Archive of Our Own ^beta

Twelve minutes in the tattoo parlour, and you’d carry the place home with you.

Shane's phone buzzed in his pocket. It was definitely a reminder about something. He exhaled slowly. He was hydrated. He had eaten a nutritionally balanced meal. He had slept for the optimal amount of time. He had done everything right. He always did.

Which, ironically, was why he was now sitting in this temple of poor life choices.

The walls screamed with flash sheets piled upon flash sheets of skulls, weeping saints, wings, and animals baring their teeth in eternal snarls. It was all so confident. So unapologetically messy. He’d picked this specific parlor precisely because it wasn’t minimalist or soothing. Because it felt, unsafe.

A tattoo was permanent. Personal. His decision.

He hadn’t told a soul. Not his agent, who would have had a spreadsheet about the branding implications. Not his parents, who would have worried about infection. Not Rose. And not anyone on the team.

This felt like he was stepping over a line no one had ever bothered to draw, because everyone just assumed Shane Hollander would always respect it. Shane Hollander did not do impulsive. He did not choose things that couldn’t be edited, optimized, or later undone.

Seven.

He’d thought about it for years in the abstract. Seven cups. Seven proofs that he hadn’t wasted his talent. This wasn’t that, of course. 

This was just a little reminder that the wanting existed at all.

Near the counter, a guy with vibrant purple hair was arguing with the receptionist about the placement of a dragon. Shane looked away. He did not belong here. That, he reminded himself, was kind of the entire point.

You could still leave, his brain offered. You could walk out right now, and no one would ever know.

But he would know.

“Shane Hollander.”

A voice cut through the low hum of the shop.

Shane looked up too fast, nearly introducing his kneecap to the chair in front of him.

The guy in the doorway was - well. Light brown hair. A sharp smile. A posture that seemed to borrow space from the room without asking. Sleeves pushed up to reveal arms covered in ink that looked less like decoration and more like a collected history.

The guy caught him staring. 

“Everything okay?” he asked, eyes bright with amusement.

Shane wrenched his gaze away. “Yes. Sorry. I was just - uh - ”

Existing, apparently. And doing a very poor job of it.

The guy jerked his head toward the back. “Come on. You are with me.”

The hallway was punishingly narrow, forcing them into a proximity that felt less like walking and more like a tense parade. Shane became aware of the scant inches between them every time they almost brushed. 

They stepped into a private room. It was dominated by a single chair in the center, a rolling tray standing sentinel beside it. 

The guy turned and finally stuck out a hand. “Ilya.”

Shane shook it before he could overthink the motion. The grip was firm, like a handshake that knew exactly what it was doing.

“Shane,” he said, “I - uh - you know that.”

“Hard not to.” Ilya gestured toward the chair like a maestro welcoming a musician to the stage. “Sit. Let’s talk about what you’re getting before your fight-or-flight instincts win and you sprint back out door.”

“I wasn’t going to - ” Shane started, then stopped abruptly, because that was precisely the vivid daydream his nervous system had been entertaining. He sat, perching stiffly on the edge of the leather.

Ilya rolled over on his stool. “First tattoo?”

Shane nodded. “That obvious?”

“Are sitting like about to negotiate contract for internal organs.” Ilya’s eyes flicked over him. “So. What do you want?”

Shane had rehearsed this in his bathroom mirror. Still, saying the words out loud in this quiet room felt like confessing a secret.

“Seven interlocking links,” he said. “Geometric. Like - ” He gestured vaguely with his fingers, attempting to sketch the idea in the air. “A chain, but… more symbolic.”

“Seven,” Ilya repeated. “Is specific.”

Shane shrugged one shoulder. “It’s just a number.”

“And where?” Ilya spun his stool closer. 

Shane hesitated for a single heartbeat. Then he remembered he hadn’t come all this way to half-commit. “Ribcage. On the side. Left.”

Ilya’s eyebrows lifted a fraction, a glint of approval in his eyes. “Bold choice for first-timer.”

“I can handle it,” Shane said automatically, the athlete’s default response to any challenge.

“Didn’t say you couldn’t.” Ilya’s smile turned knowing. “Is bold. Is difference.”

He reached for a clipboard, scribbling something quick. “You know that means you’ll need to take your shirt off.”

Shane’s face went warm instantly. “Yes. I had gathered that, thanks.”

“Good,” Ilya said, and his accent seemed to thicken just a touch around the word. “Go ahead.”

