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Vantacrow is second-guessing himself. A terrible thing to do when he is about to get something permanently drawn on his skin. Etched into his body. With a needle. A needle that was going to pierce his skin a thousand times over and over again. Yeah, he is second guessing coming here today.
To be fair, he is not second guessing his tattoo choice. It was a solid choice for a tattoo. Meaningful. It would definitely never be something he would regret having on his body. No, he is not second guessing his choice of tattoo. He is second guessing the whole needle piercing his skin a thousand times over and over again thing. That is much more terrifying than his choice of tattoo.
He thought he had come to terms with it. After all, he was no stranger to pain —there was that time he broke his wrist in middle school, the military…Now that he's here, he has to admit that he is nervous.
But his tattoo artist makes him more nervous than the needle does.
Vantacrow could tell that is the case, because his fear of the needle tripled when he saw who would be injecting him with it. Black hair, golden-pinkish eyes, black and grey clothes, and attractive, so incredibly attractive. This guy is in a different classification of human altogether, with eyelashes so dark, subtle and so conveniently crimson colored eyebags it was as if he's wearing makeup, especially the lower lashes, and lips so- what was the word? Poignant? Vantacrow can't remember the fancy word his English professor tried to get him to use in his last essay. Whatever it is, this dude looks like his lips had been sculpted in marble.
All of him looks sculpted in marble, actually. Including his personality. Seemingly stone cold. Staring into Vantacrow's innermost thoughts and judging him for his most recent trashy reality show fixations. Is this guy a mind-reader? “I feel like you can read my mind.”
“What?”
Shit. “Oh– Um, I– didn’t mean to say that out loud.”
See, this is why Vantacrow is nervous. He's so very bad at interacting with attractive people. His mouth just starts working out of nowhere without his control, spewing the most random and embarrassing shit. And then said attractive people would immediately start distancing themselves from him.
Except this one couldn’t do that right now like he probably wants to, because Vantacrow has to get a tattoo from him. While his nervous babbling is already bound to be bad enough due to the needle.
Hot Tattoo Artist only hums in response, because what else is he supposed to respond to Vantacrow’s weirdness with?
“Well. What are you getting today?” He asks instead, sounding like he's starting to analyze every facet of Vantacrow’s being.
“Oh! Right! I’m getting– Uh, well, it’s like, wings? I mean, they are wings, technically, crow wings but I’m not getting it just because they're wings! I’m getting them because I’m an orphan.”
He doesn't realize what he had said until those perfectly manicured dark eyebrows lower in confusion.
“That– That made no sense, huh?” He tries to laugh off. Being self-aware of his own weirdness usually helped him. “I mean, the wings are kind of like my family crest, I guess? I’ve never met either of my parents– They didn't even attend my birth, apparently, I just found out about half of the story pretty recently. But it turns out my mom– I have my mom’s last name, not my dad’s– Apparently her family has a crest! Kinda cool, right? Like some old-time nobility thing. I just found out about it, like, a few weeks ago? I never knew if they just gave me up when I was little or what, but yes they disappeared one day because they were being followed. Fishy stuff. At the end they were found dead, which is kinda disturbing, and like, I was dropped off at an orphanage before that because I guess they can't just leave an infant alone in a small house.”
Hot Tattoo Artist is not the only one staring at him.
“... I uh guess you didn’t need to know all of that.” Vantacrow mumbles, dimming down slightly.
The guy running the front of the shop bursts into laughter, and Vantacrow feels his face burn at the sound of it.
“That’s the most morbid reason for a tattoo I think we’ve ever gotten!” The receptionist boisterously managed through his hollering. “A tattoo of a family crest for an orphan, though, eh? Think you can handle that one, Zali?”
His name! The receptionist had said it fully earlier when he called the tattoo artist to the front, but Vantacrow had not thought to remember it, and if he had, his mind had been wiped clean at the first sight of him. That was good, because if Vantacrow had accidentally called him “Hot Tattoo Artist” out loud, he would have had to lay himself down in front of a moving double-decked bus.
“Sonny,” Vezalius replies calmly, a threatening type of calm, and the sound of his voice going so low does something incredibly bizarre in Vantacrow's gut. “Ahh, okay, come on,” He then says, walking away.
