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The new client looks as if he’s never seen the inside of a tattoo studio before. It’s not the way he’s dressed, in pressed slacks and a neatly buttoned shirt, hair tied up in a bun—Martin knows plenty of people whose conservative clothing covers the most creative designs—but rather the way he glances around as if he was in a foreign country, trying to get his bearings when none of the street signs are comprehensible. Definitely a first timer, which explains why Sasha’s given him to Martin. He has a reputation for being good with nervous or inexperienced clients.
“You’re nice,” Sasha tells him often. “People trust you.”
Martin’s not entirely sure that’s the case, but he does his best to set people at ease. He gives the client—Jonathan Sims, the appointment book informs him—a welcoming smile.
“Hi, Jonathan?” he says in his best friendly-yet-professional tone, “I’m Martin.”
He extends a hand, and sees Jonathan looking him up and down, taking in his bare arms with their colorful sleeves of ink, his piercings, his brightly dyed hair.
“Jon,” Jon corrects, and takes Martin’s hand. His fingers are thin but his grip is firm; Martin notices the narrow black band circling his middle finger.
“I like your ring,” he says, in a way he hopes conveys that the ace symbol is recognized and welcome. Jon seems to get his meaning, because he looks slightly flustered, though pleased, as he withdraws his hand.
“It was a gift,” he says a bit stiffly, “From a—a friend.”
“This is your first time with us, right? Do you have any experience with tattoos?”
“No,” Jon admits. “I, uh, I’ve thought about it, a few times, but...I could never think of anything profound enough to have tattooed on my body permanently.”
“Tattoos don’t always have to be profound,” Martin says. “For a lot of people they’re simply a fun means of expression, like any other art. But it sounds as if you’ve found something that’s meaningful for you?”
“I think so.” Jon takes a notebook out of his satchel and leafs through it to find the right page, then holds it out. The words are written in neat, looping handwriting:
‘Only in silence the word, only in dark the light, only in dying life: bright the hawk's flight on the empty sky.’
“That’s beautiful,” Martin says. “Did you write it?”
“Oh, uh, no. It’s a quote from a book—A Wizard of Earthsea, by Ursula LeGuin? It’s a book my grandmother gave me when I was a child, and it’s always rather stuck with me.”
Martin senses that there’s more to the story, but he doesn’t want to push. He considers it his job to be a confidante, as much as an artist, but only as far as the client chooses. He reads over the quote again.
“So are you thinking just the script? Or some imagery to go with it?”
“Oh!” Jon sounds as if the idea’s taken him by surprise. “I—I hadn’t really thought about it, if I’m honest. I’m not much of an artist.”
“Fortunately, I am. I designed these…” Martin holds out his arms to let Jon look at the art, interlocking images of creatures and flowers and constellations, with honeysuckle vines twining between them all. “I didn’t tattoo them on myself, obviously—Sasha did that. If you’re thinking of something with a lot of color, you might be best off working with her, she’s much better at it than I am.”
“No,” Jon says quickly. “No, I don’t want a lot of color. I’d like to work with you.”
Martin smiles; he’s already starting to get some ideas for the artwork. He imagines simple, graceful line work, accented with splashes of rich color that will look lovely against Jon’s dark skin tone.
“Of course if we add art, it will take longer and cost more, both for the design and the work. It also depends where you want to have it done—and what size.”
“I don’t, uh...what would you recommend?” Jon looks a little overwhelmed, and Martin quickly steps in to help him out.
“Tell you what, I’ll give you a quote for the design work, and a range of prices for smaller or larger pieces—or for the script only, if you don’t decide to go with the extra art. We can set up another appointment next week, and I’ll bring a few designs for you to look at. Sound good?”
Some of the nervous tension drains out of Jon’s shoulders, and he gives a grateful half smile.
“Sounds good.”
*
The next morning before work, Martin goes to the library and takes out a copy of A Wizard of Earthsea. The cover shows a small, dark figure crossing a blue hazed landscape that might be mountains or sand dunes or waves. Jagged black runes score themselves into the earth beneath a looming shadow shaped like a dragon. There is a mystery and grandeur about it that takes Martin back to books from his own childhood, the endless possibility that lay between their covers.
