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Simon has always been a bit slower figuring out everything. Slower, but still: eventually everything works out just fine.
School had taken him an extra year, but graduation gave him the freedom to do what he wanted. He did finish his apprenticeship as a veterinary technician on time, but after working for a few years, he realised he preferred working with animals in settings outside of veterinary practices. Helping them was nice, but… somehow the connection to the animals was missing for him. Eventually, he ended up working in a shelter, specifically in aiding the recovery of new animals.
Took him many years. But he still got there, and it fits. So it's fine.
The thing about his gender has taken even longer, way into his 30s. But like everything else – it worked out with time. He started testosterone shots with 31 and got top surgery just two weeks shy of his 33rd birthday. And now, exactly two years after his surgery, he has another important appointment to go forward with this chapter of his life.
Simon swallows down his nervousness and pushes the glass door of the tattoo shop open, the material not at all see through due to the amount of stickers plastered to it from inside as well as outside. A bright cling of a bell connected to the top of the door announces his entry.
Inside, he's greeted by a cosy space wrapped in muted, dark colours and velvety green armchairs as well a brown couch in a waiting area next to the front desk. Plants, fake skulls of different species as well as a load of prints with different art styles are strewn around the space, making it comfortable and soothing.
The door falls into the lock with a soft click behind him. Simon reaches down to pat over Roach's head, the soft fuzz under his hand never failing to soothe him. Roach's fur is slightly wet from the steady drizzle of miserable October afternoon. The Golden Retriever gives a gentle huff and proceeds to trot after Simon when he makes his way further in, his paws clicking softly on the concrete floor.
The entrance area of the studio is abandoned, though that changes only seconds after Simon took his first cautious look around when someone bustles in from one of the wooden doors leading to the back of the studio.
"There ye are! Simon Riley, eh?"
In front of said Simon Riley is suddenly stood the prettiest man he's seen in his entire life. Bright blue eyes shining from sharp features, a wide smile lighting up the face. Dimples smooth the rough stubble on his jaw, freckles and moles and a singular scar on the chin littering smooth, tanned skin.
And as if a stunningly beautiful face wasn't enough, the bastard decided to pierce his ears all over. Simon is most fascinated by a silver chain dangling from a industrial type piercing, connecting to his ear lobe. It's a stunning contrast to the long brown hair, the thick strands tamed by an undercut on both sides, and loosely arranged into some braids.
Following the path of his long hair down, Simon spies wide shoulders and thick arms, covered by a loose, plaid dress shirt. The man is bloody fit, strong and sturdy, possibly even able to pick up Simon even though smaller in height.
It's only when a gentle cough raises Simon's attention upwards again, thick, dark eyebrows raised in a silent question that Simon realises he's fucking staring and hasn't said a single word in longer time than socially acceptable.
Bloody hell.
"Yes. Got an appointment with John MacTavish?", Simon tries to save his grace, clearing his throat a tad too conspicuously. He had exchanged messages with the man, checked out his social media presence to make sure to enter a queer-friendly space.
But most of his pictures were tattoos or artworks. Simon hadn't know he was this bloody handsome.
Simon spots a tribal tattoo in John's undercut and feels the last of his breath leave his lungs.
"Ye found him," John winks, extending his hand to shake Simon's. His grip is strong and his callouses grate over Simon's skin. Simon just about dies from the soothing heat of his palm, and can barely concentrate on the continued, eerily Scottish ramblings.
"And this little sweetheart is also on the guest list!", John adds, his deep, smooth voice turning impossibly more gentle when he squats down and extends his hand towards Roach to let the dog sniff his fingers. "What's their name?"
"His name is Roach," Simon introduces his Golden Retriever with a smile. They had written about this as well: how Simon would like to bring his dog to the appointment. Roach excitedly explores the smell of John's hands with a wagging tail, quickly leaning his head forwards and demanding pets. John gives in with a pleased coo, bringing both hands up to absolutely smother Simon's dog with massaging head pats.
