Work Text:
Guido Reni
Saint Sebastian, c. 1615
Oil on canvas
SUNDAY, 1st of JANUARY
PHIL’s BOOKS:
9 — Dan (Consult)
9:30-6 — Walk-in’s
The chime above the door clanged noisily as Phil burst through it in a flurry of snowflakes. It was 9:05 already, and he hadn’t even opened the shop yet — much less prepared for his consultation.
The request had come in just a few days prior while he was up north for the holidays: Dan, 32, a first-timer. Black and white forearm piece — a portrait. Some scarring. He’d been referred by a friend, so here Phil was: blurry-eyed and bushy-tailed on the first morning of a new year, and already on his second cup of coffee. It was a vain attempt to stave off the exhaustion that came with the late train back from Manchester, but it was worth it to ring in the new year with his family.
By 9:08, Phil was back behind the counter with a mug in one hand and a pen in the other, doodling idly in his planner.
He waited.
And waited.
He double checked that the front door wasn’t locked.
And finally, after an hour’s wait, Phil came to accept the truth: that he’d cut short his first holiday in over a year for no good reason at all.
***
As the other artists trickled in and walk-in day began, Phil felt his dreary mood lighten. He’d worked hard to make his shop into a safe and comforting space, and every day he was grateful for the team of artists that helped him keep it that way. They were an eclectic bunch with a multitude of tattoos, piercings, and dye jobs between them.
Guest artists came and went over the years, but the core crew had stayed the same for well over a year now. Kate was 5’2 and as stubborn as they come. She maintained that her star sign was to blame (though her girlfriend Jo had her doubts). Mack was in their third and final year of apprenticeship, and it wasn’t unusual to find their curly black locks poking out beneath a backwards cap as they hunched over a sketchbook for hours at a time. And if Phil was the unofficial “father figure” of the group, Steven was everyone’s favorite uncle. He was the rare chatterbox that genuinely seemed to get along with everyone – a gossip that never had a bad word to say about anyone (except dickheads, obviously).
There were others, of course, but for all their differences, the vibe at The Pigeonhole remained just as Phil had envisioned: warm, welcoming, fun, and cozy (if a bit cluttered). See: the golden pig. Phil maintained that its purchase was a necessary business expense, thank you very much. The others didn’t quite share his vision.
They’d all personalized their work stations to their liking, adding pops of color and personality to the place. The backdrop wasn’t anything spectacular – just black walls with white trim, a checkered floor, and a funky lamp or two. But Phil had made it his own over the years – beginning, of course, with the miniature pride flags hanging just outside the door. His own bench was littered with knickknacks and houseplants that had seen better days. As he swept the last of the fallen leaves off the countertop, he heard the bell above the door chime.
“Hiya," he called, putting on a friendly smile. "What brings you in today?”
***
By the time lunch rolled around, Phil was eager to get out of the building. The shop had been surprisingly busy for a holiday, and with still no word from his consult, he was feeling a bit frayed at the edges. What was it his mother always said about overextending himself?
No matter. He sent a quick courtesy email from the shop’s account letting the man know he’d missed his appointment and would have to pay the cancellation fee of £10 before booking the next one. Privately, Phil hoped he might not make a next appointment at all (though he’d never say it out loud). At least this way his time was somewhat protected.
He tucked his computer away, willing the worries of running his own business to stay within the confines of his office. There would be time for all that later. Right now, there was only one thing on his mind – one thing that really mattered – and its name was Pret a Manger.
***
He grumbled about the morning over sandwiches with PJ, his first friend and closest confidant. He was an artist too, though tattooing wasn’t his primary medium anymore. Nowadays he was more of a freelancer, taking odd jobs that sparked his curiosity and let his imagination do what it did best: run absolutely wild. He still did guest spots at the shop now and again, but most of his time was spent on his own prints, paintings, and animations.
“He didn’t even call. Or text! I mean, who does that?” Phil huffed, scarfing down another bite of club sandwich. PJ hummed sympathetically, his eyes trained on something outside the window.
“It’s rude, is what it is," he added, though his friend made no move to further the conversation.