He starts reading the book over lunch, and then keeps reading it that evening over takeaway curry and several cups of tea. It’s almost midnight when he reads the words: “Look, it is done. It is over.”
He should go to sleep, he knows. Instead, he picks up the sketchbook he keeps beside the bed, and starts drawing.
*
Martin sets the options in front of Jon. There’s the bare script of the quote itself, in a few different fonts and layouts. There’s a simple silhouette of a hawk, alone, or in front of a stylized sun in vibrant gold. The most elaborate design, he saves for last.
“I wouldn’t generally recommend such a large piece for your first tattoo,” he says. “But I thought it suited the themes of the story—you know, no light without shadow, the circle of life? if you like it, we could start with a smaller element and then build it out from there at a pace you’re comfortable with.”
A black tree grows from the earth. Its crown flares like flame, orange and emerald green; its roots entwine with the skeleton of some ancient beast. Its fiery branches stretch upward to that stylized golden sun, against which the hawk hovers, ready to stoop. Life and death, darkness and light.
Jon’s fingers come to rest on the page, tracing carefully over the roots of the tree. Martin stays quiet, lets him absorb it.
“Yes,” Jon says eventually. “I think this is the one.”
*
Traced out to scale, the full design takes up most of the space between Jon’s shoulder blades. He agrees to start small, though with an expression that says he thinks Martin is making a silly fuss over a few pokes. Martin lets him think what he will, but he’s seen his fair share of people who simply couldn’t handle the sensation, however much they gritted their teeth. If they have to stop short, he’d rather leave Jon with something simple and pretty than a half-finished mess.
Hunched forward over the chair, Martin sees Jon flinch at the first touch of the needle, all the muscles in his back tensing minutely.
“All right?” he asks, lifting the needle away again.
“Fine,” says Jon. “Go ahead.”
He doesn’t move as Martin traces the lines of the hawk and sun. Martin chats to him, hoping to offer a distraction, rambles on about his weekend and asks Jon about films he’s seen lately. That gets a response, as Jon starts talking animatedly about a classic horror film festival he went to last month. When Martin admits he’s never been able to stomach horror, Jon insists that he simply hasn’t seen the right kind of horror.
“It’s a genre that has something for everyone,” he says passionately. “And it’s not all slashers and torture porn, I’m not a fan of that stuff myself. If you tell me what kind of films you normally like—or books—I guarantee I can recommend something you’ll enjoy.”
Martin finds himself smiling; there’s something charming and infectious about Jon’s enthusiasm. He lists off a few of his own favorite films—period pieces and angsty dramas, for the most part—and Jon gives a contemplative frown and pledges to think about it and get back to him. Martin has the feeling that Jon’s the kind of person who takes film recommendations very seriously. He quite likes that kind of person, he thinks.
They chat more about films and then books and art. Martin plays desperately offended when Jon admits he’s never got modern poetry, and lists off several favorites that he has to try; Jon seems skeptical but promises to look into it. And at last, the first section of the design is finished.
“All done,” Martin announces, and Jon lifts his head, looking rather pleased with himself.
“That wasn’t so bad,” he says. “When can we do the rest?”
*
At their next session it seems Jon hasn’t come directly from work; he’s dressed casually, with his dark hair falling loose over one shoulder. It looks terribly soft, and Martin does his best not to stare, though he’s not sure how well he succeeds.
True to his word, Jon presents Martin with a handwritten list of films to try: The Others, The Devil’s Backbone, The Woman In Black, and Pan’s Labyrinth.
“That last one’s not strictly horror,” he explains. “More dark fantasy. But I’m not a purist, and it does have some moments that are quite…” He pauses, his hands waving slightly as he searches for the right word.
“Spooky?” Martin suggests, and Jon shakes his head, his nose scrunching up in disapproval at the word.
“Unsettling,” he decides finally, and starts to pull his hair up out of the way.