Simon blinks and tries to keep his face even when he's surprised by a sudden, vivid imagine of John petting his own head instead. Is he seriously this gone already? Jesus Christ, no crush has ever been this quick and sudden before. He decidedly does not think about the fact he's about to get tattooed by a pretty man that he wants to go dog mode for after two minutes.
"Roach?," John inquires with a chuckle, "where did he get that name?"
"Not my idea," he dismisses immediately, "met him the first day working the shelter I'm at. Just growing out of pup stage, the veterinarian wasn't even sure if he'd make it."
John's expression sobers significantly at the notion, something grim and borderline angry scurrying over his handsome features. It resonates with Simon, the anger about someone hurting an innocent animal like this still simmering every time he thinks about it.
"He made it, though," John helpfully supplies.
"He did. That's what made us call him Roach. Not gonna get rid of that little bastard easily, the lad is tough as hell, always has been," Simon smiles and reaches down to pet his little boy as well. Back then, it didn't take long for the mangled and downright pitiful ball of fur to carve out a space in Simon's heart, something about the abandonment speaking right to his very soul. Nowadays, they're so well in sync that Roach somehow senses whenever Simon needs his support. He isn't trained to be a professional service dog, but Simon would bet he'd fucking aced the life as a service dog if it were for different circumstances.
"Ye were right in yer messages, he's polite as hell," John speaks up after a while of silence, only broken by Roach's excited huffs and his tail thumping against the counter, "The little cutie is absolutely welcome to stay during the session. Ah got a bowl of water ready for him and a pillow where he can chill so he won't be in the way."
Before Simon can offer his genuine gratitude over the fact this man remembered his dog and went out of his way to prepare accordingly for him, John blathers on.
"Let's go then, shall we? Got yer design prepared already, just gotta print it. Ye wanna see it? Ye can call me John, by the way. Is 'Simon' okay? Dinnae want to overstep in any way."
Simon nods, barely quick enough to follow the sudden topic changes, but fortunately for him, his answer for all the questions is the same.
"Good lad," John's smile widens, "come with me! Ma studio is over here, the others are not here today. Really dig your design, it's great. Oh, did ye want something to drink? We have coffee, soda, water, some tea–"
"Tea would be great," Simon interrupts him before he gets a chance to list their whole beverage inventory. That man really has a tendency to ramble when he's excited, Simon finds. Simon also finds it's very charming, full of life and honest. And kind of cute.
"Tea?", John stops in his tracks with a chuckle, roving his eyes up and down Simon's black outfit, "yer really digging the goth vibe, are ye?"
"Dunno bout goths, Johnny. I believe it's called 'English'," Simon deadpans, too little oxygen left in his brain to keep a tap on his filters. Johnny stares for a second, and Simon is scared to have gone too far with the nickname. But then Johnny breaks into laughter, his face flushing with it.
"Ye're great. Might even make ye a tea after all if ye're being so funny and all that. Take a seat, Ah'll be with you shortly." With that, Simon gets shoved onto a stool in the corner of Johnny's studio room, next to which is a giant green pillow placed on the floor. Roach flops down onto it with a dramatic sigh, his tail continuing to thump lightly against the floor. Simon watches him for a bit, lightly smiling to himself. Curiosity overcomes him quickly though, and he checks out his surroundings.
Simon takes in sketches, artworks and photos of tattoos littering the walls, eyes the various plants strewn around the room. In the middle of it is a big tattoo chair, comfortably padded and adjustable in height and inclination, so that the tattoo artist – Johnny – can work efficiently and hopefully with minimal strain on his back.
It's cosy. Simon almost can't believe it, but he feels comfortable in a stranger's room after a few minutes. Something about the warm, open-hearted way of Johnny makes him feel right at home.
