Archive of Our Own ^beta

Nervous was not a particularly good look on Hermes. 

He drummed the wheel of his car, humming to himself, and sat in the convenience store parking lot across the street. It was where there had been spaces to park, the street parking was completely filled, or at least that was the excuse he told himself. It had nothing to do with the vantage point he got without looking like a complete creeper, how he could stare at the store front windows without looking like he was stalling. He was just sitting in his car, drinking the bottled water that he had purchased from the convenience store, which qualified him as a paying customer. The sign could threaten towing all it wanted, he had the receipts to back it up.  

The tattoo shop across the street should not have been ominous. It was unassuming, with large tinted windows and the name etched in an arc across the door. Styx it read in big minimalist letters. Just beyond, Hermes could make out the modern decor, sensible yet fashionable lights hung and black floors that lined the shop, partitioned sections with beautiful well kept chairs that folded back into a mockery of massage beds. 

Only pain to be found, not stress soothing comfort. 

Hermes was the jump first, ask questions later type, but the whole process had forced him to mull over his decision making, poor or otherwise. They had asked what type of tattoo he wanted and where and would not accept the flippant answer of ‘dealer’s choice’ that Hermes had given. He took one off the top of his head, a placement, just because he thought it would look cool, and a sketch was drawn out. What he had thought would be a walk in snap decision he couldn’t go back on turned out to be scheduling in a week out and leaving Hermes with a lot of time to think. 

Had he picked the right tattoo? Would it hurt? Of course it would hurt, his friends had reassured him of that much, but could Hermes take it? Apparently he had picked a place that wasn’t as bad, but sitting in the parking lot, sucking down water, the stereotypical MOM tattoo on his upper arm as a joke seemed stupid. It was stupid. 

Tattoos should be meaningful, right?

“Here we go,” he said to himself. “Nothing to it but to do it.” 

Hermes left his car in the parking lot under threat of being towed and jay walked across the street. Not breaking stride, he marched right into the shop. Immediately hit by the smell of too clean and something vaguely chemical. No attempts had been made to mask the musk and for that Hermes was thankful. It would have only added to a concoction of horrid smells that would have sent him running out the door. 

At that early hour in the morning, it was near empty. Hell, it was empty. Not a soul to be seen in the place. For a moment, Hermes second guessed himself that he had shown up too early, but no, he had walked right through an unlocked front door. 

He leaned on the front desk and hit the bell there with the flat of his palm, as deliberately annoying as he could. If he fell back into his usual persona, then maybe the terror that hammered his heart would stop.

When no one came, he smacked it again. 

“Hello?” he called out into the shop. “I’m here to get my skin irrevocably marked for the rest of my life, hello?” 

He smacked the bell a few more times until a figure loomed in the back of the shop, stepping out from a darkened hallway.  

Out walked the tallest man Hermes had ever seen. Sweeping and gaunt, dressed in all blacks save for the garish amount of jewelry. Rings on every finger and enough necklaces to sink a boat. A wide brimmed hat sat on his head and small round purple tinted glasses disguised his eyes and glinted in the low light of the shop. Every visible inch of him seemed to be covered in tatts. Decorations that told unknown tales swirled up his forearms and disappeared under rolled up sleeves. Purple poked out of the top of his shirt, a few buttons undone to show them off. Curling and coiling up his collar bone, gold coins that danced over his shoulder and a memento mori that shared out from the v where his shirt was parted. 

Hermes took a moment to let himself stare in awe at the figure, take in details and try to see more. Try to make out the shape of a well toned chest under the swaths of ink. 

Disregarding his penchant for letting idle thoughts creep out of control, Hermes shut them up with annoyance and repeatedly smacked the summons bell again and again. Wearing the broadest shit eating grin he could muster, he watched as the giant meandered through the shop. He wore a cool that could only come from the truly unfettered, until his hand clamped over Hermes and the bell, silencing it with a muted ding . 

His hand was large and completely encapsulated Hermes’ own. He stared down at Hermes like he was nothing more than an insect to be squashed. 

“Hey there,” Hermes said with a grin. “I’m here for the 9 o’clock.” 

The giant made no response, asked no questions, his face did not flinch an inch. He only continued his unblinking stare and judgement of Hermes before finger by finger he peeled his hand away. He turned and headed back into the shop, signalling with one hand over his shoulder for Hermes to follow. 

“Uh, is Eurydice here?” Hermes asked tentatively. “She’s the one I consulted with and I thought she’d be the, ya know, the tattooing person?” 

The tall man stopped at a station, one hand on the back of the chair, and he pat the leather. He looked expectantly at Hermes, waiting. 

“Okay,” Hermes said under his breath and followed the tall man to his station.  

The brief entrance to the shop was one thing, but walking into the parlor proper was another. The closer he grew, the more intimate the partitions became. Their own little microcosms within the sphere of the tattoo salon proper. The tall man waiting between two frosted over walls that split them off from the rest of the world, walking between them to the chair that had been so generously offered. 

“So,” Hermes asked, dropping the word like a bomb that whistled through the air. “Is Eurydice on vacation or something?” 

Hermes had come in a week ago, high on adrenaline from his own stupid ideas, skipping into the shop. The woman managed a front of amusement, slapping his arm where he was to get the fresh ink and calling him ’hon’ . She fed into Hermes’ manic energy, spurred him on, while simultaneously edging him down, convincing him with rules and regulations to come back at the properly scheduled time. Hermes had been expecting that same presence to carry him throughout the whole process and looked up at the dead eyed stoic tree of a man that awaited him. 

He gave Hermes no answer. 

Hermes swallowed deeply and plopped back into the chair. It creaked from his weight, the backrest bouncing as he leaned back into it. Satisfied, the tall man pat the back of the chair again and meandered around the chair, moving to the station that had been fixed to the wall. Shelving and locked up drawers that the tall man worked open. 

“So hey boss, do you got a name or something?” Hermes asked, filling up the silence with idle pratter. “Or do I just call you boss? Big guy? Tall, dark and spooky?” 

Without looking away from the shelving contents, the big man tapped a long ringed finger on a plaque that had been screwed into the wall. Black with gold lettering embossed into it that caught the light handsomely. Hermes made a show of leaning forward, hands gripping the arm rests, and squinting his eyes, despite not needing to. 

“Cha-ron,” he enunciated. “Naw I think I’ll call you big man.” 

Charon peered over his shoulder and over the rims of his glasses. His eyes were a pale grey that would have been more suitable on a corpse and flicked a ribbon of that unfamiliar terrified anticipation through Hermes once more. Hermes smiled on shaky lips and looked away, unable to maintain any semblance of dignity under a glare such as that. He whistled, nonchalantly, and it echoed across the tile of the shop.

Charon flicked out a piece of tracing paper and a stick of deodorant. An illustration had been etched deep into the paper, a refined version of the half baked idea that sparked this whole charade. Carefully etched out font over a perfectly shaped heart. As promised, Hermes wore his sleeveless shirt to get the mockery of a tattoo on his arm, so that he could look like a sailor as he told his friends. 

Charon sat down in his rolling stool, ready to line the artwork over the curvature of Hermes’ skin. 

“Actually!” Hermes said, flinching away. 

Charon paused. Hermes waited for some semblance of annoyance to cross the big man’s face, but only received the cool serene attention of still waters. 

“I was thinking of maybe another tattoo?” Hermes said. “I mean I just had so much time to think that I realized that this isn’t the one I want. Theres something I want more.” 

Charon sat back, the thin paper crinkling as he held it between his legs. Behind tinted glasses, the tall man stared and waited. Hermes tapped behind his ear in a quick staccato, giving into the nervous energy that coursed through him. 

“I’m looking for a wing,” he said quickly. “Right here. I was thinking it could be orange yellow pinkish kind of thing. You know, like a sunset gradient?” 