Phil was sulking, he knew, but damn if he hadn’t earned the right to sulk at the loss of another day up north with his family. He’d originally planned to stay through Christmas and the New Year, taking the train back sometime late Monday or Tuesday. But Dan’s request had come through before he’d booked his ticket home, and that had been that.
“He said it was important," Phil griped, scoffing. PJ simply chuckled at his dramatics, gathering their wrappers and throwing them in the bin. They walked out the shop and down the lane, back toward the high street.
“Whatever. At least I didn’t lose a whole session over it. That would REALLY piss me off.” He looked up, noticing they’d come to a stop outside the Tube station. “Ah, shit. I just bitched our whole lunch away, didn’t I?” he asked regretfully, embarrassment coloring his cheeks. PJ simply clapped him on the back, laughing good-naturedly and reassuring Phil that he could get the next one.
“You’re good for it, right? I hear there’s good money in tattooing,” he said with a shit-eating grin. He made his way back toward the stairs, calling over his shoulder, “Especially if your client’s a flight risk!”
He heard PJ's delighted snort to himself as he descended the steps to the Tube. With the day half over, Phil resolved to push the man out of his mind entirely, intent on not letting this one client ruin his day. Besides, he thought, that’s what cancellation fees are for.
He made a note in his phone before pocketing the device and turning his face up to the sky, soaking up the subtle warmth of the January sun.
***
Before he locked up for the night, Phil checked his messages one last time.
Phone – No New Messages
Email – Inbox (0)
Calendar – 1 New Item
Brow furrowing, he clicked over to his calendar app, where he found that his only open time slot that week had been booked by none other than Dan Howell. A moment later, a second notification came through: he’d just been paid £10.
***
WEDNESDAY, 4th of JANUARY
PHIL’s BOOKS:
9-11 — Penny/Wrist/Morse Code Wrap
11:30 — Dan/Consult (Rescheduled)
1-2 — Mickie/Thigh/Tally Marks (38)
2:30-4 — Sheppard/Neck/Inverted Cross
4:30-8 — Amelia/Forearm/VG Sunflowers 2/2
Eleven thirty came and went with no word from Dan. As the clock rolled over into his lunch hour, Phil huffed and hopped down from his place at the checkout counter. Everyone was late sometimes; Hell, everyone missed appointments now and again. But two no-call no-shows in a row? This guy was really starting to get on Phil’s nerves, and that was no easy feat.
***
SUNDAY, 8th of JANUARY
PHIL’s BOOKS:
9-5:30 — Walk-in’s
5:30 — Dan/Consult (Re-rescheduled)
All day Phil met client after client, carving out beautifully intricate designs and gleefully silly ones alike, and still no sign of Dan. True to form, Phil locked up the shop at 6pm sharp, and as he made his way from station to station tidying up the mess of walk-in day, he found himself wondering if he should establish some sort of rule for clients that regularly missed their appointments. He wasn’t trying to be a dick about it, truly. He knew shit happens, and there’s not always time to give a heads-up — but this was getting ridiculous.
As he turned a bottle of ink over in his hand, searching for the exact right shade on the shelf, it occurred to him that he was really quite lucky. Most of the shop’s clientele were lovely. They were pleasant and patient, and he never had to worry that they would waste his or his artists' time. It hadn’t been a problem until now, but he supposed that streak of luck was bound to run out sometime. And as he made his last rounds tidying up everyone’s stations, there came a frantic knock at the door that he was sure he knew the source of.
Yes, his luck had run out, and Dan Howell was the proof.
***
“We’re closed!” Phil called, moving closer to the door. As he came ‘round the corner, he looked up, and through the pane of glass he met eyes with the most beautiful man he’d ever seen.
Oh, of course.
The man raised a gloved hand, raking it through a mop of curly brown hair before tucking it back inside his coat pocket. His reddened cheeks matched the scarlet adorning his neck, where a fine knit cashmere was tucked into his peacoat. A ragged breath escaped his chapped lips, puffing into a cloud of hot air that swirled away on the wind.
“I’m sorry,” a strained voice called through the glass. “I should’ve called, I know, I just– well, there’s no excuse really…” The voice grew softer as it trailed off.
