by E M Lindsey
“I didn’t think guys on their journey were technically apprentices,” Amit said. When Miguel couldn’t hide his surprised look, Amit laughed. “I might be Deaf, but I still listen.” He made a sign near his mouth, then said, “I read lips pretty damn well. And there’s not a lot to do except eavesdrop. Your journey is after your apprenticeship is over, right?”
Miguel shrugged as he reluctantly set Amit’s arm on the rest that he’d carefully covered in cling film. “That’s true enough. I worked at a shop in Florida for a few years.” He might have started to like Amit—started to feel things he really didn’t want to be feeling—but he wasn’t foolish enough to give anything away ever again. “I think I’m good for this work, at least.”
“I like your style,” Amit told him. His hand lifted to his ear, then he hesitated. “You know any ASL?”
Miguel flushed and hated that he had to shake his head. He knew the shop used it—hands flew as often as mouths moved, even if none of the Deaf people were around. Miguel appreciated it, but he was also shit-scared to be asked to start using it because he couldn’t. So much of it required both hands, and it was another stark reminder why he didn’t—why he couldn’t—ever fit.
Amit seemed to understand what his face was saying, because he dropped his hand to Miguel’s shoulder and squeezed. “It’s no worries, man. If you need to get my attention just tap my leg. Cool?”
Miguel swallowed thickly, reacting viscerally to the permission to touch Amit beyond just the tattoo, and he nodded. He didn’t answer though—not with words. He just gave Amit another careful look before turning away to fill his ink pots. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as Amit removed his hearing aids and laid them on the counter, along with his keys and phone.
Miguel was profoundly aware he was being watched after that. He couldn’t stop himself from tucking his hand in his lap and tensing his arm muscle. He wouldn’t be able to hide it while he was inking, but the stump would be covered partially by a glove and that always felt like just enough of a barrier between his raw skin and the rest of the world.
The guys were cool with him as he was—and he understood exactly why Martin had sent him here—but strangers would always make him uneasy. And for as pretty as Amit was, he still remained a person Miguel didn’t know. Therefore, he was a threat.
Clearing his throat, he got up to fill his water cup, then tugged a pile of gloves out of Mat’s tool kit and set them aside on his wrapped table. He double, then triple, checked his supplies and knew he was just procrastinating at getting his hands on Amit once more. His fingers tingled with desire to touch, even if it was through gloves, and he sighed as he got them on.
More than tattooing with his left hand, Miguel had struggled with learning to assemble his machine, to set his needles, to attach his cord, and, hell, even hold skin taut mostly one-handed. After almost four years of working under Martin and on his journey, it had gotten easier, but he’d always be slower than most.
Amit sat patiently, watching with those large eyes and curious vibe, but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t make Miguel feel rushed. He simply laid his head back, and his eyes darted from one stall to the other. Occasionally he’d smile, like he was listening into a joke no one else could hear—and Miguel realized that’s probably exactly what was happening.
He briefly wondered what it would be like—but he knew. In his own way, he knew what it felt like to play pretend in a world he didn’t entirely belong in.
Tapping Amit’s arm, he waited until he had the other man’s attention. “Ready to start?”
“I was born ready,” Amit said with a grin, then winked.
Miguel promptly ignored the way his heart thudded against his chest, and he reached for his machine. The grip felt soft under his hands, and not quite right. It was never quite right. Practice made it easy, but it was a constant reminder of what it was. A loss. Even if that loss brought strange, unusual beauty on canvas, on the skin of people who trusted him.
He met Amit’s eyes briefly and his breath left his lungs at the sight of wonder on Amit’s face. Did he look at the other artists like that? He had to. Miguel knew he was nothing special. He’d seen them work. He spent an entire day in Sam’s stall one afternoon and watched him bring pieces to life Miguel could only dream of. He knew it was normal to feel like an imposter, like a toddler in the world of so many experts, but it was almost worse here. Because this was a place he could belong, if he let himself.