Hermes had laid in bed thinking about that stupid MOM tattoo and percolating on the nature of a real one. Thinking on his newfound freedoms in his life, how he had practically flown away from what he was supposed to be into what he was. It didn’t have to be a grand gesture, nothing ornate or large, just a small symbol, one that could be seen to those who were looking close enough. 

Symbolic on a level that Hermes felt comfortable with. 

He was sure that Eurydice wouldn’t have minded the last minute change. It would have been a little bit of a waste of her time, he’d have to schedule another appointment, a week or maybe a month out, where he could think more on his life decisions. 

This Charon was a whole new element. A wrench thrown into the works. 

Charon looked down at the carefully drawn out MOM tattoo design that had been specifically drawn with Hermes in mind, prepped and planned by either Eurydice or Charon or some other unfortunate soul. All that work in designing the knock off cliché would be thrown out the window. 

Without a word, Charon was on his feet, heading back to the darkened hallway from whence he came. 

“Uh, oh, I’m um. . . sorry?” Hermes called after him. 

Charon held up one finger, signalling for Hermes to wait right there. Just a second. He disappeared into a room, an office, an offshoot from the dark of the hallway. A light clicked on, something concentrated that danced as the light itself was shifted for better use. Paper snapped and the skritch of pencil etched a little tune. 

It was not just a second. Hermes sat in that chair for a good long while. The same nerves from his expectations plagued on Hermes, albeit slightly less now that he was primed and ready. A new worry that he had insulted the tattoo artist on some level by denying his hard work replaced the concerns and anticipation of pain. Hermes drummed his fingers against the seat, staring expectantly at the open door and the little room.

Boredom set in as time passed. Hermes slumped back in his chair. He pulled out his phone and crossed his legs. When he was done scrolling, done playing idle games, Hermes finally hefted himself from his seat. He went to the hallway’s edge and tentatively peered around the side, holding on to the corner. 

“How’s it going in there?” Hermes asked. 

Wheels rolled harshly across the floor and bracelets jangled as a hand shot out the office door. Another single index finger pointed at the sky. 

Just a second. 

Hermes sighed, his lips flapping, and went back to his chair. 

True to his word, Charon had been close to done. He stepped out of the back room with another thin piece of paper in hand and a tiny sketch etched in the center. Hermes couldn’t quite make out the details and sat up a little straighter, neck craning and his butt leaving the chair to look up into Charon’s arms. The big man placed a firm hand on Hermes’ shoulder and shoved him back into the chair. 

“Hey can I see?” Hermes asked, excited for the first time since walking through the doors. Eager as a kid on Christmas. “Not sure I want you just slapping whatever on me there boss, who knows what you drew, could be some kind of rude gesture.” 

Charon did not let him see. He sat back down in the rolling chair and slid around behind Hermes before he could get a good look at the sketch. Charon manhandled Hermes, tilting his head to the side, forcing Hermes’ eyes to stay straight ahead. 

“Normally a man buys me dinner first,” Hermes said. 

Still no reaction from Charon. The scrape of bobby pins scratched across Hermes’ scalp, pinning the long curly ends of pushed back hair out of the way. Cool deodorant was rubbed against Hermes’ skin and the paper was pressed on tight to transfer the image. Out of his periphery, Hermes could see Charon snap on a blue latex glove. Big hands pressed the paper against Hermes’ head, just behind his ear, each shove tilting Hermes back and forth. 

Charon was close enough that Hermes could smell the unique scent of cigarette smoke and cologne. Hermes closed his eyes, head rocking back and forth with each press, and ignored how he gently inhaled that scent. 

Paper peeled from his skin and a mirror was placed into Hermes’ hands. With slight hesitation, Hermes held up the mirror, folded the cartilage of his ear, and inspected the transferred stencil. 

A purplish blue was stamped into his skin. A wing sat behind his ear, firmly pressed into the hardened portion of his skull. What had been a vague idea in his mind had been detailed, gaps filled in by a mind far more creative than his own. Feathers with detailed tines splayed wide in mid flight, angled as if the wing was Hermes’ own, carrying him away on the wind. 

Hermes tilted the mirror back and forth, his head moving in the opposite directions, taking in every line, every perfection. How the idea had been plucked from his own mind and made reality. 

“Oh wow,” Hermes said, awed and hushed. “Wow. Thats amazing.” 

From behind him, Charon huffed. An irritated pride that it was obvious that his work was in fact amazing.  He peeled the mirror from Hermes’ hands, eyes on him, expectant and waiting. 

Hermes nodded vigorously. 

“Yeah,” he said. The nerves were gone, a familiar confidence filled him. “Yeah this. I want this.” 

He probed at the mock that sat behind his ear, jabbing himself in the head. Charon grabbed him by the wrist to stop and all it managed was turning Hermes’ grin to his official tattoo artist. His usual enthusiasm finally returned. 

Charon’s brows rose, the first true response from the tattoo artist. 

“You got the green, boss,” he said. 

Charon was a closed book, impossible to read and as impassive as still waters, but still Hermes could tell he was far more satisfied than he had been holding the kitchy MOM tattoo. A piece of art rather than a joke. He nodded once and turned to his station, pulling out a rolling cart filled with the tools of the trade, littered like an organized hoarder house of inks and nibs. At the sight of the sharp implementation that would be driving into Hermes’ skin, the nerves once again returned. 

“So,” Hermes said, tapping out a beat on the arm rests. “You been doing this long? You look pretty experienced, if I do say so myself, and I guess thats pretty reassuring. I mean not that you need to be reassuring, this is just my first tattoo and I think I’m understandably going through some sort of anxieties. Not that I don’t want this, but I think you understand what I mean, right boss?” 

Charon said nothing. He continued to set up his gun, pulling a new nib from a sealed pouch, slipping on latex gloves, and waiting for Hermes to hold still. 

“Have you done any of those tattoos you’re wearing? They look pretty nice. Go with your complexion and everything. Which one was the most painful?” 

Nothing. Not a peep. Charon screwed on the nib and gave the pressure valve two experimental tests to make sure it worked. 

Hermes watched the machine dance and drive, thinking about it stippling against his skull. He swallowed heavily. 

“Got any words of advice before you go stabbing up my skin?” he asked, his voice warbling. 

Charon pushed his chair in closer, long legs bent awkwardly as they braced themselves against the floor. He forcibly tilted Hermes’ head and Hermes promptly swallowed his tongue. Eyes going wide and staring straight ahead into forever. The butt of Charon’s head rested against his jaw, primed and at the ready. Hermes steadied himself, trying to find some zen, and only coming up on more trembling low levels of terror. 

It started. 

The initial pierce of his skin was indeed every inch as painful as Hermes thought it would be and not at the same time. He had worked it up so highly within his own mind, a catastrophizing of the events that were not as awful when they came to pass, but he would’ve been lying if he said there wasn’t any pain. He yelped and jumped in his seat, shying away from the gun. 

Charon huffed and sat back in his stool. Through tinted glasses, Hermes could still make out the dull bland flat expression. 

“Kidding,” Hermes laughed, his voice warbling through it. “Just a joke. Really fooled you didn’t I.” 

More silence. More judgement. More glare. 

Hermes cleared his throat and settled back into the chair again. Without prompting, he turned his head to give Charon the access he needed. 

Charon leaned in once more and the pain started anew. 

It was odd, the way the sharp prick prick prick of the needle turned from a searing sharp jabs to a sort of meditative state. How quickly Hermes adapted and began to breathe again. He felt the trace of the gun rattling the side of his skull, shaking his teeth, fuzzing them into jelly. Hermes found a pace, a steady even breathing pattern that fell intimp with the drumming of Charon’s gun. It droned loud in his ear, a high pitched whine that rattled his eardrums, giving him an odd sort of sea sickness with his equilibrium. 