Phil hovered in the foyer, considering him. They both watched as the man scuffed the toe of his boot against the wood of the porch, blowing out another exasperated breath before squaring his shoulders in resolve and meeting his gaze once again. “I’m sorry,” he said, more clearly this time. “I’ll leave you be.”
He was halfway to the street by the time Phil got the door unlatched. The man turned, a look of genuine surprise on his face.
“You’re here now," Phil said with a shrug. "May as well come in.”
He stood frozen still, his brow knit in disbelief. A beat passed. Then:
“Are you coming or what?”
***
Against his better judgment, Phil had let the man in after hours, and he was regretting that decision more and more by the second. Dan, the elusive mystery man, had tried and failed to find the words to explain himself no less than three times before Phil finally took pity on him.
“You're Dan Howell, then?”
Dan, who was momentarily stunned by his apparent psychic abilities, nodded minutely.
“How did you…?”
“You looked sorry," Phil explained, "And if I were you, I’d be pretty sorry. So.” He hadn’t meant to come across so blunt and cold, but it had been a long day, and he was bone-tired. So sue him. He sighed heavily, noting the way Dan’s once piercing gaze had returned to his own feet. He softened his approach. “Look: shit happens, ok? I get it. It’s fine. You’re sorry, and you’re here now, so why don’t you just tell me what you’re here for?”
“I– ok. Thank you.” Dan shifted a little on the spot, clearly nervous.
“I want a tattoo of St. Sebastian, and I want it to be you that does it. I’ve got this image in my head – a painting of him – and I don’t need every last detail to match, but I want it to be him. That version of him.” As he spoke, Dan was pulling up an image on his phone. “A friend of mine recommended your shop. You, specifically. Said you could mimic some of the greats. Said you’re always up for a challenge, and, well– I’m about as challenging as it gets.” The words themselves were playful, but Dan’s tone spoke nothing of jest. Puzzled, Phil moved right past it.
“What period?” he asked.
Dan blinked. “Baroque.”
Phil nodded. “And the artist?”
“Guido Reni.”
A quick search of his mind’s art gallery came up empty. Phil clicked his tongue. “Don’t know a Reni. Big fan of Baroque, though I don’t get many opportunities for it. Caravaggio’s ‘Narcissus’ was my last, and that was more of a sketch… you said you wanted it true to form? Or as close as?”
Dan nodded, tight lipped.
“Show me.”
So he did. Silently, he passed his phone to the artist with “Saint Sebastian” on display. Phil fell silent, his eyes darting around the image, taking in its coloring and contrast, the lines and shapes that came together to form a beautiful man in what must be terrible pain, but whose face betrayed so little of his agony. He felt Dan’s eyes before he met them.
“How big do you want it?”
Dan flushed, stammering. “I– well–”
Phil allowed him a moment of panicked stuttering before cutting in. “I know you said forearm, and I'm not ruling it out. I haven't seen what we're working with. Won’t do a piece that won’t age well, though. If we’re doing this, we’re gonna do it right.”
“Right, of course," Dan said. "It’s up to you, really, where you think you’ll have enough space to work, but I was hoping…” he trailed off, lifting his sleeve to reveal a lean arm littered in white hatch marks. Phil gently took his wrist in hand, turning it this way and that as he examined the scars in the low light of the hall. He raised a hand as if to touch, then halted in place.
“May I?”
Dan nodded, swallowing. Phil didn’t miss the way he averted his gaze. He brushed a finger lightly over the thin white lines, already regretting what he would say next.
“It’s an intricate piece,” he started, still tracing the faint remnants of Dan’s past. “I’d need a bigger canvas to do it justice.” Dan seemed to deflate then, arm slackening in his grip. “But,” he added, “I don’t see why we couldn’t use your upper arm.” The younger man’s eyes glistened even in the near dark, and Phil felt his heart ache for him. He cleared his throat.
“Have you given any thought to the background?”
Dan shook his head no.
“This bit here: see how his lower half is cut off by the frame? We could work with that, ‘complete the picture,’ so to speak. Could form the whole of the tree he’s staked to, maybe even give it some ivy – it could cascade down your arm, like this,” he said softly, tracing a path from Dan’s elbow that wrapped down and around to his wrist. “It’s not the same, I know, but it could be a way to keep the painting and cover– what needs covering.”