Far too late, Vantacrow realizes he's supposed to be following him. He stumbles his way forward, following his lead through to the back of the shop, where the buzzing of someone else getting their work done is louder, filling Vantacrow’s mind and veins with the droning. It even sounds painful. That is going to be Vantacrow in a few minutes.
A relaxed sigh is let out. “Alright. Do you have a picture or something?”
Shit. Hot Tattoo Artist– Vezalius– was speaking to him. Swallowing the spit in his mouth, Vantacrow begins to pat his pockets for the paper. “Ah! I completely forgot. I should have just given you this to start with, huh?”
Vantacrow’s attempt at seeming meek doest not go over well. Vezalius takes the paper from his hand rather calmly, unfolding it and staring down at Vantacrow’s family crest with those judgmental amber eyes. His nonchalant sigh as he asked, “Where do you want it?” only made it worse.
“Uh– m-my chest. Right over my heart.”
The way Vezalius’s eyes snap up to him as he says it has Vantacrow reevaluating his existence. They had gone wide, just slightly.
Needing to explain himself, Vantacrow attempted, “Um. Well, yeah, it’s kinda a cliché spot, huh? I know it’s, like, sappy or whatever. But I just, kinda- like, when you’re an orphan, it’s nice to keep a part of your family close, I guess. So that’s where I want it, this time. I was gonna go for a forearm one, but I'll probably do it another time. Hah, I figured it would be good to start up strong.”
His explanation doesn't soften Vezalius’s expression at all. He's frozen for a good part of it, his lips part and he inhales shortly, as if he's going to say something, but he closes them again. And then turns from Vantacrow’s view altogether, busying himself with putting on a pair of sterile gloves.
“Okay. Get on the table,” Vezalius tells him in such a polite yet demanding tone that Vantacrow perhaps runs over to the tattoo table a bit too quickly in response. “And take your shirt off, please.”
Vantacrow’s mind goes blank again. He has to take his shirt off. Why did he not realize sooner that he would have to take his shirt off? He could have, like, prepared or something. Did a few hundred sit-ups. Or maybe had gotten liposuction. Is there a surgery to enhance his abs? Make him hot? No amount of surgery could bring him to Vezalius-level approval of hotness, though, so–
“You want this color, too?” Vezalius was asking him, his back facing Vantacrow’s panic.
Everything that Vezalius says is completely normal and polite. Vantacrow was not normally self-conscious. Actually, it was a very rare thing for him to be. But with Vezalius, Vantacrow feels an overwhelming sense of shame, like he deserves nothing but this temperate tone. Yessir, Vezalius, sir. Vantacrow deserves the glare Vezalius is sending him, too. He doesn't know what exactly he had done to make him like this, but it surely could not be without reason.
Vantacrow then realizes that he hasn't answered his question. Nor had he gotten on the table, nor had he taken off his shirt. He had not followed any of Vezalius’s instructions. “Uh– yeah. Yes. Yes, that’s the color I want,” he tries to make up for his incompetence with a feebly more-competent answer, but it fails.
“You have to take off your shirt if you want me to do this,” Vezalius reminds him with the patience of a saint.
“Uh, ye–yeah,” Vantacrow feels his face heating up again. He rubs the back of his head, the strands of hair in his palm helping to satiate a small amount of his anxiety, but not nearly enough of it. “I guess I’m just nervous. I’ve never gotten a tattoo before! Is it, uh, going to hurt?”
Vantacrow knows how dumb of a question it was the second it was out of his mouth. He didn’t need Vezalius’s continually attentive stare to tell him that. Vezalius rightfully ignores the question to tell him for the third time, more curt than ever, “Take off your shirt.”
Well, there isn't anything else Vantacrow can do but follow his orders this time. He removes his shirt. It's cold in this little back room. Perhaps this is where Vezalius’s personality resided. Figuring he should also comply with that other order, Vantacrow hops up onto the plush table, wincing as he learns that the leather of it is just as cold as everything else in this tattoo shop.
Vezalius stays quiet, hunching over something he's working on. In the silence, Vantacrow hears that droning of the tattoo needle in the other room more clearly. Needing to drown it out, Vantacrow’s mouth starts up again.
