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When Ponce was 14, he was dared at a sleepover at Isaac Newton’s house to tattoo the word “fuck” over his knee. JFK had tried to talk him out of it, Isaac was a bully and a jerk, and this was permanent, Ponce what the hell. But Ponce had gritted his teeth, taking the proffered sewing needle and india ink from the blond boy, and sat quietly hunched over his knee on the floor. JFK spent the next hour watching the word slowly materialize in all caps, observing as his best friend occasionally wiped blood and ink away from the word with tissues and rubbing alcohol.
That had been the beginning. A month later, Ponce had poked a shoddily-drawn anchor on his thigh. He had shown JFK, proud of his handy-work, asking “Jackie-boy, ain’t it so cool?” JFK had just nodded his head in bewilderment at the awful tattoo. Then came the lightning bolt next to the anchor, the bandaid underneath that, then the wishbone on his forearm. Which each new tattoo came improvement, too. Ponce’s schoolwork soon became flooded with designs for his next tattoo, changing from doodles into full blown art pieces. “Flash,” he had explained.
They were 15, at the local library, with Ponce pouring over the single book they had on tattooing. He jabbed at the page in front of him. “That’s Sailor Jerry,” Ponce whispered, almost like it was a secret that only the pair shared. JFK looked at the page, filled with drawings of girls, daggers, and hearts, not seeing what was cool about what the other teen was pointing out. That weekend, JFK watched as his friend sat in front of his mirror, little ink bottles of red and black perched on a sterilized surface within arm’s reach. He had gotten himself a job, and with that money he had bought basic tattoo equipment: real needles, real ink, real transfer paper, actual medical equipment to stave off infection. Ponce had given himself a tattoo of a star near his ankle that was burning hot to the touch and itched for a week, and after that immediately reconsidered the tools he was using. Now, Ponce was starting to poke a flower under his left collarbone. JFK watched carefully from his perch on Ponce’s bed, his gameboy in hand long forgotten. He watched Ponce’s gloved fingers pull the skin taut, poking the thick black outline in quick and precise movements. He reached back into a small cup of black ink, catching JFK’s eye in the mirror, smiling at him.
“What’cha thinking about, Jack?”
“I don’t get it.”
“Get what, Jack?”
“This,” he gestured at Ponce, flopping on his side to emphasis the point.
Ponce chuckled. “The tatts? I don’t know, man, maybe you just need to have them to get it. Mine don’t really mean anything, but it’s … exciting to have new art on you. Ponce de Leon, the original one, he was a sailor, right? And there’s this huge history of American sailor tattoos, and even though it’s different because it had to do with the military it still feels… close enough? Somehow tattoos just make me feel more like that Ponce, more like how I’m supposed to be. Does that make sense?” He tapped his chin with the round hook at the end of the long, thin needle.
JFK nodded thoughtfully, “The original Kennedy was in the Navy, he didn’t have any tattoos though.”
“Yeah?” Ponce replied, back to outlining another petal. He was silent for a few seconds, staring intently in the mirror. JFK watched his bare back, hearing the crinkle of the black latex against the shorter teen’s skin. “If you’d ever like one, just let me know.”
Since that night, the idea of Ponce tattooing him hadn’t left his head. He thought that getting tattooed would be the furtherest thing from his mind at all times, but every time he saw Ponce’s inked skin, it was all he could think about. JFK would see a hint of ink exposed by his friend’s shirt collar, and suddenly he would be daydreaming about Ponce’s warm, strong hands pressing tenderly into his skin through latex, looking up into his eyes just before the needle punctured his flesh. He would imagined Ponce’s reassuring gaze, a steadying hand on his chest as he wiped away blood and ink. Whenever he got lost in those thoughts his heart raced. He could blame it on imagining the pain of the tattoos, but JFK knew better.
By the time they were 16, Ponce’s tattoo collection had nearly doubled. He now had a tattoo of a fountain on the upper portion of his stomach, the top of the water cascading between his pectoral muscles. His left forearm held a large dagger, and his knuckles read the words “Santa Maria”, named after one of the ships in the original Ponce de Leon’s fleet. He also had a bust of a dark haired sailor girl on his upper arm, a compass on his ribcage, and lastly a mermaid on his calf.
