Chapter Text
Ed sits in his office, head in his hands, eyes closed. Even with the door closed, the sound of metal music blaring through the shop’s speakers makes his skull pound. He sighs, fishes the bottle of acetaminophen out of his desk, and washes down two pills with a swallow of coffee. The coffee, almost paradoxically, is both burnt and cold, having sat on the desk for too long.
When did it get like this? Coming in to work used to be a joy, a way to flex his creative muscles and connect with his clients. But he can’t now recall the last time he did something truly creative or interesting—just the same tattoos on the same people, over and over and over for fucking years.
Ed stands and opens the door, wincing as the music hits his ears. He won’t even bother trying to turn it down—the headache he’d get from arguing with Izzy would be worse than the one he’s got already.
“Hey boss,” Fang says, “you okay?”
Ed nods with a dismissive wave.
Izzy, grumbling into the phone, turns and scowls, then slams the receiver down. “Another dumb fuck asking if we have magical tattoos.”
“Magical tattoos?” Ed raises his brows.
“Some twat over on the west side is apparently doing tattoos that magically make you feel good or some shit.”
“Really?”
“I ought to report them,” Izzy grumbles. “Stealing our fucking business. And it’s the cheapest marketing gimmick I’ve ever heard of.”
“Have you got one?” Ed asks.
Izzy snorts. “Why would I do that?”
Ed shrugs. “Maybe it’s not a gimmick. Maybe it’s real.”
“Edward.” Izzy narrows his eyes. “You can’t possibly believe that. They’re saying it’s magic.”
“Where’s your sense of wonder, man?” Years ago, it hadn’t been like this between them. When did their relationship become so antagonistic?
They used to be such a fluid team. Ed had always had an abundance of artistic talent, but it was Izzy who had a keen eye for both business and publicity. Izzy had booked Ed into conventions, generated the buzz that led to interviews in Inked and Tattoo Magazine, even set up appearances at events outside the tattoo world, like biker rallies and kink conventions, building Ed into Blackbeard, a powerhouse, a legend.
Ed did the art, Izzy did the business. It had worked well, back then. Ed became a star.
And now that he’s a star, he doesn’t need to keep doing all that shit—ten-hour flights to another goddamn con where he inks celebrities while the flash of camera bulbs makes it hard to see his work. He could do anything—push boundaries, try something new, do something different. Yet Izzy won’t back down, won’t relent, won’t let Ed just be.
The Blackbeard image comes first, as always.
Well, maybe Blackbeard is the type to believe in magic.
“Where is this place?” Ed asks. “Maybe I’ll go see what’s going on.”
“Not worth your time, in my opinion,” Izzy says.
“Which I didn’t ask for. Tell me the name of the shop. I’m going.”
Izzy glares, but growls, “The Gentleman’s Revenge.”
Ed quirks an eyebrow. “That’s the name of a tattoo shop?”
“I told you it was a shitty gimmick.”
Ed’s more interested than ever. He checks his appointments—nothing at all between two and six. He’ll go then.
He can barely sit still over the next couple of hours, bouncing his knee even as he keeps his hand steady, inking yet another goddamn skull. Always the same shit at Queen Anne’s—skulls and snakes and skeletons riding flaming motorcycles. What Ed wouldn’t give to ink a teddy bear on someone. But who would ever ask Blackbeard for a teddy bear tattoo?
Finally, he’s done with the tattoo—a bit ahead of schedule, even. He thanks the client, and the moment they’re gone he’s tossing his gloves and calling out over his shoulder, “I’ll be back later!”
He lets the door shut on Izzy’s protests.
It’s a long way to The Gentleman’s Revenge, clear across the city. The landscape is markedly different here—instead of bars and payday loan offices it’s all yoga studios and boba tea bistros. Fuck, boba sounds good. Ed stops to grab a large taro milk tea with extra pearls in the shop next door.
He pushes open the door to the tattoo parlor and pulls up short.
It’s not a tattoo parlor. He’s in some sort of waiting room, or perhaps it’s a restaurant? There are two people eating at little round tables, but they’re both alone. A large, pink wall divides the waiting room from a larger space Ed can’t see, and in front of it is a reception desk where a very well-manicured young man with pink glitter lip gloss is grinning as he scrolls on his phone.
The young man looks up. “Hi! Do you have an appointment?”