“So, uh, how many tattoos do you have? Usually guys like you are tatted all over, aren’t they? I don’t see any on you at all, though, but I guess you’re wearing long sleeves and everything, huh?”
Dangerous territory, Vantacrow realizes. Asking Vezalius anything about himself is dangerous. Vantacrow couldn’t help it though. Thankfully, Vezalius did answer him, finally turning around from what he had been doing.
“One.” Is all he says.
“Wow, just one?” Vantacrow babbles, because Vezalius is coming over to him, and gods did he look even better up close, which is really saying something. “That’s surprising. I kinda figured most tattoo artists would be covered in them. But I suppose that could be a stereotype from movies and such. You don’t even have any piercings. What–”
“Sit still,” Vezalius interrupts him, and he's so close now, and Vantacrow is shirtless and Vezalius is hot and telling him to sit still because Vantacrow is fidgeting because Vezalius is hot and close.
And putting his finger on Vantacrow’s chest. Vantacrow swallows thickly at the sight. Vezalius’s hand is, of course, just as cold as the rest of him. Or maybe that's because Vantacrow feels like he's overheating.
“Here?” Vezalius asks.
Swallowing a few more times, Vantacrow croaks, “Mh–yeah…”
And now Vezalius is wiping some antiseptic over the center of Vantacrow’s chest. Vantacrow desperately hopes that Vezalius doesn't notice how hard his nipples are, or thinks that it's weird that his nipples are hard. It's cold! Vantacrow is cold.
Worse is when Vezalius pulls out a small disposable razor, shaving the thin curls off of Vantacrow’s chest. “Ah, kind of pointless to be doing that, you think?” Vantacrow laughs nervously.
“There was a little bit of hair there,” Vezalius tells him.
Is he– joking? With him? It's very hard to tell, because he said it so flatly. But there is some iota of a smirk on his perfectly sculpted lips.
Trying him, Vantacrow jests, “I liked that hair!”
Without missing a beat, Vezalius retorts back as he wipes Vantacrow’s chest with the antiseptic one last time, “Sorry about that. I guess I took away your only evidence of puberty.”
Or perhaps Vantacrow is being made fun of. He can't tell if this was Vezalius’s usual personality or not. “Has anyone ever mentioned to you how sassy you sound?”
“Has anyone ever mentioned to you that you might have undiagnosed ADHD or something?” Vantacrow nearly bites his tongue. “Sit still,” Vezalius tells him, and with his hand now on his shoulder to steady him, Vantacrow can't respond back if he wants to. He's placing something against the middle on Vantacrow’s chest. A paper. And now he's rubbing whatever was on it into Vantacrow’s skin in long, even, torturously erotic strokes.
It is now that Vantacrow knows he is probably going to get a boner at some point during this.
The strange form of petting is over quickly, though. Vezalius is peeling the paper back slowly, leaving an image against Vantacrow’s skin in its wake. Vantacrow’s tattoo.
“Is that what you want?” Vezalius asks.
Vantacrow stares down at the splash of color on his chest. The wings outlined in black, filled in with two different shades of purple and grey. The color was exactly the same as the one on the paper Vantacrow had printed out. “Uh. Yeah.”
“You can go look in the mirror,” he offers.
“No, it’s okay, I trust you,” Vantacrow says before his brain catches up to the words. He quickly adds, “You know, even though you’re kind of an asshole.” At Vezalius’s raised eyebrow, Vantacrow rethinks his attitude. “Maybe I shouldn’t be calling the guy who’s about to permanently draw on my skin an asshole.”
And then Vezalius chuckles, and Vantacrow’s eyes go wide. He managed to make him actually chuckle. That was something. “You think?” Vezalius asks bluntly.
Vantacrow is still reveling in the sound as Vezalius turned away again, over to his desk area. Back to him, leaning over…
He looks great in his jeans, which hugs him tightly all of the way down the leg. His ass is shapely. It looks like it would fit perfectly in Vantacrow’s palms. Slowly, Vantacrow’s consciousness fades as he imagines the way it would feel under his hand, if the flesh would be supple, or soft...
Vezalius turns back around far too soon, but maybe it only feels too soon because he had dazed out.
