a marker
(2:15 pm) i got your # from your receptionist i hope thats not weird
(2:16 pm) if its weird you can ignore this and we can just talk at my next appointment
(2:18 pm) unless its really REALLY weird and you want to cancel
(2:25 pm) shit
(2:35 pm) its just that i got hit with a puck earlier and theres a bruise on my other side that i kind of really like the colors of
(2:36 pm) and i was thinking like
(2:36 pm) what if instead of all the red and gold and stuff you just
(2:37 pm) made it look like a bruise but
(2:38 pm) artistically?
(2:38 pm) yeah?
(2:40 pm) because thats hockey right
(2:40 pm) bruises
(2:41 pm) pain and suffering and glory
(2:47 pm) shit this really is weird isnt it im so fucking sorry
(3:00 pm) still sorry
(3:12 pm) hello?
Marcus towels off the sweat dripping down his neck. Chugs half a bottle of Gatorade. Strips out of his clothes, and takes a perfunctory three-minute shower, and changes into a pair of comfortably loose sweatpants.
He's a fucking professional.
This is a professional fucking courtesy.
(3:29 pm) hey oliver
(3:29 pm) i dont mind that you have my number
(3:29 pm) i was just at the gym
(3:30 pm) if you wanted to take a pic of the bruise i can probably come up with something
(3:32 pm) suitably artistic
Wood's response appears alarmingly fast:
(3:33 pm) it might be better in person i think
(3:34 pm) just
(3:34 pm) some of the colors are kind of subtle you know
Marcus carefully lowers his phone, looking askance at a dusty bank of empty metal lockers, because—well, because he's a naturally suspicious person who's categorically unused to getting what he fucking wants. He's good at hitting things and drawing things and he's always liked the dichotomy of that. Destruction and creation, the scabs on his knuckles and the ink stains on his fingertips, an equal distribution of positive and negative energy.
Oliver Wood and his ugly fucking tattoo belong in that looming gray space in-between, Marcus thinks, before resolutely swiping at the lock screen of his phone.
(3:39 pm) had kind of a crazy workout today
(3:40 pm) was just gonna stay in and order some pizza
(3:42 pm) catch up on survivor
(3:42 pm) you could come over
(3:46 pm) if you want
Wood shows up that night with two six-packs of pretentious New England craft beer and a butterfly bandage on the bridge of his nose.
"I left my mask off during warm-ups," he explains, chasing a greasy string of cheese with his mouth. "Rookie camp, you know?"
Marcus hums. "That the bruise you wanted me to check out?"
Wood chokes on a gulp of beer. "Oh, my god."
Marcus raises his eyebrows and sprawls out a little more obviously in the center of the couch, hips rolling up, knees splayed wide.
"Um," Wood says weakly, licking his lips. "No, it's on my other side."
"Ah."
"I could..."
Marcus toys with the rim of his beer bottle, condensation beading on the glass, dangling it between two of his fingers. "You could?"
Wood's expression suddenly sharpens with determination, and then he's scooting forward, jumping to his feet, reaching back behind his neck to pull off his henley and throw it carelessly onto the floor—and then he's stepping up to Marcus, moving to stand between his legs, and shifting, slightly, to show off a painful-looking bruise on his lower abdomen.
Marcus has to dig his nails into his palms to stop himself from touching. "Fuck. Fuck."
"It was my fault, mostly," Wood says, voice pitched low but not quite casual as he prods at the ragged, gray-purple edges of the bruise. It's a riot of swollen, storm-dark pastels, charcoal and lavender and that uniquely mid-summer shade of yellow-green that the grass tends to turn when it's too hot to do anything else. "Took all my gear off and offered to help one of the younger guys with one-timers."
Marcus's gaze drifts over the faintly smudged drawing on Wood's ribs, tracing a deliberately lazy path around the trembling muscles in Wood's stomach and the thick, waxy pink scar on his sternum that Marcus hadn't noticed the day before, the freckles on his shoulders and the smaller, older scrapes on his chest—Marcus really fucking studies the bruise, though, the varying splashes of color, hazy, earth-toned halos spiraling out and fading, ghosting, seeping into the grain of Wood's skin just like the ink from Marcus's pen had, just like the ink from Marcus's needles would, albeit more permanently.
"Yeah," Marcus says, taking a mortifyingly uneven breath. He lifts his hand. Wood's throat bobs as he watches. "Yeah, I can work with this."
Wood's appointment the next night is technically after-hours, but Parkinson is never going to fucking know that because she's not the one who booked it.