"Alright, Simon!", calls the deep Scottish drawl from the hallway, hasty steps bustling closer preceding the man entering the room again, balancing a sizable mug of tea in his hands, "here's yer tea, and– damn it, Ah forgot the sketch book. Give me a second, aye?"
With that he's off again, just after pressing the mug into Simon's hands. Simon is fairly sure he'd be overstimulated by anyone else, but somehow this particular brand of whirlwind doesn't phase him in the slightest. Johnny's demeanour is open and unfiltered, but still respectful and kind.
God, he's halfway to falling in love with the man. Simon needs to pull himself together if it's going at this rate.
But it's really hard, what with Johnny rushing into the room again with a downright blinding smile and his sketchbook held up in his arms victoriously.
"There it is! Now–", Johnny pulls the stool next to the tattoo chair close to Simon's current seat and flop down, extending the sketch book open for both of them to see. He quickly leaves through the pages, purposefully searching for a specific piece which he finds quickly.
"Ha! Here." Johnny pushes the book onto Simon's lap. A spark runs up Simon's arm when their fingers brush against each other, leaving goosebumps behind on his skin. "Gonna be honest, Ah reckon ah fucking nailed it. Yer references were perfect, and ye described very well what you wanted, so– this what you want, Simon? We can change up things if ye want."
Simon roves his eyes over the thick, twisted lines on the paper in front of him. The flow of them is perfect, not too straight, not too bendy. There isn't much detail, but the lines have a grainy, irregular kind of structure in them that makes it interesting to look at. The shape is exactly what he thought would fit well. This is–
"This is perfect," Simon mutters reverently, running his pointer finger over the sketch, "I– I don't know how you did that, but it's like you plugged it right out of my head, only more better."
Johnny's smile turns even brighter, but the curl of his lips gains a gentle character as well.
"Ah'm very happy you like it Simon. For the size – Ah figured I'd print out a few sizes and we pick the one that fits best. Though–"
He stops, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly.
"We need ta account for scar tissue. Given the nature of the tattoo, this might be a significant point, so– would ye mind showing the site to me?"
"Oh." Simon blinks.
He didn't think about that. His skin is littered with scars, mostly his arms from his various encounters with animals. And even though he sports a tacky full sleeve on his left arm, he didn't think once about the scar tissue that might impede this tattoo undertaking.
"Sure. I'm gonna–" Simon gets up, pulling off his hoodie in a fluid motion. He lets it sink down on the chair behind him, and turns back to find Johnny suddenly looking away very pointedly before he can take off his T-shirt.
"Really?", Simon snorts with amusement, "that's really cute, but you do realise you need to look at me the whole time you're tattooing, right?"
"Haud yer weesht!," Johnny blurts back indignantly, turning around to scowl at thim, "not wannae make ye uncomfortable is all. Staring at customers while they undress isnae the fine gentleman way, thank ye very much."
"Sure," Simon huffs, pulling his shirt off and feeling an addicting rush of satisfaction at the way Johnny's face derails slightly when he's confronted with his naked upper body. Johnny immediately controls his expression, keeping up with that relaxed, bright smile, but the few moments of impressed staring were enough to fill Simon in on how much he likes what he sees.
Might also be the slight flush on Johnny's face he cannot quite hide.
"Ye're fit as fuck, bruv," Johnny drawls, trying and failing for a heterosexual vibe.
"Thank you, you're quite handsome yourself." Simon doesn't know who's controlling his tongue to let him speak this way, but apparently… apparently they're flirting.
Johnny's blush intensifies, but he doesn't change his outgoing demeanour.
"Well, let's work on making ye even more fit, eh?", he steps closer, "May Ah take a look?"
"Sure," Simon replies easily. This is what he signed up for. For Johnny to stare and touch his chest for a few hours while he tattoos him. No reason for him to get this excited.
"The scars are healed well," Johnny admires, running his gaze over and under Simon's pectorals, "dinnae think they'd be a problem, since– ye know– this is about them, but still good to check."