Jon’s taken excellent care of the tattoo, which is precisely what Martin expected. The ink is clean and well set, with no signs of inflammation. Martin pulls on a glove and examines it carefully, tracing the lines with his fingers.
“It looks good on you,” he says, and hopes that doesn’t come across as creepy.
“T-thanks,” says Jon. “I, uh, I have to admit I’ve been looking at it in the mirror quite frequently. I like it very much.”
“Do you still want to go ahead with the rest of it?”
“Absolutely,” Jon says firmly, nodding his head.
Martin asks Jon about what he does for work, as he begins etching the lines of the tree. As it turns out, Jon works at UCL, teaching courses in Classics while working on his own postdoctoral research on non-sexual partnered relationships in ancient Rome.
“That sounds really interesting,” Martin enthuses; Jon gives a self-deprecating laugh.
“You might be the first non-academic to ever say that. Not that I want to, ah, to assume you’re not an academic!” He’s flustered and apologetic all of a sudden, and now it’s Martin’s turn to laugh.
“No, no, that’s a fair assumption,” he says. “The academic life never suited me, I dropped out before A-levels and never looked back.”
It’s not worth mentioning why he dropped out; Jon doesn’t need to know his whole life story and besides, everything's worked out for the best. He gets to do what he loves, he can afford his mum’s care and rent on the cozy house in Kentish Town he shares with Oliver and Jane. He has a good life.
“I’ve never had...any artistic ability, really,” says Jon. “I-I’m always rather envious of people who do.”
“It’s...nice,” Martin admits. “Though it’s not the most lucrative skill, unless you’re really amazing. And really lucky. And I? Am neither. This pays the bills, though—and I’ve had a few poems published as well, that’s a nice supplement.”
“Oh you—you write poetry?”
“I...dabble. I’m not much of a poet, really.”
“Good enough to get published,” Jon points out, sounding almost indignant on his behalf. Martin smiles.
“Did you try any of the poets I suggested last time?”
“Oh, I...uh, not yet,” says Jon guiltily. “I did pick up a couple of collections from the library, but I haven’t had the, ah, the motivation, I suppose. I rarely get home from work in the evening in the mood for poetry.”
“I suppose anything not in Latin is too modern?” Martin teases, and Jon huffs a laugh.
“Something like that,” he says. He hesitates a moment, then: “I should read some of your poetry, I might find it more engaging.”
“Oh,” says Martin, and he’s glad Jon’s back is to him, because he can feel his cheeks heating and knows they’ll be conspicuously pink. “Well, maybe I’ll let you, some time.”
*
“So what’s the story with that cute client of yours?” Tim asks, leering at him a little bit over the top of his pint. It’s Saturday evening drinks after work, because the studio is closed Sundays and Sasha always buys the first round. Tim says she only does it because she wants to hear all the gossip she’s missed during the week, but Martin’s not about to turn down a free drink regardless of the boss’ sinister motivations.
“What? What client?” Martin sputters. Tim rolls his eyes.
“The good looking one?” he says. “Long hair, intense eyes, always leaves you grinning like an idiot after he leaves—ring any bells?”
“Ooh, you mean—oh, what’s his name?” Sasha snaps her fingers as she tries to recall, and Martin decides to nip this train of thought in the bud.
“It’s Jon. And there’s no story, thank you Tim. He’s very nice, but that’s it.”
“Right…” Tim drawls disbelievingly, and then nudges Sasha. “And if you believe that, I have a bridge I can sell you.”
“London or Tower?” Martin asks with mock sincerity, which sends them all into gales of laughter. Thankfully, the conversation shifts to Tim’s powers of persuasion—Sasha swears he’ll never convince her into a septum piercing, however good he says it would look—and Martin is able to relax.
It’s not that he doesn’t like Jon. He does, a lot, to the extent that Tim’s probably not wrong about the grinning like an idiot part. But, well, it’s not real, is it? The hours they’ve spent together, talking about their lives, it’s by necessity; the way you’d chat to a stranger on a long train journey. Even if you genuinely enjoy the conversation—which Martin likes to think Jon has—it would be silly to get attached to your fellow passenger. Silly to think they might want to see you again after the fact.
