At the bottom of each page, a pair of young boys scamper at the edge, seeming to move when Lee flips the pages. The boys look suspiciously like the two friends did as children—one is small and slim, obviously Chris, the other stocky and tall, like Lee himself. He stops at one image where the boys hunch down beside a short stream. “What’s this?”
“Up.” Chris motions Lee to stand so he can adjust the chair properly. It needs to lie flat so Lee’s back and shoulder will be within easy reach. As it adjusts, he glances at the page Lee holds open and laughs. “Just something I’m playing around with, man. They’re kind of cute, aren’t they?”
Lee grunts, noncommittal. “They look like—”
“They’re Barry and me,” Chris tells him, then shrugs. “Or they’re supposed to be. I’m still figuring out just what I want them to be doing when I tattoo him. Sit.”
Without a word, Lee closes the portfolio and sets it aside. He stretches, savoring the pop in his muscles because he isn’t sure when he’ll get the chance to stretch again. Those two boys dance around his thoughts, but he pushes them aside and climbs onto the now stretched-out chair beside Chris’s stool. He lays on his stomach, right arm angled out, left arm curled under his cheek. In the mirror, he watches Chris prepare to get to work.
Those two boys looked like himself and Chris, not this Barry person Chris just met. Doesn’t he know Lee would let him put that image anywhere he wanted? The boys could be doing anything, anything at all. Lee’s body is Chris’s canvas and always has been. Why can’t Chris see that?
Lee catches a glimpse of his own troubled reflection and looks away.
Chris works in silence. He sets up the ink he’ll use—just black tonight, since he’ll just do the outline first—and debates which gauge needle to use. Lee watches him, wondering once again what it is he finds so attractive about his friend. Chris isn’t much to look at, to be sure. He’s always been a head shorter than Lee and scrappy thin. He has a long, narrow face, bushy black eyebrows, and shoulder-length hair the color of spilled ink. He wears it tucked behind his ears, and while at work he hides it under a baseball cap, so the ends want to curl when they escape. His dark hair and naturally dusky skin frame his pale blue eyes perfectly—they’re large, expressive, and more than once, Lee’s thought of them in his sleep and woken with a bad erection. Dreamy eyes, Lee might call them, if he let himself think of Chris that way. Soulful eyes. Damn.
In addition to his multiple tattoos, Chris has a few piercings, as well. A silver hoop juts from one eyebrow, and a circular barbell hangs from his nasal septum. Lee hasn’t gone in for any other body mods himself—Chris doesn’t do the piercings, so Lee isn’t tempted to let his friend talk him into one. But if Chris did? Lee knows he’d look like a human pin cushion in no time. Whenever Chris calls him up, Lee’s already heading for Tattoo 804. He just can’t tell Chris no.
After Chris applies the transfer, which sets the tattoo’s image onto Lee’s skin, he asks, “Do you want to take a look before we get started?”
“Nah, man. I’m cool.” Lee grins and gives Chris a wink. “I trust you.”
“Ready, then?” Chris wheels his stool up close and runs a hand along the sensitive underside of Lee’s arm. Despite the latex gloves he wears, Lee’s skin warms at the touch.
Lee nods as Chris settles in. “Go to it.”
As the needle buzzes, Lee’s mind goes blank. He stares at the mirror, at his own eyes staring back, until he can’t stand to look at himself any more and shifts his gaze to watch Chris. His back grows hot where the tattoo takes shape—it always feels like rug burn to him, not painful but not really all that great, either. Still, seeing Chris hovering above him, concentrating so readily on his body, creating something personal and new where before there was nothing but blank skin…a familiar ache settles into Lee’s balls. When Chris sits back to shift into a better position, Lee takes a moment to bend one knee, just slightly. Just enough to let up on the pressure at his crotch, where he’s already sporting wood. Chris doesn’t miss the gesture. “You getting hard?” he teases.
Lee shifts a little on the table to take his weight off his throbbing cock. He can’t meet Chris’s dancing gaze in the mirror. “You know how I am.”
“Man,” Chris drawls, turning back to the tattoo. “I wish getting inked turned me on.”
Hoping to change the subject, Lee asks, “Who does you?”