There's a tattoo gun in his hand.
Vantacrow’s anxiety returns to him. “Has anyone ever died from a tattoo before?”
“You gonna chicken out on me?”
That does something to him. Something primal burns in his chest, just beneath the color of his family crest. Suddenly, Vantacrow has a desire to prove himself. “I’ve never chickened out of anything in my life,” he swears.
Cocking his head, his expression still as flat as ever save for one unimpressed raised eyebrow, Vezalius orders him once more: “Lay down.”
Being told to lay on his back by a hot guy is hardly how Vantacrow was used to things going. The discovery of his own sexuality is something new to him, for a start. He doesn't know many labels besides from three examples and others he learned from the Internet. Hell, he knows he isn't even ready to label himself. His only other experience was with his ex-girlfriend of several years, who had been too shy to even ever be the one initiating a kiss.
But Vezalius had not meant it in any type of sexual way. He is his tattoo artist, and needed Vantacrow horizontal in order to do the thing Vantacrow is paying him for. So Vantacrow wills himself to calm down, and does as he was told.
“I’m, uh, kind of fidgety, fair warning,” Vantacrow cautions, leaning back upward slightly to let him know. “Sitting still has always been kinda hard for me.”
“It’s fine,” Vezalius tells him. And now he is pressing Vantacrow firmly back against the table, holding him in place with his right forearm across his collarbone, coming in close again to say in that low, deep voice, “I can hold you down.”
Vezalius’s face is so near his. Vantacrow had never been this close to someone he wasn’t about to kiss before. And Vezalius had indeed pinned him down, made it near impossible for him to nervously fidget out of. His skin is cool against Vantacrow’s, but it burns in a different way.
“I think you just turned me into a bottom.”
If there was one sentence that broke through Vezalius’s cold exterior, it was that one. His eyes go round, and there's the barest tinge of color to his cheeks. He's staring down at Vantacrow, frozen, still pinning him against the tattoo table.
“I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”
And to Vantacrow’s surprise, Vezalius stutters. He hadn’t thought that was possible for him. “You– Ahm. You really don’t have any kind of filter, do you?”
“Not when I have a hot guy pinning me down on my back, no.” Vantacrow digs himself deeper. Trying to save himself, he adds, “To be fair, I don’t have one even at the best of times, honestly. It’s a bit of a problem, I know, my foster dad is always telling me, but I can’t really help it? My mouth just kinda does its own thing, and I really have no control over it. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I’ve just never had anyone pin me down like this before, and I’m learning a lot about myself right now. My old girlfriend was like, incredibly shy always, so, you know.” Vezalius is still just staring at him. “But you’re– sorry, you’re straight, aren’t you? You probably have a girlfriend with like, pink hair and gauges and probably a nose ring or something. Sorry, uh–"
“I don’t have a girlfriend,” Is all Vezalius responds with.
Of course Vantacrow wants to ask his sexuality immediately after, but thankfully there's something in his brain telling him how inappropriate it would be to ask him that. If only that something had piped up a minute ago, useless foresight, always coming in far too late. He had denied having a girlfriend, though. Why would he deny that part, but not the straight part? Why tell him he was single? What did it mean?
“I’m gonna start tattooing you now,” He says instead of answering even one of Vantacrow’s many questions.
Vantacrow was too distracted to remember to fear the needle until it's already touching his skin. He jolts, but true to his word Vezalius holds him in place, which is good because otherwise Vantacrow would have had a permanent line across his chest. “Now’s probably a bad time to tell you I’m afraid of needles.”
“I already figured that out on my own.”
“R-Right.” Of course he already figured it out. Vantacrow had been shaking in his sneakers since the moment he stepped into the shop. “I’ll try not to pass out.”
“Might make it easier if you did, actually,” Vezalius mused in that even, flat tone he said everything in. “At least you’d be quiet.”
“It’s just because it’s a needle!” Vantacrow finds himself defending. “I’ve never been good with needles! I can’t help being squeamish.” Vezalius hums, sounding so damn unconvinced. “Because you’re so tough, with your skinny jeans and emo hair.”
Vezalius passes over his sternum with the needle, and Vantacrow yelps pathetically. “My hair grows like this naturally,” he explains.