“Uh.” Ed glances around the space. Kesha is being played softly through hidden speakers. There’s a small stone waterfall setup against one wall. Pictures in gilded frames cover the walls—some are paintings, some are photos, but all are a brilliant splash of color, like someone unleashed a decorator obsessed with Lisa Frank. There’s a sword mounted in the middle of them at a jaunty angle. “I think I’m in the wrong place.”
The receptionist smiles. “Looking for The Gentleman’s Revenge?” Ed nods. “No, yeah, you’re in the right place.” He waves a hand vaguely at Ed’s inked skin. “I know, it’s not what you’re used to. Stede likes to do things differently.”
“Stede?”
“The owner.” The receptionist purses his lips. “But I don’t think you’re on our client list for this afternoon.”
“No, I, uh…” Ed rubs the back of his neck. Of course, lots of parlors don’t take walk-ins, but he figured he could just look around the place, glance at their flash, maybe check out their setup. This is all so unexpected he’s not sure what to do. “Just wanted to see what’s up. I own a shop across town.”
The receptionist scrunches his nose. “I can see if Stede would like to give you a tour. He probably will, he loves talking about this place.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
The man disappears around the corner, behind the pink wall. Ed sips his boba tea, feeling the stares of the people at the little tables to the side. A few moments later the receptionist comes back with someone who must be Stede, and Ed forgets how to breathe for a moment.
He’s the most beautiful man Ed has ever seen.
He’s not beautiful like a model, and not even beautiful like the receptionist—young and unblemished and sweet. He’s beautiful like Ed has always wished he himself could be—spectacularly well-dressed, in a mustard yellow jacket over a sea foam green silk shirt with a matching cravat, pressed unbleached linen trousers and dark brown loafers. His golden hair sits in absolutely perfect curls on his head. And his eyes—his eyes are downright sparkling.
“Hi, I’m Stede! Also known as the Gentleman!” He holds out his hand with a wide smile. “Lucius tells me you’re interested in seeing our facilities.”
It takes Ed three tries to speak. “I’m Ed.” He takes Stede’s hand and dear rutting shitballs, he swears he feels an electric jolt shoot up his arm. “Love to see what you’ve got.”
Fuck. Ed feels himself blush deeply, but Stede simply smiles wider. “Wonderful! I’d be happy to show you around.”
He turns and beckons, and by some miracle Ed manages not to trip over his own feet as he follows Stede around the pink wall.
The space beyond is, if anything, even more intense than the waiting room. There’s no food here, but there are burning sticks of incense, as well as diffusers in many colors. Yet the smell is pleasant rather than overpowering—a gentle scent of lavender with a hint of citrus. Each wall is a different color—purple and teal and pink—and they’re lined with even more technicolor prints in gilded frames, as well as odd bits of decor—cuckoo clocks and sconces and hammered metal vines. There are flowers absolutely everywhere—in tall pots on the floor, in little vases on tables, even braided into garlands and strung up like streamers. Multicolored chandeliers hang from the ceiling, their lights twinkling through green and pink and blue and orange crystals. There are tables with the normal sorts of things you see in a tattoo parlor—inks and paper towels and sanitation supplies—but there are also tons of tables strewn with all manner of objects—sea shells and crystal balls and hookahs and model ships and little bottles that might contain perfume or might contain magic fucking potions.
“This place is incredible,” Ed breathes, his hands buzzing with a need to touch the stuff, pick it up and run his fingers over it, feel the textures on his skin.
“Well.” Stede’s ears turn a little bit pink. “Thank you. I admit I’m a bit of a collector.”
“No shit.” Ed grins at the deepening of Stede’s blush. “And you actually do tattoos here?”
“Oh, yes, of course!” Stede nods, smiling and gesturing to a man in an orange beanie leaning over someone in a chair. A buzzing machine is in his hand, and yep, sure enough, he’s inking a butterfly onto the person’s arm.
“And this stuff doesn’t… get in the way?”
Stede shrugs. “Sometimes we have to rearrange things a bit, but I think it’s worth it. A lot of people want to have art on their skin, but the process of putting it there can be painful. And my thought is, why? What if it weren’t? So I try to provide a relaxing, holistic experience that makes people feel good about the process, not just the result.”
“Holistic experience,” Ed repeats, the words feeling like candy on his tongue.