“My sister is the one who urged me to get a tattoo,” he explained, falling back into talking as a self soothe. Always finding relaxation in conversation. “She's got a couple. She thinks it makes her real edgy but she’ll always be a huge dork to me. Do you got any siblings?” 

Charon dipped in for more ink before going back to work, sparing Hermes not a drop of acknowledgement. 

“I got five brothers and sisters, all of them half siblings. My dad got around.” Hermes laughed and the gun paused, waiting for him shuttering giggles to stop. “Only one of them is actually my step mother’s kid and I don’t think she likes him all that much. I don’t think she likes any of us much. Its a weird family, but I’m used to it.” 

Perfect silence from Charon. Not a peep. 

Hermes was used to one sided conversations. He talked too much, he knew that, his family, friends, coworkers, perfect strangers never seemed to hesitate to tell him as much. He had a tendency to talk over others, to talk fast and not let anyone get a word in edgewise. It was a bad habit, he knew that, and in his uncanny nervous state, he found himself leaning more into it. 

Talking with someone who didn’t reciprocate, that was new. 

Hermes couldn’t tell if Charon’s dead silence was him ignoring Hermes’ idle prattle, if he was annoyed or angered or simply indifferent. Hermes wasn’t sure which. 

Like the tattooing, the pain of it smoothed away into something more relaxing, a groove he could get into. If Charon wasn’t going to tell him to shut up, he would just keep going. 

Hermes shifted from topic to topic. Banal subjects like the weather and new pop songs on the radio and did Charon listen to music? And if so what kind? It tripped and slipped into celebrity gossip and the latest scandals and the latest law suits for harassment. Some how finding its way to travel and the strange places that peppered the world. 

“One day I’m hoping to go to the most scenic urinal in the world. Its in Hawaii.” 

That earned Hermes a quick pause and a glance, before diving back into the color. Charon had moved on to oranges, colors hidden just out of view. 

The pause sent a thrill through Hermes. On the tattoo artist, it might as well have been an outright guffaw. 

The pain still sat just behind his ear as a dull throb and sting, but Hermes found a comfort in his one sided conversation that he could ignore the trill in his jaw. He commented on the small pieces of personalization around the station where he sat, art that matched the unique style of the wing being etched into his skin. Hermes praised Charon on his obvious skill, his unique sense of style. 

“It completely makes sense that you got a job here, its like you grew right up out of the tile. You’re a tattoo tree!” 

No response from Charon. He tilted Hermes’ head to get a better angle.

A few more subjects and one more color later, Charon sat back in his stool and observed his work. He pulled at the cartilage of Hermes’ ear, folding it back to get a better view, and nodded resolutely. 

“Are we done?” Hermes asked, a little too fast, a little too loud. “Can I see?” 

Charon went for the mirror again and handed it off to Hermes without a word. A hesitation stayed Hermes’ hand, nervous for what he was about to see. A concoction somewhere between excitement and anxiety that wouldn’t have been there if he had gone through the impulsive decision in the first place, if he hadn’t thought it over. Giving in, Hermes raised the mirror. 

There was no need to be afraid. Before, what had sat behind his ear was a beautiful rendition that exceeded Hermes’ expectations. That was a mere sketch to the vivid wing that had been imprinted into his skin. Splayed out mid flight, painted the colors of the sun. Each feather detailed with hints of tines, slight shadows in the yellows that faded into orange, a pink that highlighted like refractions in the sun. 

It meant volumes to Hermes. 

He covered his mouth with the tips of his fingers, staring with unblinking eyes at the work of art, silent for the first time that morning. Charon worked just beside him, extracting gloves off his fingers and cleaning up his station, ignorant of the sudden revelations Hermes was under. 

“Charon,” Hermes said from behind his fingers. “This is. . .” 

Charon paused and looked up finally, his chin tilted down and pale eyes peering over the rim of his glasses. 

“This is amazing,” Hermes said. 

Charon nodded resolutely, as if it were obvious he did amazing work and expected nothing less. 

“Well thanks boss,” Hermes piped up. “I suppose its about that time where I give you the dough and we part ways?” 

Charon held up a finger, going back into his station for more tools and pulling out what looked like a spray bottle and a roll of plastic wrap. He once again forcibly tilted Hermes’ head and wiped at the tattoo. 

Hermes fiddled with the mirror in his lap, twirling it by the handle and flopping it this way and that. In the reflection, he could see the underside of Charon’s chin and up through the bottom of his tinted glasses. Cool pale eyes were focused on the work in front of him, intent on producing art and nothing more. 

“Sorry I talked all over you there,” Hermes said. “You really don’t have anything to say huh?” 

Charon paused. Hands up and fingers pressed into the side of Hermes’ head, adhering the plastic wrap over the little wing. He tilted his head to look Hermes in the eye. Steadily, he removed his hat and pulled back his hair.  Tucked behind his ear was a plastic cuff that shaped around the curve of his cartilage. Wires ran from it to a small disc that was fixed to the back of his skull, just under the top layer of hair. 

“Oh,” Hermes said, drawing it out as realization settled in. “Uh. Hang on I think.” 

<ASL> he signed out each letter with deliberation. 

From behind his circular glasses, Charon’s eyes widened and his brows rose. He looked from Hermes’ hands to his face and then back again before settling the hat back atop his head. 

<you speak ASL?> he asked. 

“Uh not quite,” Hermes said. <Rusty>

The stoic inscrutable man Hermes had spent the morning with had transformed, even if slight and near imperceptible, into something with a curious interest. The slight spark of being seen and being known in a shared commonality. Hermes was suddenly grateful for that impulse elective of ASL he took, even if it was a few years out. 

Charon nodded, having taken on a loose quality. 

<enough to understand after care?> he asked. 

It took a minute for Hermes to parse what he was saying, peering at Charon’s ringed and inked fingers as they moved through the air. 

“Yeah,” he said with a determined nod. “But only if you go slow.” 

Charon explained aftercare for the tattoo, the way the ink will bleed within the tattoo film, how it was a special film and to keep it on for the first 24 hours, to sleep with a towel. That once removed that Hermes had to wash and clean the tattoo regularly and indicated the offered cleansers at the front. That it will itch but not to scratch it, that it may swell and that was normal. 

Hermes attempted to keep up, nodding and hoping he remembered everything, but in the end Charon handed over a piece of paper with a step by step guide anyways. 

It seemed he was just happy to be able to communicate. 

The process of payment was one part of the whole ordeal that Hermes was familiar with. By that point in the day, more customers had come in and more artists had come out of the woodwork. In the far corner sat Eurydice and Hermes gave her a little wave. 

He stepped from the shop, only pausing to look over his shoulder, listening to the tattoo film crinkled behind his ear. Charon still stood at the till, watching Hermes go. 

“You take care now!” he said. 

Charon raised his hand in a half hearted wave as Hermes left. 

____

Hermes didn’t have an appointment. 

As he had the first time, Hermes walked right into Styx Tattoo Shop without a care in the world and a purpose set on his mind. Not of MOM shaped tattoos or other impulsive embarrassments, not more permanent markings at all. After days and weeks of staring at the wing behind his ear, after scrolling and scrolling through influencer websites for inspiration, Hermes needed just a little more flare. 

An earring. Two, to be specific. One in each ear was an absolute requirement. Hermes had a vision. A long orange earring to match the shape of the wing. Maybe two. Maybe three. Floating like windchimes as he flew through the world. But to have only one side pierced seemed imbalanced. 

Having one wing did as well. 

Hermes would deal with that in time. 

With a confidence he had lacked on his first visit, but still carrying a healthy amount of apprehension, Hermes marched up to the front desk and rang the bell as hard as he could. 

Being the middle of the day, the shop was at full capacity. An array of artists worked on their respective clients. It was not completely filled, stations still having gone empty, but it seemed to be the most working at one time. About 4 artists tops, with their clients in various states of undress. All the way from an arm revealed to pants pulled down for access to a hip. 