Simon grunts in affirmation, watching while Johnny inspects the scars under his chest.
"What about colours? I could see about something more leaning brown to go with your eyes? Or maybe a dark red or green? Got any favourite colour?"
"Hnnm," Simon considers, not really preferring any colour. Black clothing has always been his favourite; practical and inconspicuous. But there's something today…
"Blue, maybe."
Johnny eyes flick up to Simon's, and his grin shines out of them as well.
"But I don't know about colour in the tattoo," Simon adds, "I think I'd prefer it black."
"Alright, Simon. Black coming right up. Let me prepare the stencil."
It takes about fifteen minutes for Johnny to present Simon with different sizes. He sips at his tea, and then they hold the stencils up to Simon's chest. They decide for the biggest one, fitting well to the shape of his tits and curling beautifully around his top surgery scars. Simon tries to breathe as shallowly as possible when Johnny transfers the stencil onto his skin with great care. It takes way too long, but Johnny is adamant on fitting it perfectly.
And fitting perfectly it does. The stencil is placed right on the bottom of the scars, seemingly crawling around them. The tattoo doesn't hide the surgery scars; it isn't supposed to. Instead, it's point them out, makes something beautiful and raw out of a journey that might have been hard and painful, but his so, so worth it.
Now, Simon wants to show just how much all this is worth it, his whole existence. He's allowed to be here, he's proud to be here. And he wants people to look at his chest not with pity or interest, but with joy and wonder. It's about pride and joy.
Most of all though, he wants himself to look at his body like that. It took a long while, but he feels at home in his body more than every, almost euphoric with it when he checks out the stencil.
This tattoo is exactly what he wants, Simon realises again. And it's somehow even better to have Johnny tattooing it, seeing as the man seems almost as excited as Simon feels.
Another twenty minutes have Johnny finishing the preparation of his utensils and setting up a suited hygiene environment. Simon lays down, eyeing Johnny as he adjusts the angle of the tattoo chair, as well as the height of his own stool.
He's turning on the tattoo machine when he stops in his motions, curses, and turns it off again.
"Bloody Christ," he mutters, "if I do it like this I'm gonna die from heatstroke. Give me a second."
And with this, Johnny sets down the needle, disposes of his nitrile gloves with a sigh, and pulls his plaid dress shirt off. He wears a wide, white tank top underneath and Simon's neuronal functions screech to a halt when he's suddenly hit with a lot of skin.
Johnny's arms are completely covered in ink, too many motifs for Simon to identify a common theme. There are plants, animals, weapons, sigils, figures–
But the most striking thing is what peeks out of the side of his tank top. Simon has seen and worn enough binders in his life to recognise them immediately.
"Oh," he breathes out, not able nor willing to fight the smile that blooms on his face, "you're also… are you trans?"
"Ah am," Johnny's voice is smooth, and deep, and so incredibly gentle Simon feels clawed wide open. It's a soothing way of being opened up, to feel so seen and laid bare to the world. His world is only Johnny in this moment, and Johnny is so much closer to seeing Simon than the majority of humanity.
Simon only manages a wet chuckle as response, hoping it brings across the joy and relief he feels.
"Ah really don't want tae make this about me, cause this is yours. But Ah'm really happy you trust me with this, Simon", Johnny adds, voice suddenly wrecked and raw, "always wanted tae do one of these, want tae know if it would be something for me as well someday. Get some inspiration, ye know?"
Simon hums. "Want one as well? Got plans for top surgery already?"
"Nah, but soon. Ah'm just waiting on my next doctor's appointment. Then we can schedule the surgery." Johnny fiddles with a new pair of gloves, silently cursing at the tedious task of getting them on with sweaty hands.
Simon adds another noncommittal hum, watching as Johnny disinfects his gloves again so he can start working. Just when he starts up the machine again, Simon blurts out:
"Thank you, Johnny. I'm glad it's you doing this."
Johnny's smile widens after a few surprised blinks of his eyes.