JFK catalogued each new tattoo that Ponce acquired. His favorite was the fountain, he knew it was supposed to represent the myth that surrounded his clone father, but he genuinely liked it for the art. It was different than Ponce’s other tattoos; he normally preferred to work in a traditional style with bold outlines and color blocking, with the traditional color palette of black, red, gold, green, and the occasional blue. However, the fountain was different. It was dainty and in grayscale, with thin, intricate details. The water cascading around the basins looked like pearls on a necklace. When Ponce had showed him the healing tattoo, he had removed his shirt and laid back against his headboard, letting JFK explore his torso. He had delicately traced his fingers along the the inked beads of water, skimming his hands across the tender flesh. He followed the curve of one of the tiers, looking up at his friend.
“It’s-uh, it’s beautiful.” JFK said, swallowing hard.
“Yeah?” Ponce had said, not really a question. He smiled, radiant, his eyes sparkling.
“Yeah,” JFK had whispered back, no longer talking about the tattoo.
Something shifted, then, JFK realized. Something that was missing had clicked into place. Every touch lingered longer, every pause in conversation held the weight of what could be said next. Neither seemed to want to push farther though, just in case that by doing so, the bubble around them would burst.
That was until JFK came over one Saturday to see Ponce in his familiar spot stationed in front of the mirror. That always meant that he was working on a torso piece, somewhere that would have been harder to tattoo without the use of a mirror. He saw a flash of red in the mirror before Ponce put a gloved hand over the work in progress, the black latex obscuring it from view.
“What are you workin’ on?”
Ponce cleared his throat, not facing him. JFK walked over to where his best friend had set up the tattoo station. There was the ink bottles with the little cups, a few still-wrapped needles, a razor, some green soap, and a roll of what was labelled “Saniderm”. Sitting next to the soap was a crumpled up square of transfer paper. JFK could make out a heart and a swallow, with a a banner wrapped around the two.
“Oh hey, one of my dads has somethin’ like this,” JFK commented. He squinted at the purple ink on the crumpled paper. He couldn’t read what was written on the banner, there was definitely text, but it was just too smudged to see.
“Yeah, it’s a real popular motif. I’m surprised it took me until now to draw one of these up,” Ponce said, still covering the tattoo. “Jack, I was wondering if you’d like to help me with something?”
JFK sat down next to his friend. He could clearly see that Ponce was flushed, and wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Yeah sure buddy, what’s up?”
Ponce finally locked eyes with him through the mirror. “Can you help me with this tattoo?”
JFK gulped. “Help you? Like you want me to er-uh…stab you?” He said, panicked.
Ponce laughed and put a gloved hand on his friend’s arm. “Don’t worry, I’ll guide you through it.”
“A-alright then.”
Ponce instructed him to put on gloves as well, and handed him the needle. He dipped it in the black ink, waiting for more instruction.
“Ok, now the ink has been pulled into the chamber of the needle. You’ll be able to poke for around 10 to 15 seconds before having to go back in for more,” JFK nodded, letting Ponce know he was listening carefully to every word. “You want to poke just under the first layer of skin. Too deep, and the ink will bleed and do what’s called ‘blowing out’. Too shallow, and it might fall out during the healing process.”
JFK looked at him again, concerned. “Are you sure…?”
Ponce nodded. “I can always go back and fix some of the mistakes. And if you mess up too bad… I mean you only live once, right?”
With that, Ponce dropped the hand that had been covering the tattoo. It was almost done, JFK noted. The tattoo was directly above Ponce’s own heart. The cherry red contrasted against the blue of the swallows’s wings. It was gorgeous. JFK’s breath hitched in his throat as he read the un-inked text on the banner.
He looked at Ponce, who nodded at him, silently asking him to continue. JFK hunched down, holding the needle in his hand. It felt so fragile, like if he gripped too hard it would snap in half. He let out a breath, and carefully poked the first dot.