But he wouldn’t make that mistake again—wouldn’t ever let himself hope. Kyle had only taken twelve hours to destroy everything Miguel might have reached for, but it was a lesson well learned.
“Can…see…done?”
Amit turned to see his sister standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. She was wearing her Harry Potter pajama pants, her hair uncovered down her back in a braid since no one else was home. She looked young then, not like a woman getting ready for marriage, and again he wondered how she was so fine with it. How could she let their mother decide a future that could mean forever?
He had a brief spike of fear that a man might hurt her, that she might be mistreated or neglected. And there was no telling where she’d go after this. He was well aware her fiancé’s family didn’t live in Denver. Hell, some of them were back in Pakistan, and if Ejaz decided to move them back there, how was he supposed to protect her? How would he step in if something happened?
“Why are you staring at me like that?” she demanded.
He took a breath and tried to push past his moment of anxiety, giving her a tense smile. Farhia rolled her eyes, clearly not buying it, but she didn’t call him on it. “What did you want to see?”
“Your tattoo, stupid,” she told him.
He glanced down at his arm which he’d covered with a long-sleeved shirt. Miguel had wrapped it in clear film then instructed him to leave it on until the next day. It looked foggy and a little unpleasant with all the leakage underneath, but he was never the sort of man to shirk aftercare duties. “It’s nasty right now, but let me wash it and then you can check it out. You can’t touch it, though.”
She rolled her eyes again. “Why would I?”
They fell into their relationship of frenemy—allied in hatred, as they’d always been. It was a comfort to him, in a strange way. He’d never trusted either of his sisters to keep his darkest secrets, but as they were aging, he’d started to wonder if maybe that was a mistake. He’d been minutes from confessing to Farhia about dating men when she announced she was letting their mother marry her off.
The words had died in his throat that day, and he’d never found the courage to find them again.
With a sigh, he leaned against the sink and pulled his shirt up. The rest of his ink had faded, never that bright against his darker skin, but the guys at the shop were experts at finding colors that would pop. Most of his friends who were dark like him went with greyscale, choosing things that blended, that were a subtle hint of art. That wasn’t Amit. He wanted something that popped, he wanted to be noticed, seen, admired.
Some days he felt wrong. Born in the wrong life, born in the wrong place, born to the wrong family. It was suffocating, and it was getting worse as he got older. He wondered if the stress would eventually kill him before his time.
As he finished patting his tattoo dry, his phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out, staring at the text.
Baz: Need Deaf event. Help?
* * *
Amit: Hearies got you down?
* * *
Baz: Shop day bad.
* * *
Amit: Nothing going on here, but I can text a few friends. The bar will be dead tonight.
* * *
Baz: Derek come, yes?
* * *
Amit: Always, man. See you at seven?
Basil sent him a thumb’s up, so Amit pocketed his phone and went to find a new shirt before texting some of his Deaf friends for an impromptu meet-up. It helped something in him settle, strangely, and
he hadn’t realized he needed some time away from the house. Strangely enough, even though they were his friends, Basil seemed to bridge the gap between Amit’s overwhelming homelife and the people he wanted to be around.
He paused by his drawer, fingering the nail polish again before forcing himself to walk away. It wasn’t the right time. It would probably never be the right time. He lingered by his other drawer, where his lace sat. His throat felt thick, his lungs constricting. Maybe something, a little secret something no one had to know about.
He reached in and let his finger drag over the fabric, feeling the soft bite of it against the pads of his fingers. He’d tried them all on, he knew what it was like to feel the lace and elastic stretch over his ass, cup his balls, press tight against his dick. He fought back a groan, and he was barely aware of pulling out a pair of soft red ones, kicking off his jeans, and sliding them up his thighs.
He didn’t dare look over in his mirror—afraid he might hate it, but more afraid he might like it. It was a slippery slope—letting himself have this. His personality could be addictive, and he was prone to binging. Panties were one thing, but what next? Skirts, heels, polish, make-up? If his mother saw him like that, it would kill her, and the guilt of going against her wishes with just this was bad enough.