Dan snorted a little at that, and Phil felt the desperate need to backtrack, but he was saved by the younger man pulling his arm back, tucking it carefully into his sleeve as he went.
“You asked why I’m here,” Dan said flatly, a hint of bitterness in his tone. “And it needs covering. So?” That fierce look had returned to him, the one he wore when they first locked eyes through the door.
Phil met his gaze resolutely. “I’ll do it.”
***
Over the course of the next few weeks, Dan learned a few things about Phil in the great deal of time he spent not-so-subtly studying him during their sessions:
1) Phil's taste in music was as whimsical and nonsensical as the man himself, and in his shop, it wasn't unusual for the theme from Final Fantasy VII to be followed by Super Graphic Ultra Modern Girl. (He did, however, take requests.)
2) His sense of style was indirectly correlated with the likelihood of a migraine. See: the uncharacteristically cynical "WELCOME TO THE END" hat, which he swore possessed mystical healing powers.
3) He was terribly guilty of feeding the pigeons on the terrace, though his fellow shop owners (and the landlord) begged him not to.
In turn, Phil learned a few things about Dan as well:
1) He had strong opinions about most everything, including Phil's taste in music. Lucky for him, they were more alike than he'd thought.
2) He had an incredible sense of style and seemingly endless £10 notes to indulge it with.
3) He was never, ever on time. Once, he was ten minutes early for an appointment. On every other occasion... it was a 50/50 chance that he showed up at all.
***
One afternoon in early Spring, Dan asked him, “How many is too many tattoos?”
Phil raised a skeptical brow at him before returning to his work.
“I’m not your mum, why should I care?”
“I’m not asking your permission, idiot,” Dan huffed. “I just mean– like, for you personally: what percentage of your body would you be okay with tattooing?”
Phil shot him a shit-eating grin. “Are you asking where I’d draw the line?”
Dan rolled his eyes as far back as they would go. “Ha bloody ha,” he deadpanned, then kicked Phil lightly under the table. “Answer the question,” he prodded.
Phil hummed in consideration as he shaded. “I dunno, maybe fifty?”
“Fifty?!”
He grinned. “You asked,” he said simply.
***
Sometime that spring, Dan noticed something else about Phil: as he worked, his lips formed the words to every line of every song that played over the stereo, no matter how deep in conversation they might be. Dan found he didn't quite mind.
He chose not to examine why he'd spent so long looking at the other man's lips.
***
At some point, they broached the topic they'd been circling around since the beginning. Actually, it was Dan who brought it up first.
"You can ask, you know," he'd said one day, seemingly out of the blue. They were sketching out the framing of the original painting, steeped in silence as Phil turned his arm this way and that, examining the curvature. But Phil knew exactly what he was referring to. He swallowed, choosing his next words carefully.
"Are you sure?"
Dan nodded, and Phil released a breath. “Alright," he said, letting Dan's arm fall gently back into his lap. "I guess I’m wondering… I've wondered... why now? Why not later, when you’re feeling…” he trailed off, hoping the words might come to him, but they resolutely didn’t.
“Happier? Less depressed? Less overall shit?” Dan mocked, though his eyes contained a mirthful spark.
“...better,” Phil supplied. “Why not wait?”
It was no secret that Dan still struggled with his mental health from time to time. When asked about his many missed appointments (and the increasing fees he'd incurred as a result), he'd brushed Phil off, stating that some days were so bad he couldn't get out of bed, much less go outside. He'd left it at that, and Phil wasn't one to press (it wasn't his place, after all). He very intentionally avoided Dan’s eye as he swapped the ink pots round, filling his needle and settling back into Dan’s space. He was trying not to put words in the boy’s mouth, but the thought remained: What if he can’t wait? He shook his head, attempting to clear it of the image of Dan standing much too close to the metaphorical ledge.
It was quiet for a few minutes more until a soft voice broke the silence.
“I guess I’m looking for reasons to stay,” Dan mumbled, swallowing. “And I’ve needed these scars gone for ages, and a sleeve is as good a reason as any to stick around. Right?”
Phil looked at him then, really looked at him, and considered the implications of needing a reason to stay. Then he returned to his work.
