Work Text:
“You feel good about it?” Virgil asked for probably the hundredth time.
“I do,” Logan confirmed, “although I am starting to suspect you are giving me secondhand anxiety.”
“Sorry, sorry.” Virgil rubbed his forehead. “I just want to make sure it’s perfect for you.”
Logan felt his heart melt into a delightful little puddle inside his chest. “You could never do anything less,” he assured his boyfriend. “I am not worried—you have years of experience as a tattoo artist. I have seen your craftsmanship and I feel confident that I will be more than satisfied with your work.”
Virgil’s lips quirked in a small, flustered smile. “Oh my god, stop it.” He swatted gently at Logan’s arm.
“All I am doing is saying the truth,” Logan protested, smiling back. It was a conversation they’d already had several iterations of over the last week or so. Once Logan had brought up that he wanted to get a tattoo—hist first—it had taken several conversations to convince Virgil that Logan was serious when he said he thought Virgil’s style would most closely match what he wanted, and that no, he did not want to be sent to any of Virgil’s coworkers, and that yes, actually, he would feel perfectly safe with Virgil doing it.
After Virgil had been assured of all this several times, though, he’d started to get excited about it, pouring his heart and soul into the design and going over several drafts of it with Logan. It was only now that they were in the studio and ready to start the actual tattooing process that his anxiety seemed to have returned.
“I know it’s going to be wonderful, Virgil,” Logan assured him once again. “I am ready.”
“Mmkay.” Virgil drew in a deep breath. “Let’s go for it.” He washed his hands at the sink in the corner and returned to where Logan was waiting, seated in a chair with his right arm resting on the wide arm rest, his palm facing upwards.
“Your forearm is a pretty solid place for a first tattoo,” Virgil said as he cleaned the inside of Logan’s forearm, from below his elbow all the way down to his wrist, even though the planned tattoo would be smaller and in the middle of that area. “It’s not as bony as, say, your ribs, so the pain isn’t as bad. And you can cover it up if you want.”
Logan, who already knew all of this but was quite aware that explaining it helped to assuage Virgil’s anxiety, hummed acknowledgement. “Besides, it will not be terribly large,” he added on. “And you said we are only doing the linework today, correct?”
“Yeah,” Virgil confirmed, picking up the stencil of the design Logan had commissioned him to make—a stack of books, filled in watercolor-style to look like they were made of galaxies—and positioned it carefully on Logan’s forearm. “How’s this? We can move it around as many times as you want before we get started.”
Logan examined his arm, considering. “Could it be about half an inch closer to my wrist?”
“Sure,” Virgil agreed at once, adjusting the paper as requested.
“Yes, I like that,” Logan said after examining it once again. “That’s perfect.”
“You sure?” Virgil double-checked.
“Yes, Virgil. I am sure.”
Virgil nodded and began transferring the art from the stencil to Logan’s arm, outlining the books and the handful of loose stars surrounding them. After checking again, several times, that it still looked good, he readied the tattoo gun. “It is going to hurt at least a bit. Everyone’s pain tolerance is different, so I can’t say for sure how much. Let me know if you need a break, okay?”
Logan nodded, and averted his eyes as Virgil lowered the tattoo gun to his skin, not quite sure if he would feel squeamish about seeing it in action.
It did hurt, somewhat more than he had expected, but it was by no means overwhelming. “Good,” Virgil praised almost at once. “Good, you’re doing so good, Logan. That’s perfect. Just relax your arm as much as you can.”
Logan drew in a measured breath and obeyed. After a moment, his curiosity got the better of him, and he cautiously glanced down at his arm. Virgil’s head was bent as he worked, seeming focused and steady. The tattoo gun was dissimilar enough from a needle that Logan felt none of the squeamishness he had feared, and could simply watch in fascination as it deposited ink under his skin, his arm held gently in place by Virgil’s gloved hand.
The pain did not go away, exactly, but he did adjust to it as Virgil worked. The pair of them began to converse, discussing a show they’d started watching that week every night after dinner, curled up together on their little sofa under a blanket. They both agreed that the lead actor was extremely hot, but disagreed on whether or not he was a good actor, which made for a highly entertaining discussion.
After about twenty minutes, Virgil paused, shutting off the tattoo gun and glancing up. “How are you doing? Need a break?”
“I—” Logan was about to say no, but then he really thought about it. “I would appreciate some water, if I may?”
“Yeah, of course. Stay right here. Don’t get up,” Virgil added sternly, pointing at him.
Logan, who had shifted as if to get to his feet, sheepishly relaxed back into the chair.
“Good,” Virgil said, more gently. “I know you’re thinking you’ll help me, but you will get dizzy and fall, you iron-deficient bitch. And that’s not good for any of us. So just stay right here, mmkay? I’ll be right back with your water.” He set the tattoo gun down on the tray, discarded his latex gloves, and stepped out of the room, returning in only a moment with the promised paper cup of water.
Logan accepted it gratefully with his non-tattooed arm and sipped at it.
Virgil took Logan’s other arm in his hands and examined it, not touching the half-finished tattoo. He seemed satisfied, smiling to himself as he looked. “Hey,” he said as Logan lowered the empty cup. “Uh, boyfriend hat on, but you’re doing a great job so far and I’m really proud of you.”
Logan opened his mouth to ask why the boyfriend hat needed to be on to say that, but found his question answered before he could start as Virgil pressed a quick kiss to his forehead. “Thank you,” Logan said, beaming up at Virgil.
“For sure, babe. Work hat back on, now.” Virgil took the empty paper cup and threw it away before washing his hands again and putting on a fresh pair of gloves. “Ready to keep going? Or do you want to stop?”
“I am ready,” Logan assured him. “I am excited to see the finished product.”
Virgil grinned, picking up the tattoo gun again. “Me too.”