It took him much longer than he thought to even tattoo the first letter. His face was hot, he knew, and his hands wouldn’t stop shaking. His movements were nothing like Ponce’s practiced, rhythmic poking, and he could tell Ponce was uncomfortable, wincing in pain once or twice when the needle pressed in too deep.
He couldn’t help but be reminded of the first time Ponce tattooed himself. Those letters were clumsy too, his hands had been shaking from inexperience and nerves. He knew Ponce still liked that tattoo for some reason though, he held some strange fondness for it despite its appearance.
Finally, after what seemed like an eon, JFK was done. He wiped at the tattoo, clearing away the last of the ink. The four little letters on Ponce’s chest were clumsy, but legible. God, his back hurt.
“Jack,” he looked up. They had both been silent while the taller boy had been working. “Get the green soap. You need to clean the area before applying the bandage.”
He did what he was told, carefully sanitizing the wounded skin. He was then instructed to cut a piece of the sanitary film large enough to cover the area, which he did as well. He peeled back the protective layer of paper, and smoothed the transparent plastic over Ponce’s chest. It was hot to the touch, and he could already see the plasma ooze out under the bandage.
His gloved hand still rested on top of Ponce’s heart. If he moved his finger just so, he could see-
“Jack.” Ponce put his hand on top of his, and JFK met his gaze readily.
He wasn’t sure who moved in first, but their lips met in a frenzied kiss. Their two hands were still trapped between them, and Ponce cupped his free hand at the nape of JFK’s neck. The tug of latex at his skin and hair was odd, but not uncomfortable. They kissed for what could have been either hours or seconds, before Ponce drew back, breathless.
“Fuck, Jack, I’ve been wanting to do that for ages.”
JFK laughed, resting his forehead on his companion’s. “You’d think you’d uh, kiss a guy before you have his name on your skin for the rest of your life,” he teased, grinning.
They moved their hands, keeping them intertwined. Sure enough, the sight of his name written in his own, clumsy handwriting greeted him.
“Hey, man. I think it’s romantic.” Ponce snapped the material of JFK’s glove against the skin of his wrist.
“Well it worked on me, so I’d say you’re right,” he replied soothingly, bumping his nose against his partner’s.
They stayed like that, quiet, enjoying each other’s company. Eventually their gloves came off, and when they got too uncomfortable seated on the floor, they switched to laying together on Ponce’s bed.
Ponce’s head rested on JFK’s shoulder, while he traced the compass tattoo on Ponce’s ribs. He repeated the soothing motion, over and over again, lulling the pair into a relaxed rhythm of heartbeats, breathing and tracing.
JFK burrowed his nose in Ponce’s hair, breathing in. “Ponce, I’ve been thinking about this for months now… I er-uh want you to tattoo me.”
“You do?” Ponce breathed out.
JFK nodded. Ponce got up, retrieving a binder from a shelf above his desk. He smiled self consciously before sitting back down again. JFK shifted so that they could both be propped up against the headboard.
Ponce opened the binder, positioning it so that JFK could inspect its contents. The first page was a sheet of computer paper with drawings of a space-themed pinup girl. In one drawing she sat provocatively on a crescent moon, in another she was riding a rocket as it blasted through space. He flipped to the next page, lined notebook paper had science notes at the top, but contained flash towards the bottom. There was the outline of the state of Massachusetts, several styles of four leaf clovers, and the word “Boston” written in swirling font. He turned the page again, looking at a sheet full of constellations. It hit him.
“You designed all these for me?” He asked, eyes wide.
Ponce ducked his head, blushing. “You weren’t the only one who was thinking about me tattooing you,” he confessed, looking up again, “I didn’t know what you would like so… I drew a bunch of things.”
JFK nodded, touched. He traced the lines between the dotted stars, imagining where they would go. His forearm? What about his shoulder?
He leafed through the rest of the pages, combing through pinup girls, flags, flowers, and eagles, mixed with a myriad of moons, stars , and a swooping, curling “Apollo 11”. He imagined each on his skin.