“Right, yeah.”
The din of city life filtered in through the open window, and the two lapsed into silence once more. It had been a few hours since they’d started, and just as Phil was opening his mouth to inquire about a lunch break, Dan cut in:
“I suppose it’s for my Nan, too. She practically raised me, and– well– I’d hate for all that hard work to go to waste.” He gave a sad sort of laugh. “And God, was it work. I was a piece of work…” He trailed off, a far-off look in his eye, though his gaze remained on the half-drawn vines twining round his left arm.
Phil chewed his lower lip, tracing and retracing the line as he mulled that particular confession over. Family was a sore spot for a lot of folks in this line of work – artists and patrons alike. The Venn diagram of people who asked for scars on the outside and people with scars on the inside was a near-perfect circle. Go figure.
But this wasn’t the first time a client had confided in Phil as he worked. It was an awfully long time to sit still and just think. Not everyone was a talker, sure, but most people gave him the run-down at least: Why here? Why now? Why this?
Why, then, was Dan’s confession nagging at him so?
He chanced a glance at the younger man’s face and found that same far-off look now clouded over with tears. No time to waste, then. He coughed and fixed Dan with a funny look.
“What do you mean ‘was?’”
Dan snorted a laugh, and for a moment the skies cleared.
***
The day he learned the whole truth behind Dan's many disappearances started like any other.
He drank too much coffee.
He opened the shop.
He waited for Dan to come in.
It was fifteen minutes past their appointment time when Phil began to really worry.
He’d texted Dan at five past, letting him know that he was running behind and not to rush. That message went unanswered and unread. Dan was his last appointment of the day, so if he didn’t hear from him in the next few minutes, he was cleared to go. An early evening was on the horizon for the first time in weeks, and yet Phil felt none of the usual elation that came with clocking off early. There was a sinking feeling in his gut: dread mixed with despair, the sort of feeling his actually psychic grandmother used to call a warning.
Something’s wrong.
He couldn’t shake it – the thought or the feeling. As he cleared the last remnants of spilled ink off his work station, he checked his phone again and felt his stomach plummet.
Read: 4:46pm
Around him, the shop carried on in a blur, but Phil remained motionless, staring down at his phone screen long after it dimmed. He felt a million miles away, searching for an answer he knew he wouldn't find in his own head. It was only when a great hand clasped him on the shoulder that he was jolted out of it, breaking the skin of his lips where he’d been worrying them between his teeth. The faint taste of iron had him wrinkling his nose and shaking his head, as if he could divulge himself of the feeling by simply rattling it loose.
“You alright there, boss man?” said a deep voice behind him. He turned to find Terry, one of his veteran artists, studying him closely. He was a broad, lean guy just a few years older than Phil with biomechanical sleeves and a heart of gold. Though he looked imposing, the soft, rich timbre of his voice never failed to put people at ease. Phil smiled at him, though he was sure it didn’t reach his eyes.
“Yeah,” he coughed. “Yeah, I’m good.”
Terry gave a pointed look from Phil to his phone and back again. “You sure?”
“Yeah, totally. Just spaced out a sec.”
He gave Terry a very convincing thumbs-up, then retreated. “I’ll just be in my office,” Phil called over his shoulder. “Gotta make some calls. Y’know, boss man stuff.”
He cringed the moment the words left his mouth, but he kept on walking. Sometimes he worried that Terry minded the arrangement – that he thought of Phil as the prick whose job it was to boss him around. He’d never once given Phil that impression (quite the opposite, actually), but the thought persisted. Compared to Terry, who always seemed cool and collected, Phil feared he gave off awkward vibes at best and a chronic case of foot-in-mouth disease at worst.
Oh, well. Best not to prove himself right.
***
It was now half past five, a full hour after their appointment was set to start, and he still hadn’t heard a word. He hadn’t managed to get any work done, either; every email and spreadsheet sent his mind wandering until he wound up right back where he started. And now here he was: flipping his phone haphazardly in his hand, trying and failing to imagine a scenario in which Dan simply forgot about today.
But he read it. You know he did.