Martin’s just being realistic. That’s all.
*
In their final session, Martin adds the original quote Jon came in with, tracing the letters carefully around the perimeter of the design. The font Jon chose is flowing, delicate, with just a hint of sharp angle to it; privately, Martin thinks it suits him perfectly.
“I watched The Devil’s Backbone last week,” he says, and Jon twists his head back far enough to meet his eye.
“Oh yes? What did you think?”
“I won’t lie, it scared the hell out of me—the scene where Carlos first sees the ghost? Ughh!” Martin gives a shudder for dramatic effect. “But it made me sad, as well. And I was still thinking about it days later, which is how I know a film’s really got to me.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” says Jon, and he sounds as if he really is. “It’s one of my favorites.”
“I think my only mistake was watching it alone in the dark!” Martin jokes.
“Oh you have to watch a good horror film in the dark,” Jon insists solemnly, though his expression is mischievous. “Although it is considered acceptable to have someone watch with you—ideally an experienced horror watcher. For safety reasons.”
Is this flirting? Martin wonders frantically, Is he flirting with me? His heart thumps hard in his chest, his pulse suddenly racing. Martin stops working and sets the needle down; his fingers are trembling when he strips off his gloves, and that won't do at all.
“I’ll, ah, I’ll keep that in mind,” he says. “Let’s—let’s take a break for ten minutes, yeah? How about a cup of tea?”
Martin gives himself a severe talking-to as he makes two mugs of tea in the break room, breathing deep and willing his hands to stop shaking. Jon is probably just being friendly. And anyway, it would be completely inappropriate to ask out one of his clients, regardless of how attractive and interesting said client happens to be. Even if said client asked to read Martin’s poetry, and maybe hinted at wanting to watch a horror film with him, and has an adorably hesitant smile and the softest looking hair Martin has ever seen.
“Oh, god…” Martin groans; he’s hopeless, isn’t he?
He returns with steadied hands and manages to get through the rest of the session without embarrassing himself. By the time he’s cleaning away the last of the excess ink and applying the dressing, a sense of pride is swelling in his chest, the satisfaction of seeing his art brought to life on someone’s skin.
“How does it look?” Jon asks as he sits up and reaches for his shirt.
“It looks...really lovely,” Martin says. “I, ah, I don’t know if your grandmother is a fan of tattoo art, but you should show it to her. I’m sure she’ll be touched.”
“She passed away, actually,” says Jon matter-of-factly. “Last year. That’s why I decided to get this, in fact. A friend suggested it as a—a remembrance. ”
“Oh, Jon, I’m so sorry,” Martin says. Jon waves a dismissive hand.
“No, it’s fine. She and I had a...complicated relationship. But I still wanted to—I don’t know, to do something? She was my only family, and I wasn’t there when she passed, and it...well, it’s been weighing on me a bit, frankly.”
He huffs a self-deprecating laugh, and god Martin knows that feeling. That mix of love and obligation and resentment that twines itself through your chest like creeping vines, strangling and impossible to uproot. He starts to reach a hand out towards Jon before he catches himself and lets it fall. Just fellow passengers on a train, he reminds himself sternly.
“Doing this, the whole...process, it—it’s helped,” Jon continues, looking down at his shirt buttons as he does them up. “Closure or something, I suppose. I-is that weird?”
“Not at all!” Martin rushes to assure him. “There are all kinds of reasons people get tattoos! I—I’m just glad that it helped.”
“Thank you, Martin,” says Jon, and the smile he gives is warm. “So...this is it, then?”
“You’re all done,” Martin confirms. “Call us if you have any problems, of course, but otherwise, you’re set.”
“Right,” says Jon.
He shrugs on his coat and his satchel, and then hesitates, biting his lip. The moment stretches out as they look at each other, suspended on a silence fragile as spider thread. Martin holds his breath.