Turning the last page, he was greeted by what appeared to be the back of a math test. On it was a small drawing, circled by careful lettering.
“Oh,” Ponce said softly, sounding embarrassed, “that wasn’t supposed to get in there.”
JFK examined it further. A pair of men’s faces stared up at him, both supporting familiar haircuts and smiles. They were surrounded by a curving, oblong shape, and the text around them read “Two Peas in a Pod”.
“That’s us, Ponce-o,” he murmured, stroking the face of the drawn Ponce on the page.
“Yeah, it's… stupid. Just forget you saw that one.” He moved to turn the page back, but JFK stopped him.
“No, I like it,” Ponce looked at him. “I think it’s romantic,” he parroted back Ponce’s words from earlier.
Ponce gazed down at the page, “…Where would you put it?”
JFK considered that for a moment. “I don’t know yet,” he answered truthfully, “but would you tattoo it? I want this one.”
Ponce looked down at the drawing, shifting closer to JFK on the bed. The corners of his mouth turned up as he watched JFK’s fingers dance over the design.
“If you really like it that much, then yeah, Jack, I guess I will. I have to get a darker green and brown ink first, though, so it might be a while before we can do it.” JFK smiled and nodded.
The binder was then put carefully to the side to make room for other activities on the bed.
The tattoo was not pushed aside, however. JFK counted every day until the order of tattoo ink came in. It took a while, and he was bad at being patient. As he waited, he also watched Ponce’s tattoo heal. Ponce kept the area dry and clean the first week, preventing JFK from touching what was effectively an open wound over his heart. If he held his hand close enough though, he could feel the warmth radiating from the tattoo. Not hot, like it was infected, but definitely warmer than the surrounding skin.
Then came the scabbing and shedding. The skin around the lines drew back, leaving dried flakes around the tattoo, and the lines raised in a few places. Ponce moisturized the area constantly, but JFK could see the discomfort Ponce displayed, often tapping on the tattoo over his shirt to prevent himself from scratching. He’d seen Ponce’s tattoos heal a dozen times by now, but never so intimately, or with the knowledge that he’d be going through the same process in a few week’s time.
Finally the third week, he was allowed to touch. He traced the name over his partner’s heart, still unable to believe that he had been the one to put his name there.
“Careful,” Ponce reminded him, “it’s still sensitive.”
When the ink for his own tattoo came in, Ponce’s ink was still dark and unfaded, standing out against the skin of his chest, not quite fully incorporated into the skin yet.
JFK was seated in Ponce’s desk chair as the other boy prepared the stencil. He could see his newest tattoo poking out from under the undershirt he was wearing.
“Where do you want it?” Ponce asked, settling himself on a chair he had brought up from his dining room.
“My er-uh, my bicep,” JFK swallowed thickly, taking his sweater off. His hands were shaking. Ponce’s gloved hands came up to rest on his, quelling the tremor.
“If you’re having second thoughts, it’s not too late to back out, Jackie-boy,” came the soft voice.
No, he could do this. He shook his head. “I want this, Ponce.”
He took off his shirt, and Ponce guided his arm to the armrest of the chair, positioning his arm for the easiest access.
Ponce wet his arm, then shaved the area with a disposable razor. Careful not to smudge the ink, he applied the transfer sheet next. His gloved fingers gripped JFK’s arm, steadying it as he rubbed the paper. Peeling it back, he nodded, satisfied.
“Does this look alright to you?” JFK glanced down at the purple ink on the surface of his skin. He nodded, taking a shaky breath in.
“Hey,” Ponce’s lips met the side of his mouth, a reassuring peck. “It’ll be okay, I’ve got you. Let me know if it gets too uncomfortable and we can take a break.”
Ponce stretched the skin of his arm between his middle and index finger. “Breathe in with me.”
JFK did, and on their shared out-breath Ponce stuck the needle below his skin. It was quick and sharp, and dear god it hurt. How many times would he be stabbed? Tens of thousands? Hundreds of thousands? Millions?