He sighed, removing his glasses and rubbing tiredly at his eyes. That sinking feeling had yet to go away, and he had a hunch it wouldn’t just disappear on its own. This wasn’t just normal anxiety; hell, it wasn’t even his normal anxiety. No, this was the sort of feeling he couldn’t ignore. He felt foolish even considering trying to track down the man, but somehow it felt more foolish not to try.
He grabbed his keys and coat. Pressed Call. Made his way out the back and onto the street with no direction to speak of (cardinal or otherwise).
Hey, it’s Dan. Leave me a message (or don’t – I can’t be arsed to check them anyways).
Click.
He frowned at his phone, and just as he was debating leaving a voicemail (for purely professional reasons, of course), he tripped and fell over the long, outstretched limbs of someone sitting on the ground.
***
A coffee, a tea, and several baked goods later, they made it back to Phil’s office. Dan had looked positively gaunt when he’d found him, and as he stared, mesmerized, into the pastry case, he’d confessed to not having eaten much of anything (for how long, he didn't say). Phil got him anything his eyes roved for too long on.
It was now well past closing time, but he let Dan stay. He'd let him stay forever, if he could.
***
"Feeling any better?"
Now that Dan had some color back in his face, Phil started in on the questions. The boy merely shrugged, tracing idle shapes into the palm of his hand. "S'pose so."
This was not the Dan he was familiar with. The Dan he knew was crass and loud and yapped like it was his job. Even on his worst days, when his dry remarks were fewer and farther between, he was still sarcastic and witty to boot. It occurred to him then that perhaps Phil hadn't seen many of his worst days after all. He tried a more direct approach.
"What were you doing out there, Dan?"
The boy merely shook his head. "Next question," he intoned.
"No," Phil stated. "Not next question. You're not well, Dan. And as your friend, I refuse to leave you like this. Let me help."
"Oh, we're friends now, are we?" Dan sneered. But Phil didn't take the bait.
"You don't have to talk to me," he tried instead, "but you do need to talk to someone. Is there... someone I can call?"
Dan snorted. "No, Phil, there's no one to call. I live alone. My parents are hundreds of miles away, thank God, and anyway — I'm a big boy. I can take care of myself."
He got up off the sofa, as if to leave, and that set off alarm bells in every atom of Phil's being.
"Wait!" he squawked, jumping in between Dan and the doorway. "Just- don't leave yet. We don't have to talk; you don't have to explain yourself to me. We can just... hang out." He cringed even as the words left his lips, but he was running out of ideas.
Dan rolled his eyes. "Don't you have anything better to do on a Friday night?"
"Stop that," Phil spat. "You can be a dick all you want, it's not going to push me away."
"And why the hell not?!" Dan barked. "Why should you care?"
"I- I-" Phil wasn't often lost for words, but he'd caught him there. Why did he care so much? Dan was just another client, wasn't he? Except he wasn't. Not really.
"I just want to help," he settled on, the words barely coming out. He plonked back down on the sofa, spent, and miraculously Dan joined him. He curled into himself on the other side of the sofa, cradling his head on shaky hands. Phil reached a tentative hand out to grasp Dan's shoulder, but the younger man ripped away from him as if he'd been burned.
“It hurts, okay?! It hurts and I can’t do things that hurt on purpose — not when it feels... like this.”
He carded a hand through his wild curly hair, breathing heavily, as Phil pieced together snippets of conversations, memories and excuses to make sense of what Dan was saying.
And then it clicked: The scars. The tolerance for pain. The ease with which he spoke of his past — of malice.
St. Sebastian.
“I don’t do it anymore, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Phil, who hadn’t yet considered the possibility, felt a sudden wave of nausea overcome him.
“Right.”
Dan was eying him cautiously now, clearly gauging his reaction to this sudden bout of honesty. He fought to control his face as the boy continued on.
“I used to count the days…" he whispered, pulling his knees up and hugging them close to his chest. "It seemed important at the time.”
"It is important," Phil replied. Dan gave a weak smile in return, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. For a long time neither of them said anything, content to sit in the silence of a tentative peace. Finally, Dan spoke first:
"I have a therapist now — have for years, actually. I do talk to someone, okay? You don't need to worry about that." He ignored the other mans refute, turning the conversation back on Phil.