Hissing through his teeth, Vantacrow spits, “Bullshit. Hair can’t defy gravity like that on its own. You probably go through a can of hairspray every week.”
Sounding almost bored, Vezalius dares him, “Touch it if you don’t believe me.”
“I will!”
It was a mistake to do that.
The dark hair is incredibly soft, and also deceptively thick. Vantacrow’s fingers sink into it, disappearing into the mullet and silky curls at the back of Vezalius’s head. Vantacrow is not thinking of Vezalius’s hair routine. No, he's thinking about clenching his fist, tugging the hairs back there so that Vezalius has no choice but to look up. He is thinking of using the hold he has to maneuver him-
The needle passes over another spot on his breastbone. This situation is absolute torture. Vezalius’s weight on top of him, the pain of the needle which feels more like burning than being pricked, and using every ounce of willpower to keep himself from tugging on Vezalius’s soft hair. Because his hair is soft and he is very attractive and Vantacrow hadn’t gotten laid in over a year. He definitely has a boner. He can feel how cramped he is in his boxer briefs.
Trying to calm himself down, Vantacrow wrenches his eyes shut. The only way to help himself is to block off vision to the sight of Vezalius so close. And to drop his hand from Vezalius’s hair. Which he does. Begrudgingly.
To make it worse, Vezalius’s voice sounds smug. “Well?”
“No product,” Vantacrow hisses through his teeth. “There's a strange color at the front roots tho.”
“Mm… I used to dye it there. The black didn't stain enough to cover it after.”
Vantacrow does his best to stay quiet for the rest of the outline. It's hard to tell if having his eyes closed helped or not, because when they're closed it's harder to keep himself desensitized to his sense of touch. The burning of the tattoo gun. Vezalius’s cool, weighted arm pressed along his collar bone. Vezalius’s breath ghosting over his bare skin. The feel of his own boner against the cotton of his underwear. The heat of his face.
Eventually Vezalius finishes with the outline, and switches the gun to a different needle to fill in the color. “This hurts more,” he warns.
“Great,” Vantacrow says, hoping it would overshadow the rest of the sensations.
When Vezalius starts again, Vantacrow grits his teeth. The coloring does hurt more. Looking down at the gun, Vantacrow can see that there are more needles attached to it. He feels a wave of nausea overcome him, and he looks away.
His whole body feels weak. It's a good possibility that he would pass out, he realizes. God, how embarrassing would that be? “How much longer will this last?” he asks, trying his hardest to not sound pathetic.
“You gonna tap out?”
“No!” Vantacrow shouts. “Just wanted a timeframe for this. Maybe I have plans for the rest of the day.”
“Maybe you do.”
Pouting, Vantacrow scoffs, “Asshole. I wanna know how you did with your one tattoo. Bet you were worse than me.”
Instantly, Vezalius catches him with a rebuttal, “No one is worse than you at this.”
Rolling his eyes, Vantacrow calls him out, “I’ve been still!”
“No, you haven’t,” Vezalius tells him. “You’re lucky I’m good at my job. Do you know how hard perfect curves are? Anyone less skilled would have had you walking away with waves on your chest, the way you’re moving and squirming all around.”
Vezalius’s accent is unbeknowningly making something strange swirl inside Vantacrow. Feeling his cheeks heat up again, he spits, “I’m pretty sure good tattoo artists are supposed to be, like, personable.” The tattoo gun runs over another bone, where there's less tissue to cushion the nerves. Yelping in pain, Vantacrow accuses, “You do that on purpose!” Fucking Frenchman.
“Maybe I just wanted to hold you down again.”
Vantacrow blinks several times. “You-… are you flirting with me?”
Vezalius’s mouth snaps shut, his smirk disappearing instantly. Vantacrow hadn’t noticed it until it was gone, but there had been a smirk there, just before. Vezalius’s face is gaining color quickly, and Vantacrow feels his heart thump wildly under the tattoo gun. Grinning, Vantacrow presses him, “You were flirting with me!”
“You’re the one who’s had a boner this whole time.”
It's Vantacrow’s turn to snap his mouth shut. He tried to open it several times, making choking noises. Eventually he manages, avoiding eye contact and mumbling, “I already told you I thought you were hot. I can’t help it when you’re leaning over me like this.”