Eurydice was working on an older gentleman’s back and looked up from her work. Guarded with a face mask, Hermes could still see the crinkle of her eyes as she smiled. 

“Hey hon!” she called out, waving with her gun in the air. 

Hermes waved enthusiastically, smile wide and hand blurring in the air. 

“What’re you doing here?” she asked, muffled by the mask and drowned out by the buzz of tattooing guns. 

Hermes hooked a finger behind his lobes and pressed his ears forward. 

“Looking to get some piercings,” he called back. 

“Well why didn’t you say so!” Eurydice leaned back in her stool, staring down the darkened hallway in the back. “Charon!” 

Hermes’ heart stuttered. He felt a tingle in his arms and a prickle across his face, his smile transforming into something with just a kick of exhilaration. 

The last time he had been in the shop had been far more quiet, almost intimate. Hermes had barely recognized when other clients had begun to file in. A groove had been found between them. The buzz on his neck that rattled in his teeth, the in and out ebb and flow of pain, the constant prattle that droned like background noise. 

That Charon had been listening to. 

There was certainly no reason why Hermes had begun brushing up on his ASL again. He was simply sparked, remembering that he liked it, and wouldn’t it be fun to pick it up again. 

For fun. Not to better communicate with tall inked over men. 

Charon stepped out from behind the hall, just poking his head out from the frame of the door. He wore a single two fingered glove to prevent smudging of graphite on paper. He still wore the wide brimmed hat that would’ve been ridiculous on anyone else, but on him it was proportional. The tinted glasses gleamed in the sunlight, looking like the sockets on a skull. 

Hermes ignored the way his heart leapt into his throat. 

Eurydice whistled and pointed to the counter. 

“You got time right?” she asked. “Wanna help out your new favorite customer?” 

Hermes felt a heat prickled against his cheeks. It was probably a joke, but being Charon’s favorite anything was flattering.

Flattery. Thats what that was. 

Charon finally looked in his direction, brows rising into the brim of his hat at the recognition of who was at their front door. Hermes wasn’t sure, Charon’s face a closed book as always, but he thought maybe, jus maybe, Charon looked happy to see him. 

Charon stepped out from the darkened hallway, picking off the glove as he took quick strides across the shop. Hermes waved another stiff hand, knowing his grin was a little too wide. 

“Hey there boss,” he said, quick and clipped. Then, as quick as he could, <How are you?>

Charon paused, halfway down the little steps to the half desk that comprised the checkout counter. That time, Hermes was sure he saw a smile quirk on the tattoo artist’s face. 

<fine> Charon said. <back for more?> 

“No ink this time.” Hermes attempted to lean against the counter as nonchalantly as possible. He missed and ended up at a tilt too far. Disregarding it and pretending like it was what he meant to do, he smiled up at Charon and made no move to fix his posture. He cupped his fingers behind both ears, presenting them at right angles around his head. “Looking to get these babies pierced.” 

Charon examined the ears and in the shade of the sign Hermes could see his eyes moving behind the glasses, looking from one ear to the other. He turned in place and threw his fingers over his shoulder, signalling for Hermes to follow. With a hop skip and too much excitement, Hermes was hot on his heels. 

Charon led Hermes down the dark hallway that was shockingly dim compared to the brightness of the rest of the shop. The walls painted black and inset lighting illuminating spotlights on the floor every few feet or so. It felt verboten to go down the hall, that was where Charon belonged, but at the invitation, Hermes followed. They passed by the room where Charon had disappeared before and Hermes was too curious to not take a peak. 

It was a small dark room, filled almost from floor to ceiling with hand drawn illustrations taped to the wall. Sketches, ideas, rough starts, finished paintings that seemed to have never been used. One such work in progress was splayed out on the table, a pencil placed across it. A light box sat on the far corner and an overhead lamp was aimed over the paper. The effect was a cluttered mess, but it put a smile on Hermes’ face. 

Charon led Hermes to the end of the hallway and another small darkened room. Unlike the colorful array of the drawing room, that new room was devoid of any decor and only black painted walls stared back at Hermes. A single overhead light shone down on what appeared to be a dentist's chair, cushioned and leaned back for deceptive comfort. A special kind of torture chamber. 

Charon stepped out of the way and held out a hand to the offered chair. 

“Feel like I’m headed off to my execution,” Hermes said. 

Charon snorted derisively, but Hermes spied the barest hint of a smile. It felt like a victory. 

Hermes took the non verbal cue and took his seat. 

Charon pulled out a little cabinet that rolled out on wheels. A box of latex gloves sat on top and Charon snapped on a blue pair like he was prepping for surgery. He rifled around on the drawer, pulling out a needle in its own individual pack and what looked like a little block. At the sight of the hollow point, Hermes’ heart began tripping over itself again with nerves. Why did aesthetics come with pain? 

“This is gonna hurt right? I got to tell you, boss, I’m not exactly the best with pain. I mean you’d never guess it from last time, but I really am a great big wimp. A scaredy cat. A coward. Yellow.” 

Charon bent down, putting the soft block behind Hermes’ ear, right on top of the wing. His glasses slid down his nose and Hermes could see the pale gray eyes peering at him over the rims. 

“If I could get some reassurance that you’ll be real gentle with me. It is my first time after–”

A sturdy finger pressed against Hermes’ lips, skewing them off to the side, but it shut Hermes up. Hermes swallowed his tongue. Charon was chilled, cold, but firm. A strength in his just one finger from holding a pencil, a piercing hollow point, a tattoo gun. 

Hermes immediately began playing out what else that hand held. 

Before his mind could get very far, Charon had aimed the needle and slid it through Hermes’ cartilage like butter. There was a pinch, but hardly any pain. Compared to the tattooing, it was hardly more than a nip. Hermes still braced for the pain, but it never came. Charon placed the needle down and picked up a quaint gold stud, fiddling with Hermes’ ear as he pushed it into place. 

“Wow boss,” Hermes said. “Hardly felt that at all. You’re some kind of miracle worker with a sharp end, aren’t you?” 

Charon pat the top of Hermes’ head with some sort of fondness before moving around to the next side. Hermes made the conscious decision not to read too much into it. 

“A real consummate professional,” Hermes kept praising. “A gentleman and a scholar.” 

Charon shot him a brief look, leaning down to Hermes’ other ear. Either the man was holding his breath or he was dead, Hermes waited for the warmth to touch his cheek but it never came. 

“I wish I had steady hands like yours,” Hermes kept going. “I mean technically my hands are steady, not shaky at all, but I need to keep them moving at all times. A real restless sort if you know what I mean. A fidgeter. At least here I have this chair to grip onto so I don’t–”

Charon planted his finger to Hermes’ lips one more time. Without a word, shushing him. Hermes’ lips curled into a smile behind that finger. 

Charon focused on his work. A quick prod in and there was a brand new hole in Hermes’ ear. He fiddled placing the stud in the place and rolled on hand into the air, giving Hermes the go ahead to continue with his narrative. 

“A real fidgeter,” he said. “I think I’d get distracted mid tattoo if I was in your profession. Leave a lot of disappointed customers with half finished tatts.” 

Once again Charon held up a mirror, holding it with those steady hands in front of Hermes. Hermes turned his head side to side to inspect Charon’s fine work, looking at the two golden studs he had pricked into Hermes’ ears. Charon had taken the liberty of picking out a shape for Hermes and had selected two little skulls, too tiny to really see their shape unless someone was really looking at them. 

Hermes whistled. 

“Lookin good there boss,” he said. “Good work, as per usual, I never had a doubt. You know I was thinking of getting some nice long earrings. Orange or red or something to match the wing. Might be a little controversial, something long on a guy, but I never really liked to conform. What do you think?” 