Too late, he realizes his question might be misinterpreted—he means which artist tattoos Chris, not who gets his friend hard. He doesn’t want to hear about this new guy of Chris’s, Barry whatever the hell his name is. Each week Chris seems to find someone new, and the way he goes on and on about his latest piece of ass always makes Lee sad. How long has he been waiting here for his chance? When will Chris finally tire of everyone else and notice him?
Fortunately, Chris knows what he’s asking. They’ve been friends so damn long. “April did my last one,” he says, pulling Lee’s skin taut so he can continue his design. “Don’t move. This is tricky.”
“There’s your problem,” Lee jokes. “A chick isn’t going to get your blood pumping, even if she does have an ink gun in one hand and piercings up the wazoo.”
Chris snickers; Lee feels his friend’s breath cool his heated flesh. “I don’t know if she has any piercings there.”
“God, I don’t want to know.” Lee smiles when Chris laughs, careful not to laugh himself and ruin the tattoo. “All I’m saying is get a hot guy to ink you, then let me know if you get hard.”
“Don’t let Barry hear you say that,” Chris warns. He’s only teasing, but his words sting and the smile fades from Lee’s face. “He probably wouldn’t like knowing my best friend thinks I’m hot.”
Lee doubts this Barry ass is smart enough to put two and two together. Hell, Lee’s known Chris for going on twenty years now and Chris has never clued in.
* * * *
Because of its intricate design and sheer size, the tattoo takes several weeks to complete. The first night, Chris outlines the entire thing, which takes longer than he expected—the tattoo is a writhing mass of sharp angles and long lines starting just above a freckle on the back of Lee’s upper arm. It curves up his bicep, around his armpit, following the lines of his body. Around his shoulder it flares out, filling up most of that side of Lee’s back, then trickles down to end a few inches below his shoulder blade. The outline itself takes a good two hours of nothing but intense concentration, Chris’s hand steady as he grips the tattoo gun, his world nothing but black ink on pale skin and the faint smell of Old Spice deodorant wafting up from Lee as he works. It’s a smell Chris has come to associate with late nights at the tattoo parlor, the buzz of the needles, the cool splash of surgical soap against the plastic gloves he wears. It’s a smell that slips seductively into his unconsciousness and seizes him by the balls, kneading them like an attentive lover. If getting inked turns Lee on, inking Lee turns Chris on. Having someone lie beneath him, patient and still, while he draws his art into their willing flesh…it’s a heady rush, he has to admit.
In the quiet parlor, Lee watches Chris in the mirror as he works. Neither speak; neither have to. Chris traces his own outlines carefully, leaning in close to ensure every pore is filled with dark ink just where he wants it. When he finishes a section, he squirts the green soap onto it, wipes away the excess ink and faint traces of blood from his art, then moves onto the next section. And the next. And the next.
Lee heals quickly—he always does. When he comes in at the end of the following week, the tattoo has already finished peeling. Chris redoes the outline, darkening it, then begins to fill in one little corner of the image with a vibrant blue. He thinks maybe he’ll color the whole design with this color—it’s gorgeous, really, and with Lee looking back over one shoulder to watch Chris work, Chris can see the shade mirrors the same sexy blue of his friend’s eyes. He’ll fade it, though, and the final touch will be a thin line of paler blue, maybe silvery white, right through the center of t
he pipe to make it look like it’s reflecting the light. When he’s done, it’ll look fucking awesome.
He only colors in part of the tattoo that second night. Lee comes back a third week, and a fourth, before the whole thing is done. By the end of the month, Chris is back to touching up the first fill work he did so long ago. Solid colors sometimes fall out a bit when healing, and intricate designs such as this take longer to complete. He’ll have Lee come back again, maybe one more time, because even though most of the tattoo has healed nicely, Chris doesn’t want to spend all night at the parlor. He has plans. Lee must sense his excitement because there’s a faint look of amusement dancing in his eyes. “You still seeing that guy?” he asks when Chris sits back to shake the cramps out of his hand.
“Barry? Yeah.” Chris grins and knows he’s on the verge of gushing. It’s been over a month now, and things are going strong between them. “You gotta meet him, man. You two will get along great.”
