Chapter Text
Jann’s had a random cancellation today; he’d just finished prepping the room and now he’s got nothing to do for an hour until his next appointment. He’s bent over, leaning his elbows on the front desk, chin in his hands (horrible posture, he’s aware - he doesn’t practice what he preaches) when the door opens, the bell jingling merrily over the doorway. The man who enters is tall and middle-aged, with thinning straw-coloured hair and bright blue eyes, a charming scruff on his chin. He’s completely buttoned up in layers of clothing, Jann notices. In his own seersucker pants and loose old t-shirt, Jann feels underdressed. The man is looking around Jann’s tiny front room dubiously, at the West African statues and masks on the wall, the copious number of houseplants and sagging armchairs and bead curtains. One of his eyebrows raises.
Jann stands up fully.
“Hullo!” he says, smiling at the man despite the way he’s looking at Jann’s decor with judgement. “Welcome in. What can I do for you?”
“Hey,” he says. His hands go into his pockets. “Uh. This is a massage parlour?”
“Yes,” says Jann. It says so on the sign above the door. To be fair, his is a strange business in Cardiff - an African-technique-and-spiritualism-based massage place out of a two bedroom house on a relatively quiet offshoot of the main drag.
“I’m guessing you don’t have an appointment,” Jann prompts. “Lucky for you, I’ve just had a cancellation if you’d like to take his spot.”
“Oh,” says the guy. “Yeah, maybe, I’m just - I’ve never gotten a massage before.”
“That’s okay,” says Jann. “First time for everything. Any reason you’re wanting one now?”
“I deal with a lot of pain,” the man says after a moment’s hesitation. “Back and shoulder, mostly, from old injuries. I’ve been prescribed every painkiller in the book but they haven’t been working lately and I’m at my wit’s end. I’m desperate enough to try something more alternative.”
One of Jann’s strengths as an alternative service provider is that he doesn’t turn anyone away for having a bad attitude; he’d rather convince someone of the merits of massage with his actions rather than being upset that they don’t yet understand.
“Okay, got it,” says Jann. “So, you want to try? I could do the most basic one.”
He taps his finger on the little laminated sheet in front of him where he’s listed all of his offerings - kind of like a menu. It’s on the purple side already, luckily - he’s not even going to mention the red side to this first-timer. His cheapest offering is £45 for the hour, just a basic back, shoulder and neck massage. Very easy.
The man sighs.
“Sure,” he says.
Jann bounces happily on his toes; he’ll have something to do for the next hour! He hates idle time during the work day - he’s had other jobs in his youth, but he feels like being a masseuse is one of those jobs you either love or hate. He absolutely loves it, and more every day.
“Awesome, come with me then,” he says. “What’s your name, by the way?”
“Jack,” says the man. Jann holds his hand out to shake.
“I’m Jann,” he says. “Mardenborough.”
“You’re the name on the sign?” Jack asks him as Jann holds open the beaded curtain for him. “Aren’t you a bit young to own a business?”
“I’m twenty-two,” Jann sniffs. “And it was my dad’s before it was mine, but in a different location.”
Jack hums. He looks around the massage room, and Jann watches him look. Jann’s quite proud of what he’s built here, and the room is cosy, draped with rugs except for the red-curtained window (which he opens if clients want more light or air) and smelling of the patchouli incense he burns and the rosemary oil he uses for massaging.
“Okay,” he says. “Ehm, so I’ll ask you to undress to your comfort level. You can keep everything on if you like, but I do recommend taking off a bulky sweatshirt or jeans, just so you’re comfortable.”
Jack looks down at himself and he’s wearing both of those things. Jann smiles.
“I have extra sweatpants if you want,” Jann tells him, and goes to pull some out of the cupboard in the corner. They’re old and soft and fit well on him, which means they likely won’t be highwater on Jack, who is nearly of a height.
“Thanks,” says Jack, sounding surprised. As if Jann would have forced him out of his clothes with no other option available.
“Sure thing,” Jann tells him. “I’m going to step out for a few minutes so you can change, but just call me back when you’re ready and lay on your front on the table there.”
Jack nods, and Jann goes back through the two layers of bead curtains between them and the lobby. If he’s honest with himself, Jann doesn’t often (or ever) accept same-day clients who don’t know what they want, but he has a good feeling about Jack, no matter how surly he is.
“Uh, you can come in,” Jack calls, and Jann goes. He tries to move slow and calm like a hippie-dippie massage therapist should (and like his dad and every mentor he’s ever had kept telling him), but he could never seem to contain his need to move quick and bouncy.
Jack looks stiff and uncomfortable lying on his front in Jann’s spare sweatpants and his old, thinning t-shirt. He’s got some scarring running down the back of his left arm, and he seems stressed out. Not ideal.
“Comfy?” Jann asks him, and he shifts on the table.
“I feel kinda awkward,” Jack mumbles. Jann chuckles at him.
“Let me help,” he says. “Can I touch you?”
“Yeah,” says Jack. Again, he sounds surprised that Jann had asked, but look, Jann is nothing if not professional, and he’s very invested in his clients feeling comfortable and showing them that they have control of the situation.
Jann arranges his arms by his sides, palms up so nothing is needlessly tense, and tips his head slightly more forward.
“Okay,” he says. “Is there anything I should know about before I start? Any body part particularly painful or sensitive?”
“Uh, left shoulder,” Jack says. “It’s got some old burn scarring and tissue damage.”
“Good to know. I’ll be gentle,” Jann promises. He moves his hands to rest lightly on either side of Jack’s spine. “I’m gonna start with your mid-back now. Tell me if anything hurts too much.”