Charon placed down the mirror. 

<only after six weeks> he said. 

<I’ll be responsible> Hermes replied with a wink. 

Charon laughed. Well it felt like a laugh. A snort of air through his nose, a little huff and the shake of his head. Like he didn’t believe Hermes. 

“I can be,” Hermes said. “When I want to be.” 

Charon threw out the needle in a special container labeled ‘sharps’ and snapped off his gloves again. He signalled for Hermes to follow and Hermes all but leapt off the chair. The curt business like, almost cold shoulder that Charon gave Hermes, was translated into a professionalism that Hermes admired. He reached up and touched his ear, rubbing over the skull and still talking a mile a minute. 

“Is there any other after care I need to know?” he kept asking. “I’m sure theres a lot, but taking care of the tattoo wasn’t too hard and I can’t imagine a little price like these would be difficult.” 

Charon looked over his shoulder, his head jerking twice in a double take. He took Hermes by the wrist and Hermes was sure Charon could feel his heart rate skip. 

There were those nerves again. 

<don’t touch> Charon said. 

Hermes smiled broadly in hopes that they covered up whatever weird flip flops his heart was doing. 

Charon gave him a run down of after care and products to apply to the fresh piercings, ways to keep them clean and make sure they heal correctly. And very deliberately, peering over his glasses as he said it, for fidgety Hermes to not. Touch. 

At the command, a contrarian defiance raced through Hermes and he almost rubbed at the studs right then and there. 

“Well, thank you as per usual for all your assistance, boss,” Hermes said, taking his new products and paying out at the register. “I’ll be sure to heed all your instructions and be very responsible.” 

Charon smiled. Small and ghostly, but an actual smile. 

Hermes found himself wanting to keep talking, to see more of that smile, but he suddenly had no words. As quickly as it was there, Charon’s smile disappeared. 

“Welp,” Hermes said clapping his hands at his side. <Take care of yourself>

<you as well> 

Hermes walked backwards out of the shop, stumbling over the threshold as he did. 

_____

Getting tattoos could very easily become an addiction or so Hermes heard. People get that first tattoo and suddenly want a second, then maybe a third, and after that its just a tumble down avalanche where all the time and money is spent and someone comes out with more ink than visible skin. 

Hermes wasn’t addicted. Clearly. 

He needed a second wing to balance out the first, that was all. And another set of piercings. After the first long yellow earring that clicked against his neck when he ran, another piercing was in order, obviously. After two, Hermes knew he needed a third, maybe a fourth, so that they would jangle against one another like windchimes. 

With two small tattoos, Hermes got an array of compliments. How they complemented him and his personality, how lovely they were. 

Of course he needed another tattoo. It just made sense. 

Hermes had grown used to the pain by that point. A familiar sensation that he could easily slip into a restful state and ride it out. After getting tattoos behind his ears, he realized how ridiculous of a decision that had been. Picking out one of the more painful spots to get a tattoo. By contrast, his arm was nothing, even if it did cover up a large amount of real estate. 

Of course he had to get it from his favorite artist. 

Charon had been the one to give Hermes the second wing, just to make sure it matched the first. And the second set of piercings, only because Hermes knew he was so good at it. On the way out, wearing another set of skull shaped studs behind dangling yellow, Hermes took a quick peek into the drawing room. He had scanned over the multitudes of illustrations fixed to the wall, some of them different from the time before. In an off hand remark, he asked if Charon had drawn any of them. 

Just as off hand, he responded with most of them. 

Hermes just had to have a work of art from that artist permanently displayed at all times. 

He had given Charon free range. Just art, any art, on Hermes. 

It wasn’t an addiction, it was a well thought out purposeful investment. A conscious decision to get a living breathing work of art, thats all. It had nothing to do with a compulsive need for more ink. 

It had nothing do with seeing a certain artist again. 

Hermes had made a routine of coming into Styx Tattoo Shop just after closing for consultations. Consultations, not conversations. Nothing special about them. Nothing special how Charon didn’t actually schedule appointments and opened his lock door to let Hermes into a half lit shop. There was nothing special about the careful way Charon asked questions to boil down to the subject matter. There was nothing special how Charon sketched as they talked, how he designed as he pulled vague ideas and notions from Hermes’ mind. 

In the end, it was birds. The wings, the wind, the freedom, it was always flight, it was always feathers, it was always birds. Three birds in a bustle. A corvid, a bird of prey, and a sparrow. A veritable rainbow of aviators to span each facet of Hermes’ sprawling personality. 

Charon, a genius with a pen, had designed them special for Hermes. Twisted winding branches speckled with the sunburnt colors of autumnal leaves, coiled around his shoulder, birds hidden among the branches. They were all there, blended into the wood and knots and shrubbery, but not readily visible. With the turn of Hermes’ body only would they be revealed. He had to point out their shape for someone to find them, like clouds shifting in the sky. An illusionary piece that seemed impossible, but made reality by Charon’s expert hand. 

Hermes sat in Charon’s chair for the third session, having already gone through the main line work, the finer details, and finally settling into color. Burnt oranges and the soft warm browns of the bark filled in the spaces and covered up tanned skin. 

“And then thats roughly when Dio fell face first into the pool, I tried to warn him,” Hermes said with a shake of his head. “The man always seems to throw the best parties around but he also seems to go just a little too far. Big ragers that fill up his way too large of a house, but I’ll be damned if I ever miss one. They’re always a good time and good for a giggle, if you know what I mean.” 

Hermes looked over his shoulder to where the tattoo artist was face down in his work. Mask covering up his face and hair pulled back out of his eyes, still looking through purple tinted glasses that didn’t seem to affect his coloring in the slightest. A magic trick if Hermes had ever seen one. 

He always seemed to let Hermes go off. After that first session where Hermes had taken Charon’s silence for the same annoyance he was greeted with, he had since learned that it wasn’t the case at all. In actuality, Charon seemed more than happy to listen to Hermes’ narrative. To let him go on and on as he did. Filling up the quiet spaces that Charon left open. Finding every corner and leaving no stone unturned. 

His eyes flicked up over the glasses, waiting for Hermes’ next piece of the story. 

“You should come to one sometime,” Hermes said, laughing as he did. 

Charon snorted derisively and sat up to get more ink into his gun. 

<no> he said simply and one handed. 

Hermes laughed a little more boisterously and settled when Charon placed a single gloved hand on Hermes’ shoulder, pushing him back into place on the chair. 

“Didn’t figure you much for going to parties,” Hermes said through a grin. “But heres a secret: I’m actually not one either. You can stay by me in the corner.” 

The buzz of the gun paused and Charon looked up once more. Holding still for only a second, but it was long enough. Hermes looked away and knew his motormouth had taken him a little too far again. It wasn’t the first time he dropped the possibility of hanging out with the enigmatic Charon outside of their professional relationship. The idea kept creeping into his mind and when he got into the comfortable groove, it was hard to hold it back.

Charon wiped away the excess ink and leaned in once more to continue his work. Hermes pretended he couldn’t smell the cigarette smoke wafting off him. He pretended he didn’t like it. 

Hermes wriggled in his seat and cleared his throat. 

“I was thinking after this one we could try to link the two of them together, what do you think boss?” Hermes went on and on. “A couple of feathers going down my neck from the wing into the birds. Get a real motif going on.” 

He traced a hand down his neck, a trail of where he was thinking the feathers might flutter down. It was far more exposed than the other tattoos he had and he definitely would not be able to hide them. It would brand him as tattooed, a rebel, a deviant. 

But the idea of Charon’s hands on his neck was so very enticing. 

Charon gently nudged his hand out of the way and pressed it back down on the bench. Little motions to keep Hermes in place and not interfere with his work. Hermes wouldn’t admit that he kept squirming to get more of that particular brand of attention

“You got a real motif going on there, yourself,” Hermes noted. “A kind of death and gold thing, wouldn’t you say?” 

