Work Text:
The day at the tattoo parlour was passing as expected by Arthur Kirkland. It had been a quiet morning with a few appointments, and his students were practicing stick and poke techniques on oranges that Arthur hoped they wouldn’t try to eat later.
He was three months into the year that he’d be spending in New York City teaching the four tattoo apprentices while running his own parlour. He’d already established his own place back in London, which was running smoothly with the help of his employees there. Arthur had spent years perfecting his techniques, and was well-known within the tattoo industry, which had landed him the offer to teach the kids in the first place.
The craving for a strong cup of tea hit Arthur as he was wiping down his chair after the last client. He threw the used towel in the rubbish bin on his way to the break room. Americans were stupid in that they didn’t boil water in a proper kettle. They used a pot on the stove or a Keurig machine, which Arthur wouldn’t touch with a ten foot pole. The first thing that he did for his first day was run to the store and buy a shit-ton of tea, and an electric kettle to boil water with some semblance of the right way. He did, however, sacrifice the urge to use teacups and settled with plain mugs. He wasn’t eager to see the looks on the teenagers’ faces when they saw their punk teacher drink out of a dainty teacup.
He fixed his tea and sipped it as he walked back into the main studio. And promptly choked on it.
Standing at the counter was quite possibly the most fine specimen of a man that Arthur had ever seen. He had sandy blonde hair and was just lightly tanned, which made his electric blue eyes pop against his skin and blinding white smile. He wore a t-shirt that clung to his body and plain jeans. Immediately, Arthur was self-conscious of his ripped black jeans and leather jacket.
“Oh, here he is! Arthur, do you take walk-ins?” The student standing at the counter asked.
Arthur was very aware of how dry his mouth was when he answered.
“I don’t typically, but I don’t have anyone on the books so it’ll be fine.” he mustered.
“Hiya! I’m Alfred, I was just popping in to ask about your services,” the blonde man extended his hand, which Arthur weakly shook.
“O-of course. Well, I have books of tattoos I’ve already done, and each of my students do as well, if you’d like to see references of our work. We also have a display of basic designs we do quite often, unless you have something specific in mind.” Arthur stammered slightly, waving his free arm at the design wall and seating area.
“You have an accent!” Alfred exclaimed.
“I-yes? I do?”
“Haha, nice! You sound like one of those dudes from the Royal family!”
“Well, I am from London, but-”
“Holy shit, have you met the King?”
“No, I haven’t,” Arthur responded, slightly shortly. Of course. The man was gorgeous but was yet another stereotypical American idiot.
“Bummer. I always thought it would be fun to meet the Queen. Or the King.” Alfred’s shoulders drooped, and for some strange reason Arthur almost felt guilty.
“They’re uh…they’re rather busy for that. Anyway, did you have any ideas or do you want to look for one?” he steered the conversation away from his home country.
“I’m thinking, the American flag!” the blonde exclaimed proudly. Arthur felt his eye twitch. Of course, the loud and boisterous man that looked like he’d been a Boy Scout wanted his own flag permanently stamped on his skin.
“The actual American flag?” All fifty of those stars were going to be a nightmare to do.
“Well, not the entire flag. Maybe something based on it?” Alfred’s grin seemed as if it was tattooed on his face, never fading.
Frowning and thinking, Arthur reached for a book in the seating area, flipping through the pages until he found what he was looking for.
“How do you feel about something like this? Just a simple star, but it’s representative of the entire theme of the flag. We can tweak the sizing or the design itself.”
“Haha, I like it! Let’s do it!” Alfred practically radiated caffeine.
“Any ideas on placement and sizing?” Arthur was free of the initial spell of the man, but he couldn’t bring himself to be entirely annoyed by the American.
“How about right here?” Alfred loudly slapped his left shoulder. Arthur blinked.
“Sure. Now, you want to do this today?”
“Absolutely. No time like the present!” Alfred should have been in a toothpaste commercial with his blinding smile.
For the next thirty minutes, Arthur was very grateful for the mindless routine questions and paperwork that came before the actual tattoo.
“Age?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Date of birth?”
“Fourth of July, two-thousand.”
“Any known allergies?”
“None.”
“Have you ever had a tattoo done before?”
“Never.” Lovely. A newbie. Arthur reminded himself to get the smelling salts from the supply room.
“But, I ate just before I got here and I made sure to drink nothing but water today.” Alfred added. Arthur raised an eyebrow, but refused to admit that he was impressed.
“Jolly good. Now, would you prefer a private room or one of the chairs in the lobby?”