Clicking his tongue, Vezalius sets back to coloring in Vantacrow’s tattoo. “What are you, twelve?”
“No, just sexually frustrated,” Vantacrow admits with annoyance. “Girls don’t like me and I have no idea how to go about asking out guys.”
“Maybe guys don’t like you, either,” Vezalius offers.
Okay, this guy- “You’re a bastard, you know that? Maybe I thought you were hot at first, but now I kinda want to deck you in that dumb pretty-boy face- OW. STOP DOING THAT!” But Vezalius only holds him down firmer, which does not help Vantacrow’s predicament in the slightest.
Monotone as ever, Vezalius replies, “You’re paying me to do this to you. It always hurts more when you tattoo over bone. Sit still and be quiet so I can finish this.”
“Fuckin’ sadist,” Vantacrow slews under his breath, loud enough for him to hear. Then, louder, “You know I don’t have to tip you at all.”
“Good for you.”
“Prick.”
Despite the name calling, Vantacrow is still buzzing with something restless at Vezalius’s touch. The arguing- Vantacrow kind of longs to continue it. The hostility is easy conversation, not to mention a great distraction from the pain. It's kind of fun. Vezalius is quick with his insults. But if Vantacrow continued along that path, he may get Vezalius to actually hate him. He doesn't want that.
So instead, Vantacrow asks, “Tell me something vulnerable about yourself.”
Vezalius stops tattooing for a second, the request confusing him. “What?”
Sighing, Vantacrow closes his eyes, trying to stay aloof. “I told you all about how I’m an orphan. You owe me something good, too.”
The silence drips for a second. Then, “Literally no one asked or wanted to hear your trauma.”
“Just tell me or I’ll leave here with the tattoo unfinished and tell everyone how awful of a tattoo artist you are!”
Vezalius is silent again. The tattoo gun revs on, but it is not touching Vantacrow’s skin. It goes on long enough that Vantacrow has to open one eye to check on him, wondering if he crossed a line. Vezalius’s eyebrows are low, his jaw tight. He's struggling with it. Just as Vantacrow is about to take it back, to let him off, he says, quietly, as if he isn't speaking to anyone, “My parents died when I was seventeen. I’m an orphan too.”
“Really? What happened to them?”
“It was a car crash. I was in the car.” Shit. Vantacrow should not have asked. Vezalius ends it with, “I raised my sister by myself after that. She was also an artist. She did the sketch of my tattoo, and I did it on myself. She's not with me anymore.”
“I see. So, why is your sister not with you anymore huh? You must have been a good brother like you are in customer service.” Vantacrow mumbles with a mindless sarcasm, that slipped out of his mind once again, and he regrets it in a sharp instant.
“Cancer.”
Something heavier than Vezalius’s forearm crushed into Vantacrow’s lungs. Fuck. Fuck. Fucking idiot asshole!
“She died last year. That’s why I only have one.”
The silence ticks on, the tattoo gun’s noise is ringing out too loudly, some type of rhythmic pulsing along with it. Or that's his heartbeat, rushing through Vantacrow’s ears. A numbness overcomes him, starting at his extremities, his fingertips and toes, and pooling in up his limbs inward.
Any possible answer feels terrible to muster, but he still speaks. An apology is left hanging in the air. “I… I just assumed she moved away from you or something…”
“Mm, don't worry. I just assumed your parents shot themselves. We're even.” Vezalius murmurs naturally with patient gentleness. Dibs to him. Vantacrow could have expressed his indignation, but the admiration over his quick-witted speech swiftly drowned it over, accompanied by earlier’s numbness.
Before it renders him useless, Vantacrow says, “I think that’s worse than my story.”
With a humorless gush of air through his nose, Vezalius shakes his head, waving the tattoo gun in his hand slightly. “I don’t know. Not knowing who your parents were throughout your entire childhood only to find out they ran away to still get murdered is pretty hard to top.”
“Yeah,” Vantacrow agrees, setting his head back down against the flat cushion under his head. “It is. But at least… They did the bare minimum to leave me protected, and I didn't have to witness their deaths, or anything. That must have been awful.”