Hermes couldn’t be sure, but he though he saw a little twitch of the cheek. A scrunch of Charon’s eye. Maybe a smile behind that mask. 

“I’ve seen the little coin on the back of your neck before,” Hermes said, craning his neck to get another look. The small token colored and designed to look as if it were permanently gleaming in the sunshine, revealed by the hair that had been piled up on Charon’s head. “And the flower. It symbolizes death right? Not to mention all of those skulls.” 

Charon placed a hand on Hermes’ shoulder and lowered him back into the seat. 

Hermes’ mouth pressed into a small smile, his lips scrunched up tight as he once again tried to hold the words back. And once again failed. 

“What else do you have tattooed?” 

The words came tumbling out before he could truly think about them. 

The buzz of the gun paused. The lack of sound far more deafening than the actual instrument itself. Charon’s eyes were no longer focused on the art on Hermes’ arms. Not a quick glance or a flick, but permanently pinned on Hermes himself. Hermes swallowed heavily at the stillness. 

“I mean. . .” he fumbled. “You don’t . . . you don’t have to say if you don’t want. If its some big secret. I didn’t mean to–”

Charon placed down the gun. 

<on my back> he said, snapping off his gloves. 

Hermes paused, swallowing his tongue. He blinked out the sudden dryness in his eyes. 

<would you like to see?> 

It took all his willpower to hold back a sudden shout of yes, far too interested in the ink that disappeared beneath the artist’s collar. Curious in ways he didn’t want to think about but was suddenly confronted with. 

He nodded slowly, not trusting his voice. 

Charon rose to his feet, stepping just far enough away from Hermes so that he could fully see the tall man’s visage. Carefully, Charon plucked at the buttons of his shirt and one by one convinced them open. Bit by bit, more and more of Charon’s skin was revealed to the sharp light of the tattoo shop. Hermes watched with stark fascination at the pale skin that was marked by the interwoven works of blacks and blues. Details of red flowers and purpled skulls. More coins and stories etched permanently in ink. 

Charon shucked his dark shirt off his shoulders, pulling it off his arms, and turned in place.

There, on his back, was a narrative. More coins descended from the back of his neck, draped by the gold of his necklaces that shone with wealth and opulence. A river traversed serpentine down Charon’s spine. Dark waters that held hidden secrets of mortality and all their questions. Hands that reached up over the sides to the banks, rivulets and eddies that swirled the still waters of ink until they moved with each and every one of Charon’s breaths.

At the base of his spine, crossing the entirety of his lower back, was a boat. An older skiff from an ancient civilization. Its bow curled and detailed with golden waves. Its body shallow. A being stood on the back of it, rowing through the waters as they pooled like a period to the story Charon’s back told. 

Beneath it all was a man. The shape of a human that suddenly fascinated Hermes way more than he and intended. The curve of strong shoulder blades, the dip of a waist. Powerful muscles that tucked in at his lower back. A strength that had been hinted in his hands that pulled and held down Hermes’ skin was on full display and Hermes had a sickening feeling that he had only felt a fraction of what Charon could do. 

In that moment, he wondered idly what else Charon could hold down. 

Charon looked over his shoulder when he got no verbal reaction from his normally loquacious client. Hermes stared wide eyed at the details of tattoo and musculature alike before managing to drag his gaze back up to Charon’s tinted glasses. 

“Wow,” he said, the word croaking as if he were a man dying of thirst. 

A small smile curled at the corner of Charon’s lips and it did more to spur on the ache in Hermes’ chest than the partial nudity did. 

Charon pulled his shirt back on, once again covering up the masterpiece on his back, and neatly buttoning it back into place. Small details of the man became new and interesting to Hermes. The way his hands moved as they worked over each and every button. The curve of his neck. The way hair fell out of its loose bun. The snap of the gloves as Charon donned fresh ones and sat back down into place. 

Hermes was staring. His face prickled with heat. He snapped his head forward again, staring straight at the tools of the trade and the stylish almost corporate graffiti on the wall. He swallowed heavily and felt those strong hands that he now had so many questions about touch his skin once more. The gun buzzed cheerily in the quiet of the tattoo shop. 

Hermes didn’t say another word for the rest of the session. 

____

Hermes admitted to himself that it wasn’t the tattoos he had an addiction to. 

Sure he had gone back time and time again to get more ink, to get more piercings, but at some point it stopped being about the artwork on his skin and started becoming more about the artist. 

The feathers that had gone down his neck, that he had promised he would get, had been an exercise in restraint. A trailing touch that was sometimes too soft, sometimes too gentle, that traced over the lines in his skin, the shape of his muscle. It was solely to find the finer places to put his masterful artwork, but it did not stop the swell of shivers that came from Hermes at every pass. 

The matching wings he placed on his ankles, perfectly aligned to go with the ones behind his ears, were of the same exquisite quality Charon was held to. Seated down at Hermes’ feet, cupping his heel in the base of his hand, working on sensitive skin just behind jutting ankle bone. The look he gave, peering over his glasses, looking to be in a place of subservience, went straight to the darker portions of Hermes’ mind. 

The third piercings on his ear had been tame by comparison and in its banality made all the more worse. The delicate way Charon handled Hermes’ ear, he swore the tattoo artist ran his thumb over his skin. His fingers trailing through the long dangling earrings that were already there. It made Hermes shiver. 

He needed more. 

The nipple piercing had been a bit brash. It interfered with his running and Hermes was forced to buy new compression style shirts to prevent rubbing and chaffing, but it was completely worth it. Charon essentially fondling his chest and Hermes couldn’t tell if it was the cool of the room or Charon’s hands that made his skin stand on end. Hermes watched carefully as Charon’s needle pierced his skin and left the barbell fixed in place. He watched his eyes, the flush on his cheeks, and tried not to think too much of it. 

Hermes was testing his own limitations and indulging in what he wanted from Charon. 

Another tattoo. Just one more. Thats what he told himself. A flower, because it seemed to be a requirement to those covered with ink to have at least just one. The language of flora speaking more volumes than simple words. A representation of who one was. 

Foxglove. Insincerity, both good and bad. A sneaky little thief and liar. Hermes may look like he wore his heart on his sleeve, but he kept many secrets to himself. 

Secrets he kept from himself.

He didn’t need to remove his shirt, he could have just hiked it up, but Hermes took the offending garment off. He set it aside, showing off Charon’s hard work on his arm and chest. Laid back on the tattooing chair, lowered so that it was more of a bed. His pants pulled low to reveal the curve of his hip, the lines the foxglove will follow. 

Hermes stared down at the tattoo artist, one arm ducked behind his head, the light catching off the winged barbell that shot through his nipple. Charon’s head was bowed, filling in the fuschia colors of the flared dewdrop shape of petals. The yellows of the stamens that peaked out just under soft skirts. Greens of the stem that twisted serpentine like the lies it stood for. 

Hermes had pointed out that it was a flower of secrets. 

Charon didn’t ask what they were. 

Quiet and late at night, they were once again all alone in the Styx tattoo shop. Charon’s gun buzzed merrily over Hermes’ skin, changing it forever. His face low and close to get in the details. Hand splayed out wide, holding on to a towel to wipe away excess ink. 

Positioned like that, it was difficult for Hermes to not conjure up scenarios of a completely different nature. 

Charon paused in his work, as he had multiple times in other pieces, to assess his progress and make steps of what he wanted to do next. But rather than pull away, rather than get a further view, pale eyes flicked over the edge of his glasses. The challenging gaze pinning Hermes in place. 

Hermes could only live under such conditions for so long. 

He looked away from Charon’s intimidating gaze, his teeth digging into his lip, and waited until the buzz began again. 

He wasn’t addicted to tattoos. 

