Shades of Dusk

Outline in Monochrome

A fourth day passes with little or no trouble, and Beam is starting to get used to the fact that when he looks over his shoulder as he goes into class, Forth is not there to greet him. Is not there to give an encouraging smile, a thumbs up, or to do the awful and blow a kiss. The amazing, beautiful dork of a man is still gone, and the heaviness in his chest has turned into a black hole, sucking in what little happiness he can find throughout the day and utterly destroying it.

He's also been having trouble sleeping. The past two nights he has spent tossing and turning, reaching for someone who should be there, laying beside him, but who is just... gone.

He'd made a mistake in running away. He knew that the first night, after it had happened; he shouldn't have run, even when on the verge of a panic attack. He should have let Forth help him through it, should have stayed and talked out the fear and worry and the misunderstanding.

Because it had been a misunderstanding, he knows that now. He's now asked no less than ten other students what it feels like to get a tattoo, how much it hurts. The answers all varied, but the answer to his final question was always the same: yes, it was worth the pain.

One girl, a nursing student who had a beautiful array of fish all up her right arm, even went on to tell him, "Art is pain. Sometimes, it's the only healthy way we can express the pain. Even the good pains, like the chest-exploding happiness of a new sibling."

It brought him to where he is now, early on the fifth day, staring up at the sign and wondering if he was really about to do this. He'd done his research, of course; this shop was well rated, and accepted walk-ins, though appointments were preferred. It was also far enough from campus that he wasn't likely to run into anyone that he knew.

Taking a deep breath, he steps forward, and opens the door, heading into the shop.

He isn't sure what, exactly, he was expecting, but it wasn't something quite as... sterile as it is. The smell of the antiseptic and soap used is like a wall of smell that slams into Beam once he's fully in the shop. Everything is carefully organized, too; the floors probably clean enough to eat off of. He freezes when he finds himself under scrutiny of the lone customer in one of the chairs, lounging back with his arm extended, the artist concentrating wholly on the work being done by the buzzing needles in the machine in his hand.There is an internet radio station playing English rock music in the background, the current song nearing its end.

"How can I help you?" another artist asks, approaching him cautiously, as though understanding just how unsure of everything Beam is. And it really is everything that Beam is unsure of. Part of him wonders if he isn't still dreaming.

Though, dreaming implied that he'd actually slept last night.

"I... I've come to get a tattoo," he blurts, fidgeting with the edges of the sleeves of his jacket. His concentration is more on the look on the man's face in the chair; he is definitely in pain, but there is a peace there in his face that is not something that Beam would have expected.

"Okay. What kind of tattoo were you thinking?" the artist talking to him reigns him in, bringing him back to the present.

"An engineering gear," he explains, fighting back the heat that wants to suffuse his cheeks. If the artist is surprised by his answer, he doesn't show it.

"How big were you wanting it to be?" There is a note of condescension in the man's voice that prickles at Beam's nerves, has his shoulders stiffening.

"The size of the actual gear necklace," he informs the man, the embarrassment falling away as he pulls the necklace in question from his pocket. His fingers remain around the cord he remembers Forth looping around his wrist one night after they'd finished having sex, their fingers tangling with Forth's thumb moving over the cord. He hadn't spoken, then; hadn't said the dreaded words, but Beam...

He'd felt them in every fiber of his being.

The artist blinks at him, at the necklace, and then back at him. At this point, another artist comes up, gently turning and shoving the original artist away.

"Don't mind him. We tend to send him in when people come into the shop who aren't serious about getting a tattoo," the man explains, far warmer than the previous artist had been. "I'm Gale, by the way."

"Beam," he greets in return, clutching the necklace tightly in his fist. He isn't sure what to expect from this second artist, but the presence of the man is a lot more calming than the previous had been.

"So, Beam; the engineering gear?" Gale asks, motioning towards the necklace. Intending to take it, but Beam holds onto it, reluctant to part with even the smallest piece of Forth that he has.

"Ah, yes, P'. My... My fan is an engineering student, but also has several tattoos. I just..." He swallows, looking down at the gear now in the palm of his hand, the metal cool against his skin. It's easy to get lost in thoughts of that gummy smile, the warmth that he remembers in Forth's touch. "I guess I just want to be closer to him."

There is no judgement on the artist's face at the slipup; Beam had been trying hard, at the beginning of his explanation, to keep from giving away the gender of his partner, though he isn't sure why. It's not like this man would tell him to go elsewhere.

...Right?

Still, though, the man only hums thoughtfully, looking slightly bemused and rather curious.

"So your answer is a tattoo of your own? You're aware that it's painful and permanent, right ?" the man asks him, solemnly. Not condescending, or even sarcastically, but he was asking honestly. But this was something that Beam had thought of, even as he grips the gear in his hand tight enough to press indents into his skin.

"Yes, P'; I know," he agrees, solemn in return.

"Alright, then. Let's sit and discuss your tattoo, then. I don't normally do same-day, but I think we could probably do this easily within an hour or so, and I don't have an appointment until later this evening." Gale leads Beam towards a desk scattered with papers, piled high with drawings of tattoo designs. A design for what looks to be a wrist piece grabs his attention: a Rod of Asclepius in monochrome connecting to a small stylized gear in monochrome by way of a braided red cord.

It tugs at something deep in his gut, a reminder of that ill fated conversation five whole days ago. It makes his eyes sting, his heart thumping painfully in his chest, the black hole at the center of his being gaping open and threatening to swallow him whole. The creak of the chair that Gale sits in brings Beam back, has him clutching at the gear that much tighter as he sits on the stool the artist indicates.

"Alright, so..."

\;*;/