Stede eyes the ink on Ed’s arms. “You’re clearly a seasoned pro, I see.”
“Pro. Yeah. Literally, actually. I work over at Queen Anne’s.”
Stede’s eyes light up. “You work for Blackbeard?”
Ed frowns. As the shop owner, he technically does employ himself. “Yeah. Guess I never thought about it that way.”
“That must be so exciting!”
“Mm, I suppose.” Ed gestures around. “Love this setup though. Do you take walk-ins?”
“Ah, well, sometimes.” Stede grimaces. “But I’m afraid our artists are all booked up today.”
Ed quirks an eyebrow at him. “You’re not tattooing anyone right now.”
“Me?” Stede’s brows rise into his hair. “Oh no. No. I don’t do that part.”
Ed blinks. “Why not?”
“Well, I’m…” Stede waves his hands vaguely. “That is, I don’t…”
“Come on.” Ed spots an open chair at the back. “I’d love to get a tattoo from you.”
“Me?” Stede’s voice is quite high. “Right now?”
“Right now.” Ed sits. “Come on, won’t take long.”
Stede twists his hands together, biting his lip, and Ed has to fight back a desire to pull him into his lap and soothe away his anxiety with his mouth. Instead, he sets his arm on the edge of the table, palm up. “Just a small one. Won’t take but ten minutes.”
Stede sighs. “Alright.” He sits on the stool next to Ed, his brow creased.
“Have you never given a tattoo?” Ed asks gently.
Stede shakes his head. “I’ve thought about it, but if I ruined someone’s—”
“You won’t ruin anything.” Ed sets a hand on Stede’s shoulder. “I’ll talk you through it, okay?”
Stede’s eyes meet his, and the warmth of his shoulder beneath Ed’s hand becomes an inferno. “Okay.” His voice is soft and sweet and trusting, and oh, Ed could wrap up in it like a blanket.
But Stede needs guidance. Ed jerks his chin at the machine. “You’ll need a needle in that. Do you keep them in the drawer?”
Stede pulls open the drawer of the table (which is painted turquoise and embellished with scrollwork), and, sure enough, there are a few packaged needles sealed with autoclave tape, the labels darkened to show they’re sterile.
“Good,” Ed says. “Now glove up, and seat that in the machine.”
Stede pulls on a pair of black nitrile gloves, and Ed is pleased to see that his hands are steady as he slots the needle into the machine, even if his smile is wavering.
“Right.” Ed nods to the inks. “You’ll need to set up the ink. Got a purple?”
Stede looks over the inks, pulling out a bottle of deep purple.
“Perfect.” Ed smiles. “Pour a bit of that into the ink cup, use your antiseptic rinse there to clean my wrist, and get to work.”
Stede cleans Ed’s wrist, fires up the machine, dips the needle, and turns to him. “What do you want? I’m not a very good artist.”
“Can you manage a heart?” Ed asks. Simple design, and even if Stede fucks it up, it will probably look good.
Stede nods. He takes Ed’s wrist in his free hand, his skin still fiery hot even through the glove, and brings the needle close. His eyes flick up to Ed’s, uncertain.
“You’ve got this,” Ed says. “Just go slow and keep breathing.”
Stede takes a deep breath, looks back at Ed’s wrist—Ed only misses looking into his hazel eyes a little bit—and sets the needle against his skin.
“A little deeper,” Ed says, and wow, hopefully Stede won’t notice what it does to him to tell him that.
Stede presses the needle deeper, and Ed hardly feels it, so alight is his skin beneath Stede’s touch. The ink begins to drip, and Ed reminds Stede to wipe it away every once in a while so he can see what he’s doing.
The heart begins to take shape—a little wonky, a little shaky, but Ed kinda loves that, this evidence of Stede’s perseverance in the face of uncertainty.
“What’s he like?” Stede asks as he begins to fill in the heart. “Blackbeard?”
“You tell me,” Ed says, taking a long sip of his tea and chewing the pearls.
Stede glances up, his eyes wide, and the needle slips. “You don’t mean…”
“Careful.” Ed nods at his wrist.
Stede grimaces and grips the needle better. “You’re Blackbeard?”
“I’m Blackbeard.” He smiles, only just stops himself from winking.
Stede visibly swallows. “That’s… I… God, you must think I’m such an idiot.”
“Not at all.” Ed gestures at the room. “I think this is all fantastic.”