Not at all. 

____

Hermes was out of ideas. He racked his brain, trying to come up with something new, something inventive and creative, something to possibly impress, but he had nothing. No new illustrations, no new sparks, no new places to put art. 

All Hermes had was that he wanted a new tattoo. 

Days spent looking through internet searches, inspiration sites, reading up on symbolism and religious symbols, portraiture and memorabilia, and Hermes came up with nothing. He had no more inspiration for another tattoo, no more impetuous for his skin to once again be permanently etched. 

Maybe a scene, a giant mural that could dominate the whole of his back. Something that told a story and would fascinate on lookers when he removed his shirt. That maybe he could attract the ensorcelled eye of  someone entranced by the finer details, not just of the artwork, but of his physicality. Maybe they would like a closer look, maybe they’d like to inspect. 

Maybe one person, in specific, would like to inspect. 

Hermes thought about just sitting down in Charon’s chair and telling the tattoo artist ‘dealer’s choice.’ To just let Charon go full hog wild on his body with whatever symbol Charon wanted to mark him with. Just let Charon’s vast imagination go wild and do whatever he wanted with Hermes. 

Whatever he wanted. 

Hermes huffed and scuffed his shoe against the sidewalk, turning and walking in the other direction. He jammed his hands in his pockets, jaw jutted out, frustrated by his own wavering thoughts. 

Nervous was never a good look on him. 

It had taken some time and mental gymnastics to keep avoiding the clear and present truth that had percolated in the back of his mind and clawed its way to the forefront. Denial only got him so far but with each quiet moment, running his fingers over the clever linework and detailed coloring, Hermes’ mind would drift back to the hand that placed them there. Long strong fingers that pulled his skin taut, that smoothed out excess ink, that lingered just a moment too long. 

Hermes didn’t want another tattoo. He wanted an excuse. 

Another frustrated growl rumbled deep in the back of his throat and he whirled in place again, giving in to his more spontaneous nature. His car parked just around the block, just out of view, giving him enough space and time to look as if he were wandering the neighborhood idly. He had driven there of his own accord, his mind replaying those runaway thoughts over and over again, until he surrendered to the bad idea.

Last minute ditch effort, Hermes tried to come up with some excuse, some kind of reason why he was marching unprompted, with no appointment, down to the Styx tattoo parlor. Delving deep into the recesses of his distracted mind, Hermes tried to scoop up whatever two brain cells he had left could spark and came up with. . .  

A MOM tattoo. 

It would have to do. He wasn’t ready to admit it, but he would anyways: Hermes was getting desperate. 

Just to spend a couple of more hours in the presence of the talented tattoo artist. 

Gumption dredged up and request ready on his lips, Hermes replayed the commission over and over in his mind, ready to march into the shop and demand he speak with his regular. 

Hermes rounded the corner and almost fell back on his ass. He almost aborted right then and there and hid around the way from which he came. 

His quandary was not where he thought he would be. Charon wasn’t neatly tucked away in the backroom where he normally was, not hidden in the safety of the shop where Hermes could get the upper hand, where he could burst in unannounced and take the artist by surprise. 

Hermes had no such advantages with Charon standing just outside the shop. Leaning against the building, one leg crossed over the other, taking a long drag from a cigarette. The first kick instinct that danced inside Hermes was to dart back around the corner and out of sight but it was too late. Charon leisurely turned his head and the sheen of tinted purple sunglasses were aimed in Hermes’ direction. Brows rose up from behind them and disappeared into the line of Charon’s hat. 

Hermes had been caught. 

“Uh,” Hermes said on a warbling laugh. “Hey boss!” 

Charon raised on hand in greeting, the smoke of his cigarette trailing behind and rings glinting in the daylight. It shouldn’t have been as shocking as it was to see Charon out from under the dim lights of the shop and in the blaring sunshine, but he was a far cry different. Somehow deeper in shadow under the brim of his hat and hidden behind the shades. Somehow a taller more imposing figure all dressed in blacks, sleeves rolled up revealing the ink that had been left there. Details that Hermes had become all to familiar with. 

He swallowed heavily and tried to dredge up what was left of his denial. But he could see a glimmer of Charon’s intense gaze from behind his glasses, could see the poise and confidence with how he held himself, and all denial went out the window. 

Heart hammering heavy his chest, Hermes walked the short distance to his crush. 

“What’re you doing out in the daylight?” Hermes asked, attempting to sound as natural as he could. 

Charon propped the cigarette between his teeth. 

<i work here> he said. 

“Well yeah.” Hermes folded his hands behind his back and rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. “It had gotten to the point where I was pretty sure you lived in there.” 

Charon raised a single brow and cocked his head to the side. 

“You know, one of those kind of ghosts that disappear the second they cross over the threshold.” Hermes was rambling again. “Freed of this mortal coil and on to the next life. I’m sure someone somewhere has got a tattoo of that. Not me though, but you already knew that, unless you want to give me a tattoo of that.” 

Charon stalled, blankly staring down at his significantly shorter customer. He slowly pulled his hands out of his pockets. 

<a tattoo of a ghost> Charon said slow and careful, as if speaking to a child who had not grasped a concept. <ascending to heaven?> 

“Or hell.” Hermes shrugged. 

<. . . do you want that?> 

Hermes looked longsways into the street as cars passed by. Whole separate people living their lives, ignorant of the nervous energy that was turbulent in Hermes’ veins. He looked back up to Charon, with no answers to give him, mouth pressed into a thin line, and slowly hunched his shoulders to his ears once more. No answers to give Charon. 

“Maybe if it was your ghost,” he said, too quick before he could take it back. 

Charon’s stone face could’ve been mistaken for bland disinterest, but Hermes had spent enough time in Charon’s presence to know all the ins and outs of his expressions. The little micromovements. A twitch by his nose, the subtle shift of his jaw, the way his brows rose once more and the end of his cigarette pointed down. 

Heat prickled up Hermes’ face and he could feel the flush darken across his cheeks, hoping desperately that it might come off as sunshine on his skin. 

“Aah,” Hermes said and the sound choked in the back of his throat. 

<do you have an appointment?> Charon asked, taking pity on Hermes and picking up the metaphorical ball he dropped. 

“Oh uuhh.” Hermes drew the noise out, looking to the side. “No no not exactly. Was hoping for a walk in. Again. Another one. Another walk in.” 

Charon’s scrutiny was beginning to drill a hole into Hermes’ skull. 

<another piercing?>

Hermes shrugged, far too exaggerated to be natural, attempting to do so anyways. The flame in his face and the ramrod stiffness that rigored his muscles told Hermes he was failing. 

"I guess?" he said. "Maybe?" 

Hermes did not need to be an expert in the language that was Charon’s expressions to see the blatant confusion of a pinched brow and a pulled frown. He turned, giving Hermes his full attention. 

<tattoo?> he tried and even when speaking with his hands, Hermes could make out the sarcasm. 

“Sure why not,” Hermes laughed, a bouncing nervous lilt that shook on the way down. 

Charon plucked the cigarette from his lips so Hermes could see the full force of his frown. 

<what did you want to get?> 

Hermes laughed as an answer. Not much of an answer as nerves burbled up in the back of his mind and made his stomach flip like a flapjack. 

“Oh you know,” he said with a roll of the wrist. “I mean you know.” 

Charon’s consternation told Hermes that no, he did not know. 

“Was figuring you could pick. . . anything you liked. I mean.” Hermes swallowed heavily. “Is there something. . . you’d like to . . . do?” 

Hermes regretted every word that spilled from his lips. The more Charon’s cigarette was crushed between his fingers, the more his sunglasses slid down his nose, the more he could see those pale eyes glaring down at him and reading Hermes for the book that he was. 

“Mom tattoo?” Hermes said, high pitched and feeble. 