“I think it’d be good for a private room for a first one, if that’s alright. I’m just a little bit nervous,” Alfred’s signature grin barely slipped, but he scratched the back of his neck sheepishly.
“That’ll do just fine. Follow me.”
Arthur led the way to the private room and began pulling out the supplies, having already printed the stencil.
“Now, I’ll need to prep the surface area, so I’ll be using an antiseptic wipe and razor to shave any hair from the skin. After that, I’ll place the stencil and check with you for placement. Once you like the placement, we’ll start the actual tattoo. If you need a break or water, let me know and we’ll pause.”
“I’ll have to take my shirt off, right?”
“I mean, unless you’d like me to tattoo through your shirt, although I doubt it would turn out any good.”
“Yeah, I think shirtless is the way to go,” Alfred laughed, taking his shirt off over his head.
Immediately, Arthur felt blood rush to his face. Alfred was fucking chiseled. Strong, bulging muscled arms and impeccably shaped abs. He knew it was entirely unseemly and rude to stare, but he couldn’t bring himself to tear his eyes away. Luckily, Alfred was busy neatly folding his shirt and didn’t appear to notice.
“Right, I’ll have you sit on the edge of the table while I do the prep.”
Neither of them talked during the next steps, save for Arthur giving instructions or asking if anything felt wrong. Once the stencil was placed and Alfred approved, Arthur broke the seal on the ink.
“Okay, lay on your stomach and fold your hands under your chin. There, perfect.”
Arthur got his tattoo gun ready, while Alfred fidgeted nervously.
“Again, if you need to take a break just let me know. Try not to jump or make any sudden moves. I’m going to begin now.”
As he touched the needle to Alfred’s skin, he could feel the man take a slow breath.
“That actually doesn’t…hurt too bad.”
“You’d be surprised how many people I have that yell at the first touch. It feels much nicer after a few minutes, but some people struggle quite a bit.” Arthur let his mind take over his hands. This was his element, after all.
“So, how long have you been doing tattoos?” Alfred asked. His nervousness seemed to have gone away.
“Oh bloody hell, probably ten years?” Arthur replied. He could hardly remember a time that he wasn’t doing tattoos. He’d started young, at about sixteen, but his parents had firmly told him that he wasn’t to touch anyone, including himself, with an inked needle until he’d practiced on various fruit skins and had been taught the basics by a family friend who’d been in the business for ages. He’d started working at a tattoo parlour professionally when he was twenty, and had worked his way up from there. Luckily for Arthur, he had a natural talent for the craft.
“Ten?! How old are you?”
Arthur had to bite back a startled cough.
“Twenty-six. I had an early start.”
“Oh, cool! For a minute I thought you were wayyy older than what I first guessed.”
“I’m not quite sure if that’s meant to be a compliment or not.”
“You can take it as a compliment.” Arthur didn’t need to look to know Alfred was grinning.
“Jolly good.”
“So what brings you to the Big Apple anyway?” Alfred asked after a beat of quiet, accented with the low buzz of Arthur’s machine.
“I’m teaching a few tattoo apprentices for a year over here. I was sponsored to come over, and it seemed like a good opportunity, so I took it.” Arthur shrugged, even though Alfred really couldn’t see it from how he was positioned.
“That’s pretty neat! How are you finding the States so far?”
“It’s…been interesting. You Americans can’t make a decent cup of tea for the life of you, though.”
“Oh, it’s not that hard to make tea! You put the teabag in the tea maker, fill the pitcher with ice and sugar, press the button and wha-la! Sweet tea!” Alfred exclaimed.
Arthur had to stop tattooing for a moment so he didn’t draw a black line clear across Alfred’s well-muscled back.
“If you’re referring to that treasonous, sorry excuse for a beverage that you call ‘sweet tea’ then you must be horribly misled, because that monstrosity cannot be considered tea by anyone with a brain.”
Alfred burst into asinine laughter, turning just slightly to look at the scandalized look on Arthur’s face.
“What do you mean? You don’t like sweet tea?”
“I despise it. And I told you, it’s not tea. It’s sugar water at best. Disgusting. Now, lay back down so I can finish this.” Arthur resumed his tattooing, but was still offended by what he had just heard.
“You’re real confusing for a Brit, you know? You’ve got this edgy punk-goth look going on and I always thought the English were all prim and proper and fancy-like. Then you come out and go real polite with how you explain things and gentle with your hands and all, but you get all fired up over tea.” Alfred laughed a little. Arthur felt heat in his face again at the prospect of being referred to as gentle.
“You expected all British people to wear a full suit and tie at all times?”
“Well, no, but the British people I always see on TV are all fancy. So I kinda figured most of you would be.”