Lee’s gaze drifts away and he frowns as he tries to look over his shoulder to see the tattoo taking shape behind him. “You inked him yet?”
With a laugh, Chris leans in to tackle the last bit of touch-up he plans to do tonight. “He’s holding out on me. He’s worse than a damn virgin afraid of popping his cherry. I tell him it don’t hurt but he doesn’t believe me.” He runs a hand down the curve of Lee’s back where a dragon’s spine is tattooed—the first large tat Chris did, and it still looks killer. “I gotta introduce you two. Then you can tell him it doesn’t hurt all that much. Hell, it even turns you on.”
Playfully, his hand drifts over Lee’s taut buttocks to poke at the soft sac hidden between them. Through Lee’s jeans, Chris barely feels a thing, but his friend gasps as if goosed. “Don’t move!” Chris chides, laughing. He holds the tattoo gun high to avoid touching Lee with it. “I don’t want to fuck this up now.”
“Don’t cop a feel,” Lee says. The grin on his lips barely reaches his eyes. “What’d Barry have to say if he saw that?”
“Please.” Chris holds Lee’s arm steady as he finishes with the tattoo. “We’ve been friends for so long, Lee, you’re like a brother to me. I can tease you if I want. Besides, what happens when I run out of room up here and have no where else to ink but your cock and balls? You expect me to do it blindfolded?”
Lee’s eyes go wide, but Chris can’t interpret the emotion glistening in them. Fear? Excitement? A little bit of both? “You’re not inking my balls,” he whispers. “Are you?”
Chris winks at him but doesn’t reply. For a long moment the two friends stare at each other, unable to look away, each assessing the other. Then one of them snickers—Chris doesn’t know who does it first, him or Lee, but soon they’re both snorting with laughter. “You ain’t inking my balls,” Lee says again. “You ain’t touching them.”
“You never know,” is all Chris will commit to at the moment.
Of course, he doesn’t mention it to Barry. He doesn’t have to—he and Lee were just goofing around. But he does talk up the new tattoo to his lover. He can’t help it. The design turns out gorgeous, if he says so himself, and it took a good six weeks to finalize. He has every right to be proud of it. The next time Barry comes over to Chris’s studio apartment after a long practice set with his band, Chris can’t stop bragging. They sit on the futon, which is folded up into a couch at the moment. An empty pizza box rests on the coffee table before them and the TV is on low, tuned to one of the reality shows which have replaced the music videos MTV used to show. “God, babe,” Chris sighs, finishing his last slice of pizza. “You gotta see it. It goes from here—” He touches Barry’s arm where Lee’s tattoo starts, then spreads his hand and walks it along a path over Barry’s shoulder to halfway down his back. “All the way down to here. It’s fucking amazing. You’d love it.”
Barry’s jaw works as he chews. “Hmm.”
“The colors just pop,” Chris continues. He’s gushing but he can’t help it—he loves talking about tattoos. “I didn’t really know how it’d play out at first, you know? Having that blue blend into the white like that, but it really came together in the end. Lee thinks it’s wicked cool. He says—”
“Chris, please.” Barry turns toward him, a sardonic look in his eyes. He looks haggard and worn out, the day-old scruff on his chin a dark contrast to his pale skin. His dyed black hair frizzes out around his head like a disheveled halo. Eyeliner smudges look like bruises around his dark eyes. Speaking slowly as if afraid Chris won’t understand him otherwise, Barry says, “I am exhausted. Physically and mentally. The last thing I want to talk about is your friend Lee. Capice?”
With a laugh, Chris tells him, “You two are so much alike. I can’t wait for you to meet him. Then you’ll get a chance to see my art first-hand instead of just in my portfolio.”
“Chris.” Barry whines this time and rolls his eyes. “Please. Two minutes without talking about tattoos or your goddamn friend. Is that too much to ask?”
Chris frowns, confused. What’d he say? “You don’t want to talk about tattoos?” What else is there to talk about?
Barry sighs, defeated. Turning his attention back to the television, he mumbles, “You didn’t even ask how my day went.”