He slammed the drawer shut and threw his jeans on before he could talk himself out of it. He was profoundly aware of the panties as he walked out of the room, though. Every step, they tucked tighter against his groin, every pause and he felt the hemline creeping toward the crack in his ass. He wanted someone to see him in them, to praise him, to tell him it was okay to want these things—that it didn’t make him a freak.
His throat was tight, and he was on the verge of panic by the time he got to the living room and saw his sister staring at him. She knows, was his first thought. Then he realized she was staring at his new ink.
“Not bad,” she said.
He was far enough away that he barely caught her words, but he didn’t really need to. She said that about every tattoo he brought home. It was the one rebellion she’d seen, the one he trusted her with. Running his hand around the edge of the soft colors, he couldn’t help but think back to Miguel. The way he’d held the side of Amit’s arm with his palm—how soft it was, and how unexpectedly strong. The look of concentration on his face was a beautiful thing, and though Amit would be a liar if he said he didn’t see the scars, he appreciated them for being a part of the man.
He couldn’t deny his crush any longer. It had been a while, but he knew the signs. Luckily, Miguel was only passing through, which meant he’d be out of town before long and on his way to his next destination. He felt a burning in his chest at the thought that one day he’d be gone and Amit would never see him again, but a small relief too. With everything in his personal life, he didn’t have time for this. And it was obvious Miguel had his own issues to work through. Amit didn’t need to inflict himself on another person, even if Miguel was interested.
“Okay you’re, like, super out of it. What is going on with you?” Farhia demanded.
Amit flushed and rubbed his neck, glancing away. “It’s just been a weird week. I’m heading out with some friends tonight.”
Farhia perked up. “Can I come?”
“Deaf friends,” Amit told her, knowing it would put her off. “You can come, but we’ll be voice-off.”
She scowled. “You can talk, though.”
He sighed, deciding it was best not to respond. It was her argument every time he left her out, every time he asked for a little help around the house communicating. He knew it came from his parents—from their abject fear of him appearing different or less than the man they wanted him to be, and it stung. It stung she couldn’t see past it.
“Don’t wait up,” he said, grabbing his keys. His phone started buzzing in his pocket, letting him know the chat was alive and people were probably heading out. Derek and Basil would be along later, but Amit knew if he didn’t leave the house now, he’d explode.
Striding past his sister, he tried not to slam the door, pulling out his hearing aids before he got to the car. When he reached over to shove them into the glove box, there was a pull on his cock, and he was almost violently reminded of what he’d done, of the choice he made. A flush crept up his neck, and he felt something war between desire to be found out, and fear of anyone noticing.
He knew how ridiculous it was to be so afraid of himself. His friends didn’t care that he was gay, or that he was a little effeminate. Half of them wore mesh shirts and glitter when they went clubbing, and he was fairly sure he’d seen Dean and Ash trading a pair of heels last pride. But he’d been hiding so long, the thought of another coming out choked him.
Breathing through it, Amit started the car and drove off, glad to let himself forget just for a little while.
Chapter Six
A hand in his periphery interrupted Amit’s train of thought, and he turned to see Basil leaning against the bar. He was pink in the cheeks and looked a hell of a lot less tense than when he and Derek had first arrived. It likely had to do with the beer, the loud music, and the fact that Derek was sex on a stick when he got a little tipsy on the dance floor. Amit envied Basil in a way—how he’d come from such an isolated place in his life and stumbled onto a group of people who opened their arms to him like family.
Amit’s Deaf friends were his safe space, but none of them had changed themselves to be what he needed. They just were, and he fit most of the time. But they were also white and well-off, and even the ones born to hearing families like him had a privilege he never did. And that was fine—that was more than fine. He wasn’t going to begrudge his friends happy childhoods, but some days he envied people who inspired love the way Basil had in Derek. Or the way Niko had in Sam. Or Wyatt with Mat, which honestly had been a surprise to everyone, even if Amit had always suspected Mat was somewhere in the acronym.