Ponce gauged his reaction, poking again, just as quick. He did it again and again, soon settling into a steady pace occasionally interrupted by retrieving more ink. After a while, the skin on his arm went numb, leaving only a dull, hot throb between the measured stabbing. His eyes were screwed shut, listening to his own shallow breathing and the popping of the needle as it entered and exited his skin.
He felt a wet paper towel wipe at the sore flesh. “You doing okay?”
JFK cracked a watery eye open. Ponce was looking up at him, concern and fondness written on his face. “Y-eah,” his voice cracked.
He couldn’t believe that Ponce did this regularly. He stared up and the ceiling as Ponce kept going, listening to his heartbeat race. After a while, time seemed to slow down, the rush of adrenaline wearing off. He heard the rustle of another needle being unwrapped, and sleepily registered that Ponce must be switching colors. The pain clouded his head like cotton. He blinked groggily at Ponce, who was starting to fill in the green behind their heads. He swallowed. His mouth was really dry.
“Could we er-uh… take a break?”
Ponce put the needle down on the sanitized surface of the desk. “Of course, man.” He got up, stretching after being hunched over JFK’s arm for so long. His undershirt rode up as his hands reached towards the ceiling. JFK swallowed again.
“I er-uh, I’m gonna get some water,” he mumbled quickly, excusing himself.
As he stood in Ponce’s bathroom nursing a dixie cup, he stared at the new addition to his skin. The outline was thick and dark, the lines showing obvious skill. The green had just started to be filled in behind the drawn JFK’s left ear, and the hair and blush on their cheeks was still uncolored. He downed the water, refilling the small cup. He had never realized how much energy getting tattooed could take out of a person. He suddenly felt bad for all the times that he had bothered Ponce to play video games or go get burgers right after he was done cleaning himself up. His boyfriend was honestly a saint, he thought.
The saint in question leaned on the doorjamb.
“How ya holding up?”
JFK crumpled the little cup and threw it in the trash, wrapping his arms around his boyfriend, mindful of the painful tattoo. He rested his warm forehead into the cool crook of Ponce’s neck.
“Yeah, thought that might be the case. The first tattoo isn’t easy, and this one’s a long one to start with. I always find sugar helps power through though, I’ve got some ice cream downstairs if you’d like.”
Ponce led JFK downstairs. He brought them two dishes of mint chip ice cream, which JFK wolfed down, even stealing bites from Ponce’s bowl every once in a while. Ponce just rolled his eyes at his antics.
After they were both done and put the bowls in the sink, JFK turned to Ponce.
“I’m ready to finish up.”
“Cool.”
Ponce put on a new pair of gloves, leaning down and kissing his forehead as he set everything up again. Seeing the needle in his hand, JFK took a breath in and sharply nodded at Ponce, who continued working.
The sugar helped, and Ponce started humming something that sounded vaguely familiar, which allowed JFK to focus on placing where he had heard it before. After another agonizing stretch of time, the tattoo was done. Ponce gave it a final wipe down and applied the bandaged.
“Ok, so, after care-“
JFK spaced out. He was just so tired, the insides of his eyeballs felt like there was a layer of sand in between them. He dimly registered that Ponce stopped talking about whatever he was trying to get across to him.
“You’re not listening.”
“Poncey, can you tell me later? All I wanna do now is sleep for a million years.” JFK tried to give him his best puppy dog eyes, but was interrupted by a yawn.
Ponce sighed, fondly, “Yeah big guy, you’ve earned it.”
JFK crawled into Ponce’s bed, not bothering to put his shirt back on. His arm was sore and throbbed and felt hot, and the plastic film covering it pulled at his skin uncomfortably whenever he moved. His eyes closed as soon as his head hit the pillows. He heard Ponce shuffle around quietly, cleaning up. Before long, he felt the mattress dip and Ponce joined him under the covers, looping an arm around JFK.
“You did good, Jack, I’m proud of you,” he said softly.
The other teen pried an eye open, “Shhhh Ponce, tryin’a sleep.”
His companion shoved him lightly, chuckling.
“Okay, goodnight you big baby.”
“G’night, Ponce-o.”