“You said you’d been practicing—”
“I didn’t say why.” Another sigh, this one exasperated. Barry bites into his slice of pizza and tears at it viciously.
Chris knows why they were practicing. Hello, it’s a band? Isn’t that what they did? When Barry came over, the first thing Chris asked was how he’s doing. That right there should’ve been opening enough to tell him anything Barry wanted to share. His response had just been a short grunt. How was Chris supposed to interpret that? They weren’t saying anything a moment ago, just sitting here eating, watching TV, and he mentioned Lee’s new tattoo in passing. If Barry wants to talk about something else, he can just bring it up. No use playing these stupid games.
But there’s an uneasy tension between them and Chris doesn’t know if it’s his fault or not, so he’ll play along for now. “So why?”
For a long moment, Barry doesn’t answer. He’s sulking a little, Chris knows. To draw him out, Chris trails a hand over Barry’s shoulder, a ticklish touch Barry tries to shrug off but can’t. Chris lets his fingers explore, smoothing down the ragged threads from Barry’s torn sleeve then rubbing over warm skin, counting the freckles that dot Barry’s shoulder one by one, following the trail they create which leads to a tender spot behind Barry’s earlobe. There Chris runs his forefinger behind Barry’s ear, softly, oh so softly, tracing the curve of skin and feeling it warm beneath his touch. Around the top of Barry’s ear to the stud pierced into the cartilage. Chris swirls his finger around the stud, turning it clockwise as he leans close to his boyfriend, closer, closer, until his mouth is inches from Barry’s lobe and his breath heats the space between them. “Tell me why,” he purrs in a low voice.
From the way Barry shifts beside him, one hand drifting to adjust the bulge at the front of his jeans, Chris knows just what he’s doing to the man. Whatever argument had been brewing minutes ago dissolves beneath Chris’s words. “Barry,” he sighs, nipping Barry’s earlobe between his teeth. “You gonna tell me? Or do I have to guess?”
A hand drifts to Chris’s knee, gives it a squeeze, then rubs higher up his thigh, easing under the hem of his shorts to rub along tender flesh. “Tell you what?” Barry asks, dazed.
Chris snickers and fists his hand in the mess of curls atop Barry’s head. “About your band, remember? You wanted me to ask about your practice. So I’m asking. Why—”
Suddenly Barry turns toward him, cutting off his question with a forceful kiss. Chris finds himself pressed back against the futon, pinned beneath Barry, whose hands fumble with the zipper on Chris’s shorts. Somehow amid hungry kisses they manage to lose the clothing between them, and any further attempts at conversation disappear.
* * * *
Less than two weeks go by before Lee gets another call from Chris.
“Swing by the parlor tonight, could you?” his friend asks.
As if he’d say no. “What’s up? You got another design in mind so soon?”
When Chris laughs, the sound warms Lee up inside. “Just come on over around closing time. I’ll see you then?”
Of course. If Chris wanted him there now, Lee would drop everything to comply. But he waits until quarter to eight, his whole body humming with nervous energy that chases him around his small townhouse, up and down the stairs, nipping at the edges of his thoughts. Chris and he alone in the parlor after hours, the room dark around them, the only light coming from the small, hot lamp shining down on Chris as he inks another design into Lee’s skin. The insane pressure that builds in Lee’s groin when his friend is tattooing him—he’s never let another artist work on him so he doesn’t know if it’s the pain that turns him on or if it’s really Chris, leaning over him, breath soft against Lee’s skin, hands firm and commanding while holding Lee in place.
And the last time they’d been together, when Chris joked about inking Lee’s boys? God, if it ever came to that, Lee knows he’ll be rock solid hard the whole time. He’ll have to sit on his hands to keep from jerking off. He pictures Chris between his legs, leaning in close, tattoo gun in one hand buzzing and the other holding Lee’s erect cock up out of the way. Chris’s soft breath there, his firm touch in places Lee’s only dreamed of it…Lee will be lucky if he doesn’t shoot a load right in his friend’s face before the needles even touch his flesh.
Who is he kidding? Getting inked doesn’t turn him on—it’s an excuse, nothing more. It’s Chris that gets his blood pumping, his heart hammering, his dick stiff. It’s always been Chris.
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