"Well, thank ye, Si. It's good to see the end of the journey. Ah know it'll be worth it, eh?"
"It's not the end," Simon dismisses, "it's just the beginning."
Simon was sure he'd already fallen in love with Johnny, but this smile is on another level. It goes deep, raw and vulnerable and so incredibly bright that Simon feels blinded with the beauty of it.
"That's–," Johnny chuckles, shaking his head fondly, "yeah. That's true. To beginnings, then, aye?"
"To beginnings," Simon nods, smiling back.
Johnny nods and chuckles again, and sets the rapidly moving needle down to Simon's skin.
He carves the first line of ink into Simon's skin, and Simon knows this is the best decision he's ever done in his life.
Eight months later.
The clouds burst open and a sudden onslaught of rain batters down on the crowd. Simon hears a few shrill screeches through the numbing sound barricade of his loops, but they are excited in nature. It's been a few way too warm days, making a summer rain like this feel like paradise.
Also, the rainbow visible at the horizon gives way to a ton of joyful cheers in the pride parade.
Simon doesn't attend these parades usually. Too loud, too crowded, too much of a party for his liking. For many years, he didn't feel like most of the people actually know what they're here for.
But this year it feels different. Over time, he understood that everyone lives pride and queerness differently. That it's the joy, the community, being loud; those are the rawest forms of resistance.
Now, he doesn't only feel good in his body again, he feels fucking beautiful.
The rain soaks into his hair and his pants, drenching him in a matter of minutes. Fat rain drops run down his chest. His unclothed chest; it's the first year he dares to show off his scars in public, now proudly on display with the most beautiful tattoo he could have ever wished for.
And as if he somehow summoned Johnny with that thought, a familiar voice calls out: "Simon!"
He whips around, and immediately spots Johnny in the crowd: Stocky, strong, and beaming like the power of a thousand suns. It's fucking magical.
"Johnny!", Simon calls, feeling a grin split his own features. They didn't meet again after the tattoo session, but they kept in contact. Simon sent pictures of the healing process, while Johnny kept him updated on his surgery schedule. If he remembers correctly – and of course he does, because Simon is positively obsessed with Johnny – this is the first month that Johnny is allowed to use his body like normal, without taking care not to impede the healing process of his top surgery.
And when they step closer to each other rapidly, Simon spots it – Johnny is shirtless as well, proudly showing off the fresh, but already quite well healed scars.
"Hi," Simon blurts out when they stand in front of each other, grinning wildly and frankly, very stupidly, at each other.
"Hi," Johnny responds intelligently, "ye look so bloody handsome, Simon."
"You too," Simon chuckles, feeling a blush creeping up his face, "you too, God. Eeally suits you, Johnny. You're beautiful."
"Thank ye," Johnny grins back, an insistent blush blooming on his cheeks. They continue to stare at other, none of them bold enough to make a move.
"Would you like to…", Simon starts, but Johnny croaks out at the same time: "Can we kiss?"
And fuck, if that isn't the best thing Simon has heard in this decade.
"Yeah," he responds, his smile impossibly able to widen even further, almost painfully splitting his cheeks, "come here, Johnny."
Falling into each other's arms feels more easy than anything before in his life. Johnny is sturdy, warm, and so incredibly solid under his hands. The rain has soaked up both of their clothes, their hair, everything, but none of them care.
Their lips meet, and Simon knows he will be addicted to the antithesis of soft lips and rough stubble for his entire life. His heart hammers fast in his chest, cheers and music all around them, and Simon thinks this might be the happiest moment of his life.
They lick drop of water from each other's lips, and laugh into each others mouths, until the rain stops and the sun comes back out again. They don't separate then, keeping hugging and whispering softly about everything that happened the past months.
And when the parade is over, they don't separate then as well. They hit up a pub. Then Johnny's flat after they got Roach. And then– let's see.
Simon finds he doesn't quite want to leave anytime soon.