“It was,” Vezalius says.
“The badass scar on your face is from the accident then?”
“Badass?” Vezalius chuckles once again, sounds genuine. “Yeah.”
And then he continues coloring in Vantacrow’s tattoo.
It isn't much longer until the tattoo is done. It isn't a large tattoo, after all. Just two crow wings spread open. When Vezalius finishes, he sits up off of Vantacrow and wipes away remaining ink and blood. It is a delicate touch, one which Vantacrow wishes would linger. It does linger. But not for long enough. “Check it out,” Vezalius instructs him, another order, but mumbling it much softer than the others.
Getting up, Vantacrow walks over to the full-length mirror near the door, and lays his eyes on the new addition to his body for the first time. His family crest, a last name that finally had meaning to it. He had never questioned his last name, had assumed someone at the orphanage had given it to him. But it was his real name.
Vantacrow had never asked to know more information about his parents. Back in the orphanage, the caretakers always made him feel like he was in trouble for asking things. It wasn’t until recently that he finally had it in him to actually ask it of his foster-dad. For years he had been too afraid; he had felt like it would be disrespectful to ask, somehow. Remembering the man that raised him, he thinks, he had been such a great foster-dad, and for the longest time he was worried that asking for that information would hurt him, somehow. It turned out that he had been waiting for Vantacrow to be ready to ask all along. A great dad, he was…
He doesn't want to start crying in front of Vezalius, so he stops looking at it. “It’s perfect!” he forces himself to sound cheerful, perhaps overdoing it a bit. “Thanks!”
Vezalius is coming over to him with something in his hands. He brushes off the compliment with another dismissive grunt. “I’ve got to wrap it.” Vantacrow startled when Vezalius began to touch him again, but he's just placing a clear film over the new tattoo, smoothing it over his chest. It is just as thrilling as the rest of his touches were. He rips some medical tape off with his immaculately straight teeth, because of course even his teeth are attractive. It's actually kind of annoying.
Vantacrow feels like he's festering as Vezalius continues to stroke his chest, pressing the tape down to hold the film onto his skin. As soon as he's done, a finger jabs directly onto the fresh tattoo, and Vantacrow squeaks in pain as Vezalius scolds him, “Don’t pick at any of the scabs.”
“Ow! Don’t do that!” Vantacrow shoves the finger off of him. “Maybe I will, just to piss you off.”
“If you do, it’ll make the tattoo splotchy,” Vezalius warns him. “So don’t.”
Chuckling, Vantacrow pesters him, “Then I’ll have to come back and have you fix it up, huh?”
“If you want me to pin you down again, you just have to ask.”
Frozen for another moment, Vantacrow’s smile begins to grow, “If you’re free on-”
“No.”
The asshole has been waiting for the chance to shut him down. Huffing, Vantacrow narrows his eyes, “You know, you are flirting with me. You’re the one who wants to pin me down again.”
“Definitely not,” Vezalius denies him once more, swerving the topic. “Put your shirt on and go back out to Sonny so he can get you your aftercare. And you better tip me good for putting up with you.”
“Go on, keep trying to deflect,” Vantacrow presses. “I know you enjoyed it as much as I did. We had a connection.”
“We don’t fit.”
“We seemed to fit pretty well-”
“We can’t both be bottoms.”
Vezalius leaves Vantacrow in the back room alone with nothing but that last bit of information, the memory of Vezalius’s raised eyebrow and that barely-there ghost of a smirk lingering with it. It's good. It's so good. Vantacrow has to take a moment in the privacy of the back room to make sense of it.
So Vezalius is a bottom. And Vantacrow… isn't. He may have enjoyed being pinned down, that was a new sensation, but he usually enjoyed taking control. But maybe he- well. Maybe both of them showed interest on the other side in this tattoo room today. That could be interesting. Shucking his shirt over his chest, doing his best to not wince too bad at the soreness, Vantacrow counts his luck before exiting the room.
He had hoped to run into Vezalius by the register, but a quick glance around the parlor shows that he had vanished. Frowning, Vantacrow asks the receptionist, “Where’d he go?”
Scoffing, the worker, Sonny is his name, sounded almost annoyed, “He told me he’s going on a ‘smoke break’, even though I know for a fact that he doesn’t smoke. He needs to go cry out his feelings, probably.”