“Sadly mistaken,” Arthur snorted.
“Wait, you’re all edgy and shit, with the whole ripped jeans and leather and ear piercings, but do you have tattoos, too? I mean, sure you do, you work at a tattoo shop.” Alfred’s voice jumped with excitement.
“Yes, I have tattoos,” Arthur chuckled and rolled his eyes. The American could be both hilarious and annoying at the same time, as he was discovering.
“How many?”
“Fuck, I have no idea anymore, honestly. I have a full sleeve done and I’m halfway through the other. Plus some random ones here and there.” Arthur answered honestly. He didn’t know anymore. He could tell which ones he’d done on himself, and was painfully aware of some of the more stupid ones, such as the guitar on his ass.
“No way! That’s mad cool. Can I see?” Alfred would’ve likely bounced off of the table if he didn’t have enough self-control to hold himself still, and Arthur was grateful for that.
“Very well, but after your tattoo is done.”
“Deal.” That wicked, charming grin again.
Arthur had never considered himself good at small talk, and usually preferred his tattoo clients to be silent. With Alfred, however, something just felt so different. Talking with Alfred about anything during his tattoo seemed entirely natural. He couldn’t help but feel a little thrown by it.
During the course of the shading work being done, Arthur had learned that Alfred was from Pennsylvania originally, but had just moved to New York City. He’d grown up in a small town and was eager to get away and experience more of the world, to go to a more diverse place than the same faces every day for your entire life. He was in college, for international communications. He’d need some internships next year, and then he’d be able to graduate. He’d taken a gap year to travel around the United States, but wanted to see the rest of the world when he could.
In turn, Arthur described life in London, how he both loved and hated the bustle of the city, and how it made New York seem so familiar. How tattooing was his calling, really, despite having the grades to go onto college. How everyone wasn’t surprised he chose to become a tattoo artist, but his parents had been slightly disappointed at first. The proper way to make tea, without the stupid electric kettle.
Arthur was almost disappointed and saddened when he finished tattooing Alfred. He placed the wraps on and handed the man a jar of salve to use on it as well as a pamphlet of detailed aftercare.
“Olivia in the lobby can take your payment when you’re ready. It’ll be tender for a few days, so take it easy. If you have any questions or concerns, feel free to call.” Arthur gave his standard monologue, while cleaning up his area.
“Awesome. Thanks, Art! I love it!” Alfred smiled, admiring the tattoo in the mirror before replacing his shirt. When Arthur’s back was turned, he strode out of the room and into the lobby. The Brit turned around to an empty room and felt his heart sink. At the same time, he felt utterly confused. Alfred had left far too quickly. Not even a real goodbye. He didn’t know why he felt so upset about it. Frowning, Arthur began wiping down his table when Alfred reappeared at the door.
“Hey! I wasn’t about to head out without saying goodbye,” the blonde said, and Arthur ignored the way his heart jumped.
“Well, I would hope not, but you Americans have atrocious manners,” Arthur gave a sly smirk.
“This is for you. Little more than the usual tip, I know, but you did a great job and I really enjoyed talking to you. I hope I’ll get to come back in for another one before you head back across the pond.” Alfred held out a few bills, which Arthur took and slid into his pocket.
“I hope so too. Cheers, Alfred,”
“Fruit Loops to you too!” the American waved and popped out of the room. Arthur couldn’t help but laugh.
Later that evening, Arthur closed the door to his rented flat and sighed. He immediately put the kettle on the stove for a right proper cup of tea, and a good teacup for it. In his room, he reached into his pockets to clear his tips from the day, counting his earnings before placing the cash in the jar in his dresser drawer. As he rifled through the bills, a small note fell out of the stack.
Furrowing his brows, Arthur picked up the note and unfolded it to reveal handwriting, somewhat sloppily listing numbers and then a scribbled “Text me? :)”
Fuck. Fuck yes.
Arthur yanked out his cell phone and punched the numbers in as a new contact, but hesitated before typing out a message. Would it look too desperate? Or even just creepy?
Settling on what to type, Arthur sent the first message.
“You better not forget to put that salve on tonight.” was all he sent. The response was almost immediate.
“Make me ;)”
Smirking to himself, Arthur pulled his shirt off and posed in the mirror, tilting his tattooed sleeve towards the mirror before snapping a picture and hitting send.
“Forgot to show you mine earlier. You want yours to look this good, you better use the salve.”
The reply was a series of heart eye emojis, which would have normally annoyed Arthur, but instead gave him a strange fuzzy feeling and a smile.
Maybe Americans weren’t all that bad.