Jack hums again. He’s so stiff under Jann’s hands, so Jann just rubs gently at his muscles until the nervous tension dissolves and there’s just the natural stiffness left, unaffected by the anxiety of a new experience.
If there’s one thing Jann never does, it’s tell his clients verbally to relax. That’s his job - to take care of them and make them feel comfortable enough that they aren’t stressed about being here. Commenting on their condition only worsens it, Jann knows.
He presses into Jack’s back muscles through the thin t-shirt, kneading the stiffness out like they’re balls of bread dough. Jack makes a satisfied grumbling noise despite himself.
He works his way up and down Jack’s back on either side, and then presses the heel of his hand into a knob of his spine. Something pops, and Jack moans. He stiffens again, and Jann stills his hands.
“Sorry,” Jack says. “I did not mean to make that sound.”
“Hey, it’s all good,” Jann soothes him. “Completely natural. Make whatever sounds you need to - I assure you I’ve heard them all.”
He relaxes again and settles.
“Okay,” he mumbles. Jann presses the heel of his hand down Jack’s spine, popping stiff ligaments along the way. He’s no chiropractor; he doesn’t crack people's bones in a dangerous way, but if he feels an obvious place to pop, he does it. He’s gotten no complaints.
By the time he gets back up to Jack’s neck, the man is melting into the table. Good, that’s exactly what Jann likes to see.
Jack, for his part, is having a near religious experience. He doesn’t usually trust people to touch him, especially not a random (young) man he’s just met who smells of patchouli, but this kid is something else. His hands are soft and gentle, but firm in the way they bend Jack’s knotted muscles to their will. They’re a balm, dissolving pain in their wake. He doesn’t uncover Jack’s skin at all, which he appreciates. He doesn’t ask questions except to check on Jack periodically, making sure the next place he plans to touch him is okay, if it’s too hot or cold in the room (it’s not), and most recently, if Jack would rather have him shut up and have this be a silent experience. Jack laughs, startling out of his haze of relaxation for a second.
“No, keep talking,” he tells Jann. “Your voice is soothing.”
“Cool,” is all Jann says to that, but he sounds pleased. He’s kind of energetic for a massage therapist, Jack thinks; he’d been under the impression that these people were supposed to be relaxed, chill, off their gourd, whatever you want to call it. But he’d seen Jann bouncing on his toes, hears the pep in his voice and sees the spark in his eyes that come across as something besides the moony hippie Jack had judged him to be at first.
“Gonna do your shoulders now,” Jann says softly. Jack almost stiffens again, worried about the pain in his left shoulder. But he trusts Jann, weirdly - with this, at least. His back is a blissful plane of relief, but the left shoulder is throbbing, unaffected by the prescription painkillers he’d taken today.
Jann’s hands are warm through his t-shirt. He’s as gentle as he promised he would be, touching lightly at first until Jack’s shoulder is relaxed enough to manipulate the muscles without it hurting. Jack doesn’t know how he has the intuition (and skill) to know the limits of what will and what won’t hurt, but he’s amazing. Jack feels like he’s being broken down into parts - like he’s one of the cars he works on, made of metal and wire, and Jann is the poor mechanic tasked with fixing him.
He pops something in Jack’s shoulder the same way he’d been doing on his back. It doesn’t hurt the way it does when Jack tries to roll out the pain. He groans, and he doesn’t even have the wherewithal to be embarrassed anymore.
Jann works on Jack’s shoulders for quite a while, and Jack can’t fault him for that. He doesn’t know how much time has passed when Jann makes his way back down Jack’s spine once more, all the way to his waist. All too soon, Jann’s taking his hands away.
“The hour’s almost up,” Jann says in a near-whisper. “I’m gonna leave you here for a minute to breathe, okay? Come out whenever you’re ready.”
When Jack finally, slowly sits up, he feels brand new.
“Oh, god,” he breathes to himself, scrubbing his hands down his face. He stands up slowly from the table; Jann’s touch, although he’d never brushed his skin, lingers ghost-like all along his back. The room is quiet, washed in red-filtered light through the sheer curtains. The patchouli is pervasive but calming. Jack is so grateful he stumbled upon this place, that the Yelp reviews were glowing, that Jann himself is gentle and full of a quiet understanding that Jack doesn’t quite comprehend.
Jack stands up and grabs his jeans from the chair in the corner and reluctantly makes his way back to the front room. Jann is back leaning behind the desk, and gives him a beaming grin.
“Feeling good?” Jann asks eagerly, but Jack sees in his face that he’s actually worried about the feedback. Like he’s worried he didn’t treat Jack well enough according to invisible standards.
“Kid, I feel twenty years younger,” Jack tells him. “You’ve got magic hands.”
Jann giggles.
“That’ll be my band name,” he says. “So. Do you want to set up another appointment? Next week or sometime in the next month?”
“Next week?” Jack asks. Jann nods and pulls the calendar up on his laptop.
“I’ve got the same day and time open next week, if you’d like,” he says, peeking up at Jack.
“Yeah, that works,” says Jack.
Jann types.
“You want the same thing as today? Back and shoulders? Or something different?” Jann taps his “menu”. Jack tries to turn it over - seeing that the colour is bright red on the other side - and Jann slaps his hand down on the piece of paper.
“What?” he asks.
“Uh,” says Jann. “Nothing. I don’t think you want what’s on the other side.”
Jack squints at him, but Jann only gives him a sunny smile. Jack gives in, and puts fifty pounds on the counter between them.
“See you next week,” Jann says, looking at Jack through his eyelashes.
“See ya, kid.”