“Really?” Stede’s face lights with a smile.
“Absolutely. You know how hard it is to find someone doing something new? Everybody else has the same black leather, the same tired old flash. You’ve really put your own spin on things here.”
Stede’s cheeks flush beautifully pink as he turns back to Ed’s wrist, grinning. “I am rather proud of it.”
“As you should be.”
After a moment, Stede sits back. “There. I think that’s probably the best I can manage.”
The heart is small, only about a half inch across at the widest. Its lines are wobbly and it’s unevenly filled with purple ink. Ed thinks he’s never liked a tattoo more. “I love it.”
“You do?” Stede’s smile is brighter than the sun.
“I really, really do.”
Stede shakes his head, but he’s still smiling. “I’m not really even an artist. Truth be told, I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“There’s always art classes.”
Stede shrugs. “Think I’d feel weird, doing something like that. I’d probably be the only person there over forty.”
An idea hits Ed in the chest and immediately bubbles out of his mouth. “Let’s do it together.”
Stede looks sideways at him. “Surely you don’t need art classes.”
Ed shrugs. “There’s always something to learn. And then you won’t be the only one there over forty.”
Stede studies his hands, running his thumb over the tattoo machine.
“And maybe in exchange, you can teach me about all this.” He waves his hand at the shop. “Holistic experience. And…” He drops his voice conspiratorially. “Maybe a bit about your magic inks?”
“Oh, you’ve heard of it?” Stede smiles brightly. “I suppose that part is something special.” He cocks his head. “Are you sure? You won’t mind tagging along with me?”
“Not at all.” Ed can think of nothing he’d rather do, honestly.
Stede looks down for a moment, then takes a deep breath. “Alright.” He holds out his hand.
Ed takes it, gripping it firmly, unable to stop the wide grin from spreading across his face. “Give me your number. I’ll text you when I find a good class.”
They exchange numbers, and Ed grabs a bit of cling wrap to put over his new heart.
Stede walks him back to the front of the shop. “Please, take a complimentary jar of marmalade!” Stede turns and picks up a small jar off a shelf display, then holds it out to Ed.
Ed blinks at it. “A what?”
“We give them to all our clients. A little marketing trick, you could say. See there, our information is on the label.”
Ed takes the jar, grinning at the handmade label. “Incredible.” He looks up. “You give these to all your clients?”
“Holistic experience! We hope it helps improve the healing process.”
Unbelievable. No wonder Stede is awash in business. “I still need to pay you for my tattoo.”
“Oh, no.” Stede flushes pink, and Ed nearly swoons. “I hardly did anything.”
“Nah, mate, you did great.” Ed sets down his marmalade and the last of his boba tea and fishes out his wallet. “What’s your rate?”
“Ed, please, you really don’t have to.”
Ed pulls out fifty dollars and reaches past Stede to hand it to Lucius. “Make sure that gets marked as Stede’s work.”
“Yeah, okay.” Lucius looks back and forth between Ed and Stede.
Ed turns back to Stede. “I’ll let you know about those classes.”
Stede smiles, the flush still high on his cheeks. “Looking forward to it!”
Back outside, Ed can’t help but glance at his wrist and its little purple heart every few seconds. It really must be magic, this ink. Ed can’t remember the last time he felt this energetic, this alive.
It’s not just how unbelievably hot Stede is, although that’s certainly part of it. But that shop! Ed’s never seen anything like it. He wants to talk with Stede for hours, find out how he came up with those ideas and why, as well as what he likes, and maybe what he tastes like—
Ed stops. Shit. The magic is making him truly giddy, in ways he’s never felt before. Never has he wanted so much from a person so quickly after meeting them.
Stede is hot, yeah, but would Ed care half as much if his veins weren’t coursing with magical feel-good ink right now?
And even if, by some remote chance, Stede were interested in him as well, what happens when the magic eventually wears off? When the feeling fades, and he’s left with yet another relationship consisting of falling into bed together and little else?
No. No, he won’t do that to himself. Or Stede. He promised Stede he’d help him learn art, and he will. And Stede promised to help him understand this holistic thing. And that will be valuable, despite whatever yummy drugs Stede might have inked into his skin that will fade with time.
And he won’t let himself get caught up in a stupid crush. He won’t fuck things up for either of them with that. It’ll flare, then fade, then pass completely.