That is an unexpected explanation. Vantacrow frowns. “Huh?” he asks, because the idea of such a seemingly emotionally walled-off person as Vezalius ‘crying out his feelings’ is intriguing.
Sonny holds his hands up in front of him. “You didn’t hear it from me, because he’d kill me, but your tattoo was a pretty sore spot for him. Where’d you get it? If you tell me in the middle of your chest, right over your heart, I may have to spritz you with holy water.”
“Uh…”
“Oh for fuck’s sake, you did, didn’t you?” Sonny’s shock is suddenly weighted in a peculiar way, and Vantacrow feels very small and very confused under it. After a moment of that which lasted way too long, Sonny falls back, shaking his head. “Goddammit. He’s gonna be a wreck all week. Look, I can’t charge you for this tattoo. Just go out there and tip him something good, okay?”
In his own state of shock, Vantacrow asks again, with even more confusion this time, “Huh?!”
“Look I am not risking my life by explaining it to you,” Sonny scoffs at him. “Just go. Congratulations, you got a free tattoo. Don’t expect another one.”
With nothing left to do in the building, Vantacrow bewilderedly thanks the worker, mind reeling with wondering whatever the hell that guy is on. But tattoos weren’t cheap, Vantacrow knows, so he doesn't question it. Well, he would have more money to tip with, at least. Outside, Vantacrow turns his head in multiple directions, trying to decipher which one Vezalius would have disappeared down.
He finds his figure down the side of the building, leaning against the wall and staring blankly into the side of the neighboring antique shop. Thankfully he isn't crying, but Vantacrow still feels awkward about intruding, too wary from that last puzzling conversation. Chalking it up to Sonny being weird, Vantacrow calls out to Vezalius, trying to laugh, “He just gave me this tattoo for free.”
Vezalius startles at Vantacrow’s voice. It takes a minute to register, but soon he's scrunching up his face, and calling loudly as though hoping Sonny would hear him insulting him through the wall, “Idiot. How does he expect the shop to make money?”
Shrugging, Vantacrow smirks, “I dunno, but he said it, so now you guys gotta honor it. Customer service and all.”
“Fuck customer service,” Vezalius curses, and Vantacrow laughs.
“I’m still gonna tip you,” Vantacrow assures him, reaching down for his wallet. He finds the bills easily, pulling out more than enough to cover the cost of the tattoo, plus a sizable tip amount. Handing it out forward, Vantacrow tries to meet Vezalius’s eye.
But Vezalius is not looking at him. He's staring down at the money in Vantacrow’s hand like it was something forbidden. Like it would burn him to touch. He's staring down at it in the same way he had lost focus earlier, tattoo gun hovering over Vantacrow’s skin. Vantacrow swallows thickly. “Keep it,” Vezalius says, tone even more dull than anything else he had said today.
Okay, now it's just weird. “Dude, you can’t be serious,” Vantacrow says barely above a whisper.
“Here.” Instead of taking the money, Vezalius is shoving a small business card into Vantacrow’s other hand. “I’ll charge you when you come in to get that one touched up after you ruin it by picking the scabs.”
Ridiculous. Vantacrow has no idea how to respond, other than to let out a few small incredulous laughs. He looks down at the business card, donned with the full name Vezalius Bandage and a professional email address to make an appointment with. He has no idea what possessed him to do it, but he turns the card over.
Ten digits are scrawled in neat, slanted handwriting. A phone number. Vezalius’s phone number. Vantacrow’s lungs fill with air at the sight. He looks down at the numbers, then up to Vezalius for confirmation of what he had just received. “This is-”
“Shut up.”
Laughter punches out of Vantacrow. “What- the hell made you give this to me? I mean, I’m honored,” he adds quickly, “but I thought I would have to chase you for at least a month to wear you down.”
If Vezalius finds the humor in it as well, it's overshadowed by something else. The somberness of it sobers Vantacrow. Vezalius pushes himself off of the wall, turning to face him. Then, he does something peculiar. He runs a hand under his shirt, lifting the fabric up to reveal the pale skin…
And a pink-magenta feather symbol, just over his heart.