At that, any and all humor left Charon completely, fixing Hermes with a completely unamused glare that he only held on their first meeting. The unimpressed flat stare of the tattoo artist who knew his skills weren’t being properly put to use for the sake of a dumb joke. That his time was being wasted. That he had so much more to give and Hermes wasn’t taking advantage of it. 

Only on that sunny sidewalk, in the post wake of having Charon’s talent evidenced all over his body, Hermes’ joke was a slight made so much greater. 

“Never mind!” Hermes’ voice cracked as shouted a little too loud. “Never mind never mind never mind! I was just kidding! A joke. Funny right?” 

Only Charon wasn’t laughing. Or smiling. Only looking right through Hermes and probably seeing all the little details Hermes would never be able to hide. 

Hermes took a single big step back, clapping his hands at his sides. 

“Welp,” he said, his hands hitting his hips hard in a clap once, twice, and enough times to mimic a penguin. “I guess I should get going. It was good seeing you b–” 

Hermes managed to turn in space, get his heel off the ground, and was ready to bolt into obscurity as far as he possibly could get. Where he could duck under a rock and probably never see the light of day ever again. 

A strong hand clamped around his arm and held him in place. 

Hermes swallowed his tongue, both used to and unused to the touch. Used to have those hands hold his skin in stern concentration, fold aside his ears, pull at the extra flesh, prod where it was most sensitive and the tattooist’s gun could drill directly into his heart. But a casual touch like that, one outside of the shop that was clearly not meant for work, with the full intention of holding Hermes in place and managing to do just that. 

It was new. 

Hermes looked up quietly to his captor for some sort of explanation. 

Charon let go of his arm and carefully snubbed out his cigarette in the sandy ashtray next to the front door. He fixed Hermes with a look of clear annoyance, not to be confused with anything else but that, and raised his hands. 

<just ask me out already> Charon said. 

Hermes’ eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. He stared at the inked up ringed fingers, thinking that maybe his ASL wasn’t as strong as he thought it was. Maybe he had misread or misunderstood. Hermes’ eyes blinked rapidly and he attempted to put on a polite smile, already knowing he was failing on that front. 

“Um, what was that?” he asked, still feigning the false salesman like laughter of a bad pun. 

Charon’s fingers curled slowly and each knuckle cracked. In the shadow of his hat, Hermes could see the shape of his eyes behind his glasses, clear as day. Make out the slant of them, the down turn of his brow. He huffed once and shook his head, turning to head back into the shop and return to work. 

“Charon!” Hermes called out, loud enough that the pedestrians across the street could hear. 

Charon paused and turned, giving Hermes his full attention. He stared down expectantly with a cool gaze. 

“Would you.” Hermes swallowed, pushing down sand. “Would you like to go out? Sometime?” 

There was a stark quiet moment between the two of them where Hermes second guessed all his life’s decisions that led him to that point. The stupid drunken snap decision to get a tattoo, not immediately leaving when it wasn’t Eurydice’s face that greeted him, taking all those ASL classes in college and the sudden extra curricular interest to learn more. His not quite but very much addiction to tattoos and wanting to see more. 

Asking Charon if he had more. 

Asking Charon out. 

A smile curled at the corners of Charon’s lips, tilting from the perpetual frown into something softer. 

<yes> he said. 

Such a simple sign, but it was the stopper on a dam of tension that had built up within Hermes. Releasing all the nervous energy he had been carrying for weeks up until that point and into a void of relief. It would devolve into fireworks and excitement and celebration, but in that in between moment, Hermes stayed in a state of stark stupor. His own smile must have looked like something dopey, but he couldn’t find it within himself to care. 

<you don’t seem very busy today> Charon said. <come back at 6?> 

“Yeah,” Hermes said, voice airy as he floated on the breeze. “Dinner?” 

Charon nodded once, solemn and final. 

<see you then> and he slipped back into the shop. 

Hermes watched the door close with a quiet click and stood at the blank space where Charon had once stood. The tall imposing tattoo artist that even when out of sight still took up so much of Hermes’ vision. He sighed once and stumbled away back to his car, floating on the air as he walked. 

____

The buzz of the gun shocked Hermes, the sudden vibration of it between his fingers far more surprising than the sound had ever been. He yelped once and the gun fell silent. 

Charon huffed, a quiet noise that Hermes recognized as his near imperceptible laugh. 

“I bet you find this real funny,” Hermes said. “When its your ass on the line.” 

Charon rolled his eyes and relaxed back into the chair. 

<it is> he said. <quit stalling> 

He dropped his arm back onto the arm rest, sleeve rolled up and patch of pale blank skin of his inner arm exposed to the world. Like a defenseless animal belly up in front of its prey. A swirl of smoke, outlined dramatically making it more representative of the effect than anything grounded in realism. They had been recently placed by the expert hand of the man who wore them, laid out like curtains around a stage, framing the blank space that had been reserved. 

When Charon had first suggested that Hermes be the one to fill that space, Hermes showed hesitancy for more than just his lack of skill in tattooing. It would be a mark that would be placed on Charon forever. There would be no taking it back. A symbol of what they had together forever embedded into Charon’s skin.

Hermes had brought up the very real possibility that they might break up, that their relationship might be no more, and Charon would wear this reminder for the rest of his life. 

Charon had been the one to point out that Hermes had much more finely pricked into his skin from Charon and Hermes conceded. 

“This is a lot different than a football,” Hermes said, shifting in his seat to get more comfortable. 

Charon rolled his hand, indicating for Hermes to get on with it. His long arm rested and relaxed and waiting. 

Hermes rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck back and forth, and leaned in close. His foot braced over the foot switch, ankle creaking to tentatively put pressure on the pedal. With the slightest nudge, the gun once again jolted to life. 

Having practiced multiple times under Charon’s careful supervision, Hermes should have been used to it by then, but braced over bare skin was a different experience than having his boyfriend hovering over his shoulder, guiding his hand. What little practice he had, if if could be called practice, had not prepared him for this. 

“Nothing to it but to do it,” he muttered under his breath and brought the nib down to meet skin. 

Hermes had expected the skin to ripple, to draw blood, for Charon to flinch away at a too heavy touch, but none of those things happened. The gun juttered and moved like a sewing machine and a single black dot lay behind in Charon’s skin. 

“Ha!” Hermes said, too excited and pulling his hands back. “Look at that.” 

Bemused, Charon smiled down at Hermes and looked down at the blank space of his skin, waiting for him to continue. 

First blood drawn, figuratively, Hermes got to work on creating art. 

The lines were not as neat as Charon would have them. The ink not as even, some of it coming out in blotches and some of it more finer. The shape was uneven, shaky as it looped around itself. And what should have been quick work for any other long practiced tattoo artist took more than double the time for Hermes to do. 

Bowed down and focused on his work, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth, Hermes traced the not so intricate shape onto the blank patch of skin that Charon had left for him. In the end, left behind when he was done, was a wobbly, lopsided, shaky circle, no larger than a coin. 

Hermes sat upright, holding the gun up like a magic wand, and taking his foot off the pedal. 

“There,” he said with far too much pride. 

Charon flexed his arm a couple of times, pulsating his hand open and closed and watching the skin dance with the new artwork. He smiled down at it, inspecting it lovingly. He took a paper towel and wiped away any excess ink from the imperfect artwork. 

By far the most inelegant of all the pieces on his body, but he stared down at it with more visible fondness than he had the swirling clouds that surrounded it. Instantly a prized possession among his collection. 

“So what do you think boss?” Hermes asked. “Am I a professional now?” 

Charon reached out, brushing aside the cascade of earrings he had placed in Hermes’ ear and fingers dancing over that first wing he had left on Hermes’ skin. He leaned in and found Hermes’ lips, answering silently as he always did and Hermes knew what the tattoo meant to Charon. 

Tattoos should be meaningful.