He recalled with perfect clarity the night he realized Mat was in love with the Canadian man. He wished it hadn’t ended with Wyatt being attacked, and some asshole being arrested in the alley, but he’d seen the look on Mat’s face when he thought Wyatt was hurt. He saw the way they clung to each other, the soft whispers between them, and his chest burned with envy.
He couldn’t say it was all other people, either. Amit hadn’t ever wanted anyone the way his friends wanted their significant others. No one had ever lit a fire in him. At least, not until recently, but he was still trying not to think of the reclusive new artist.
‘You feeling better?’ he asked Basil.
Basil nodded, giving him a small grin. Basil was expressive with his signs, but more closed off with his emotions than most of the people Amit knew, and it had taken a long while to get to know him. ‘Sorry about the text earlier.’
Amit rolled his eyes. ‘It’s fine. I told you any time, I’m happy to hang out. Even if the rest of the guys aren’t around.’
Basil’s smile went a little softer. ‘It’s easy to forget Fairfield isn’t as friendly as it seems. Some woman was screaming at me like it might make me magically hear her. Her husband had sent roses to her office. Amaranth delivered them, said they were fine, but the woman insisted they were brown and dead. She wouldn’t accept a refund, she just wanted to…’ His fingers fluttered in hesitation. ‘Hurt me, I think. Insult me. Blame it on being deaf.’
Amit’s gut twisted with frustration for his friend. He had those moments with hearing people, but they were rare. Where Basil’s entire life had been rooted in the Deaf community—from early schooling to college, to friends and family—Amit had been getting along in the hearing world. His forced assimilation made it easier and harder, and he was definitely tired.
‘Did you kick her ass out?’ he asked.
Basil snorted a laugh, rolling his eyes. ‘Amaranth eventually showed up and escorted her out of the shop. I think she threatened a lawsuit or something.’
‘I think you have a good connection to keep her off your ass,’ Amit po
inted out. Rowan wasn’t in that kind of law, but he knew people. He was charming, attractive, and vicious. And guys like him always knew someone.
Basil grinned. ‘I’m not worried about it. I was just angry and tired. And Derek had back to back appointments so he couldn’t come over until later.’
‘Just needed it fucked out of you?’ Amit asked with a wink.
Basil blushed furiously, glancing away before leaning in to smack Amit on the shoulder. ‘Seriously?’
‘No shame in it,’ Amit signed with a grin. ‘Embrace it. You have one of the hottest men on the planet—you get that dick.’
Basil huffed, then reached for two of the pints that had started appearing on the bar top, pulling them close. ‘You going to dance later?’
Amit considered it, but he was beat. And the dancing—as much as maybe it was the point—reminded him he had taken a step that night out of frustration and desire and feeling the panties against his skin was driving him toward an unknown conclusion. Really, he saw himself going home, shoving his hand inside, and stroking himself until he ruined them with his come, but it would be so unfulfilling. He wanted to be laid out and worshipped with fingers and a mouth, feel a hot tongue slide up him over the lace, have someone peel them off him slowly, inch by inch until he was begging.
But he had absolutely no prospects. He’d never had a prospect. Not like that.
‘I might take off. I have an early appointment tomorrow,’ he lied.
Basil’s brow lifted like he could tell Amit wasn’t telling the truth, but he didn’t call him on it. ‘You know if you ever need to talk…’
‘I know,’ Amit said, and his smile was genuine. ‘Thanks.’
Basil waved him off, then picked up the beer and walked to the table where Derek was waiting. Amit leaned against the bar, watching for just a minute. As envious as he was, he liked the easy way Derek lifted his head for a kiss, the way he let Basil tuck in. He liked the way Derek didn’t talk, even if his signing skills were still so new and broken.