“Don’t you have any bad habits?”
Phil looked up, caught between the honest answer and the right one.
“I smoked a cigarette once.”
Dan smirked up at him, amused. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Was drunk and everything — a real messy night out for ol’ Philly.”
Dan was stifling giggles now, so he forged ahead, intent on humiliating himself for this boy’s benefit.
“It’s true! I even kissed a girl.” He made a face not unlike the one he pulled when a bite of cheese snuck its way onto his plate.
"What's that like," Dan muttered, stretching out on the sofa. Phil was pretty sure he wasn't meant to hear that, so he plowed ahead, clearing his throat and ignoring the blush that had settled over both their cheeks.
"Fancy a walk?"
***
They made their way over to the shopping district, where a dimly-lit corner booth and a bottle of Ribena softened their edges. Dan ordered a hunk of cauliflower masquerading as a steak, and Phil ordered whatever looked sweetest.
And then, Dan told him everything.
How he was sorry for wasting Phil’s time. How he'd always meant to call, but could never seem to summon the strength. How the bad days of his youth haunted him still. How the blur of faces and the slurs they spat still kept him awake at night. How the wounds they inflicted never quite healed. That some days it felt like he was still stuck in Winnersh, in a prison of his own making. And that the worst days left him craving something — anything — that might make the pain go away (or at the very least distract him for a while). How sickly validating it felt to make the outside match the inside. How he promised himself and his therapist that he wouldn’t use tattoos as a coping mechanism — at least, not as a means of self-harm. How the constant flux between just fine and barely hanging on left him feeling motion sick. How he always hoped the feeling would pass in time for him to make his appointment with Phil, and the crushing guilt whenever it didn’t. But above all, how sorry he was for wrapping Phil up in his mess. On and on and on, until Dan felt like a wrung sponge left out to dry.
When there was nothing left to say, he heaved a breath and waited, willing Phil to understand. To not hate him, or pity him. Just to understand.
And when Phil placed a hand overtop of Dan's and said there was nothing to forgive, Dan almost believed him.
***
After that day, Phil made sure to keep in touch whenever Dan missed an appointment — not as his artist, but as his friend.
TO: Dan
Hey, hope you're feeling better soon. Steve misses you.
(1 Attachment)
TO: Dan
No worries about today. Karen from Leeds says I can't draw for shit anyways ;P
TO: Dan
STEVE HAD BABIES!!!! brb crying =.=
P.S. I'll tell the babies you'll visit soon. Dont make me a liar! :[
P.P.S./P.S.S. ?? bring milk
TO: Dan
Jo & kate say hello! And me too. Hello!
TO: Dan
*PHIL sent a gif*
this u?
TO: Dan
m ill tdy. canceled u. btw
sry :( but alsohaha got u first!!
hope ur good <3
TO: Dan
Everyone at the shop says they miss u. Said to send their luv. Or smth
~ sending a vibe ~
TO: Dan
You're not going to believe this.
I dropped my glasses.
IN THE TOILETT >.<
I CANT SEE 4 SHIT M TYPING THIS THIS CLOS 2 MY FACE
im fired,, arent i?
***
SEVERAL MONTHS LATER
Dan’s fingers traced the fresh ink, the searing heat of his flesh evident even through the wrap that encased his skin. His whole arm tingled with equal parts pain and elation. He’d finally done it. After years of staring down those scars and willing them out of existence, he’d all but erased their memory. In their place now was a true work of art, and it was all thanks to the man beside him.
When the time came for them to part ways, Phil kept puttering about, searching for loose ends to tie up, though he knew he wouldn’t find any. He just needed a reason to see Dan again — to make him crack a smile again, to ease some of the ever-present weight that threatened to drag down his lithe form. But there was nothing more to do, and they were officially out of time.
Ordinarily, Phil let his clients do the talking. He didn't get too personal, he didn't get attached, and he definitely didn't give out his number, because nothing good ever came of that. But Dan wasn't just another client, and he hadn't been for quite some time now. So when they hugged goodbye, Phil didn't pull away. And when Dan pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek, whispering his thanks, Phil didn't hesitate to ask him out on a date.
Dan's dimpled grin was all the answer he needed.