“Bye then,” Jon says at last, and walks out.
*
“Client for you, Martin!” Sasha tells him, popping her head through the door. Martin looks up from where he’s sterilizing his work area, aghast. This day has already been far too long, and he was sure he didn’t have anyone else scheduled
“I don’t have any more clients booked today,” he protests. Sasha shrugs.
“It’s in the book—new consultation? You must have missed it. Sorry!” She doesn’t seem particularly sorry, and Martin knows he’s not going to be able to talk his way out of this one.
“Fine,” he sighs, setting the alcohol wipes aside. “Send them in.”
It’s only a consultation, so Martin doesn’t unpack any of his equipment, just a pen and notebook so he can capture any details. A quiet knock announces the client’s presence, and Martin turns, settling a welcoming smile on his face.
Jon is standing in the doorway.
“Oh,” says Martin.
“Hi,” says Jon. He looks as if he’s come from a long day at work, professionally dressed and with his hair starting to fall out of its bun, wisps framing his face. The sight of him sends Martin’s heart stuttering. He takes a shaky breath, trying to pull himself together.
“Hi, Jon!” he says. “I-I didn’t expect to see you again, so soon, at least. There isn’t a problem with the piece, is there? Sasha said it was a consult—”
“No, no problem at all—it’s great. Perfect!”
“That’s good! Well if you’re thinking of adding another piece, I’ll be happy to help you sketch it out, same as last time.”
“No, I—I wasn’t thinking of another one. I mean, in the future, maybe? But, ah, not at the moment. This is...a personal visit.”
“Oh,” says Martin again. He can feel his face getting hot and wills himself to not blush ridiculously. Jon shifts nervously on his feet.
“I hope you don’t mind,” he says. “I asked Sasha what time you were finishing and if she wouldn’t mind me dropping in?”
“Of course I don’t mind,” Martin insists. “I mean, it’s—it’s nice to see you.”
“I just, ahh…” Jon hesitates, then: “Well, I never got to read any of your poems, and you still need a, ah, a horror watching ‘buddy’. And I thought maybe...I could bring the horror and you could bring the poetry?”
He fumbles with the buckles of his satchel and flourishes several DVDs; Martin reads Sleepy Hollow and Crimson Peak and Bram Stoker’s Dracula on the covers. Jon gives him a hopeful sort of smile.
“I thought of a few more you might enjoy,” he explains. Martin can’t think of what to say, his heart hammering in his chest. Is Jon asking him out? Or is he just misunderstanding a nice gesture? Maybe he’s just being silly over this for all his efforts at staying realistic—if only there was some way he could just know.
“Are you asking me out?” he blurts, and feels his cheeks burn even hotter. Well, that’s one embarrassing way to find out. Jon looks taken aback, blinking rapidly.
“I, ah...yes? I mean—if you want to, obviously, no pressure if you don’t, I just thought—”
“Tonight?” Martin blurts again and wow, when will he get control of his tongue back? Jon blinks, startled, and then a soft, happy expression spreads across his face.
“I-if you’d like to?” he says. “I know it’s rather...short notice, so if you’d rather plan for another night?”
“No—no, tonight is great! Your place or mine?”
“We can go to mine, if you like? I’ll make dinner and you can pick the film. I, ah, I should be clear though, when I say ‘Netflix and chill’—” he intones the phrase with a gravity that makes Martin smile. “—I do mean just that, nothing else.”
“Understood completely,” Martin nods. He likes sex, but he can live without it—frequently does, in fact. He’ll happily forego, for the chance to see how things turn out with Jon; they’ll probably need to discuss boundaries in detail at some point, but they can figure that out as they go.
“Great,” says Jon, looking relieved. “So, shall we?”
Sasha is busy doing the end of day paperwork as they walk out through reception, but she finds time to waggle her eyebrows suggestively at Martin. He ignores her pointedly, though he can’t keep the grin off his face, and yes, all right, Tim was definitely correct about that.
But as Jon’s shoulder presses into his, warm and solid, Martin can’t really bring himself to care.