It's raining when Wood finally arrives, most of the skyline obscured by clouds and fog and the eerie glow of the moon, and he kicks the shop door closed, flashing a broad smile when he sees Marcus lurking behind the counter—and Marcus, well, Marcus almost smiles back. Instinctively. Reflexively. It's fucking weird.
"Um, hi," Oliver says, absently scrubbing the raindrops out of his hair. His nose twitches. "I mean—hey. Hello."
Marcus scoffs and nods towards his station. "Shirt off. Come on."
Wood arranges himself in that same unfairly fucking graceful position on Marcus's table, hips flat, knees bent, and shivers when Marcus washes off the remnants of the other day's drawing, swabbing a large section of warm pink skin with alcohol. He then frames out the width of the tattoo with his thumb and forefinger, memorizing the angles, taking one last look at the sketch Wood had given him—the general shape of it, how the details are layered, mentally subtracting the hideous fucking scroll-topped banner floating above the coat-of-arms.
Marcus snaps on a new pair of latex gloves.
A muscle in Wood's neck goes taut as he braces himself for the ominously mechanical whir of the tattoo gun.
The hours slip by.
Marcus enjoys this part of the process; the focus, the repetition, keeping his hands steady and his concentration intact. He isn't a talker, hasn't ever really seen the point in acting like he gives a shit about people, about their motives and their stories, because he doesn't. He's a well of one-word answers and unfriendly smirks and blunt, ten-minute consultations that almost always end in rejection because he has the luxury of a two-year waitlist and a password-protected portfolio and he's usually so much better at saying no to this kind of bullshit.
Wood manages not to squirm too much, at least.
After, Wood stares at his tattoo, wincing at the inflamed skin, the reddened lines and the puffy edges, the way the too-vibrant ink bleeds and blurs and gleams where it's reflected back in the small silver mirror Marcus holds up.
"It doesn't look like a bruise," Wood says, sounding surprised. "I mean. It does, I guess, but not..."
Marcus shrugs. "Figured you didn't actually want to look injured for the rest of your life."
Wood doesn't reply.
And the strange, towering intimacy of the past few days—it's gone, Marcus thinks, idly watching Wood scratch at the scruff on his chin, tuck his AmEx back into his wallet, furrow his brow and gnaw on his thumbnail and glance out at the hulking shadow of his stupid fucking soccer mom SUV. He's waiting for Marcus to say something, probably.
Marcus is waiting for Marcus to fucking say something.
Because Wood—he's deceptively soft, unexpectedly intense, disconcertingly dangerous despite all his jittery, restless fumbling and fidgeting and talking, fuck, he talks a fucking lot. It's in the strength of his shoulders and the solid knife-cut of his jaw, in his stubbornly oblivious refusal to be intimidated or embarrassed or denied the opportunity to go after whatever it is he wants.
And what Wood had wanted earlier was an ugly fucking tattoo.
And what Wood wants now—
Dawn is hovering on the horizon, backlit slivers of misty pink and sherbet orange sunlight filtering through the irritating little gap in Marcus's bedroom curtains.
Oliver's laying on his side, curled around an extra pillow, the white cotton gauze and clear plastic tape on his ribs almost shimmering in the semi-darkness, and Marcus is barely awake, arm draped over Oliver's waist as he yawns into the curve of Oliver's neck, teeth grazing his collarbones and breath swirling hotly against his ear.
"Go back to sleep," Oliver mumbles, elbow flailing backwards.
Marcus wraps his leg around Oliver's hips to keep him still. "Fuck off, I was just thinking—"
"No, you weren't."
"—how'd you even get Parkinson to give you an appointment with me?"
Oliver pauses. "I, um. Had a referral."
"No shit?"
Another, lengthier pause. "The guy who does piercings at your shop..."
"You know Zabini?"
"Not exactly," Oliver hedges, and then rolls over, swearing when his ribs make contact with the bony part of Marcus's wrist. "Look, I don't know how involved you are with your, um, employees' personal lives—"
"They're obnoxious little prep school shits who don't know what boundaries are, how involved do you fucking think I am?"
"Um."
Marcus sighs. "Zabini's got a secret hockey playing boyfriend, doesn't he."
"Yeah. Sorry."
"I don't double date."
"Okay."
"I'm fucking serious."
"Sure, yeah."
"This isn't high school, there's no fucking hockey prom, okay, we're not—we're not doing that."
"Absolutely."
"Well."
"Mm?"
"We can do it once, maybe."
"Oh, yeah?"
"Just to. You know. Make sure your dickhead teammate's good enough."
Oliver's lips quiver, and Marcus doesn't think twice about leaning in, kissing the laughter right out of Oliver's mouth, making it his own—
Making it theirs.