Shane stood up too fast, nearly clipping the chair with his knee. He turned his back out of instinct, his fingers suddenly feeling clumsy and oversized as they fumbled for the hem of his shirt. He peeled the shirt off and folded it into a neat rectangle with careful corners before setting it aside. He turned back.

Ilya looked, yes, but it was a professional assessment, his eyes tracing the taut line of Shane’s ribs, the specific spot where the skin stretched and moved with each controlled breath.

“Sit,” Ilya said, his voice softer now. “Sideways, toward me. Will place the stencil first.”

Shane sat. The leather was cool against his bare skin. He forced himself to breathe in a steady rhythm as Ilya stepped closer, closer than was strictly necessary, holding a small transfer paper.

“This okay?” Ilya asked, his fingers hovering just above Shane’s side.

Shane nodded. “Yeah. Fine.”

Ilya’s hand made contact against Shane’s skin. 

“Relax,” Ilya murmured, sounding amused. “Done this before. You're in good hands.”

Shane let out a weak huff that was almost a laugh. “That’s… reassuring.”

Ilya grinned, concentrating as he pressed the stencil into place with a practiced touch. “Seven links,” he said again, thoughtful. “Chains can mean a lot of things. Depend on wearer.”

Shane kept his eyes fixed on a neutral spot on the far wall. “Yeah. I know.”

Ilya glanced up at him, his eyes meeting Shane’s for a brief, electric moment before returning to his work. “Will make them clean,” he said. “Strong. No extra weight.”

Something tight in Shane’s chest loosened at the simple understanding in those words.

“Okay,” Ilya said, stepping back. “Stay right there. Don’t move a muscle. Will get set up.”

As Ilya turned toward his neat station of inks and machines, Shane finally let out the breath he’d been holding. 

He started counting the hairline cracks in the pale paint, studying a faint water stain near the corner that, if he squinted, bore a passing resemblance to Australia. Or maybe a teapot.

He was one hundred percent not looking at Ilya.

Which was exactly why the sudden, ghostly appearance of Ilya’s reflection in the dark mirror across the room made him jump nearly out of the chair.

“Hey,” Ilya said mildly. He had leaned forward, just enough so that his face slipped right into Shane’s stubbornly fixed line of sight. “There you are. Was wondering if you’d left the building.”

Shane jerked his eyes away as if burned. “I’m fine,” he said quickly.

“You’ve been staring at wall like it just insulted your skating form.” Ilya rolled a little closer. 

“I’m just focusing,” Shane insisted.

“On what?”

“Breathing.”

Ilya hummed. “You’re allowed to look at me. Is usually considered polite to acknowledge the person causing you pain.”

Shane swallowed. “I’m good. Really.”

Casually, Ilya reached out and nudged Shane’s shoulder back a precise half-inch. His touch was firm through the latex.

“Posture,” he said. “You’ll mess up the line.”

Shane stiffened. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Ilya replied easily. His fingers lingered for a second longer than necessary before pulling away. “Got a scar here,” he noted, his voice dropping into something more observant.

Shane’s heart did an awkward little stutter-step. “What?”

“Right here,” Ilya continued, tracing the air beside Shane’s ribs without making contact. “Old injury. Healed clean. You carry yourself like you’re still expecting things to hurt.”

An involuntary laugh escaped Shane. “Occupational hazard.”

Ilya’s eyes flicked up, finding Shane’s in the mirror again and holding them captive. Shane, trapped, didn’t look away this time. 

“I don’t bite,” Ilya said, his voice a low rumble. “Much.”

All coherent thought dissolved.

Then Ilya shifted, rolling so close that Shane could feel the heat radiating from him, could catch the clean scent of antiseptic soap and something darker, like smoke and leather.

“Okay,” Ilya murmured, right by Shane’s ear. The first, low whir of the tattoo machine kicked to life in his hand. “Am starting.”

The needle buzzed to life.

Ilya’s free hand settled on Shane’s bare hip. Shane’s whole body jolted at the contact.

“Is to keep you still,” Ilya said, his voice a quiet murmur laced with unmistakable amusement. “Relax. Or don’t. Makes my job more interesting.”

The needle touched down.

It stung - a sharp, insistent prickle that was somehow both superficial and deep. That, he could manage. What he could not manage was Ilya leaning in, so close that his breath brushed the shell of Shane’s ear as he spoke.

“Good,” Ilya said. “Just like that.”

Shane’s hands clenched into tight fists in his lap.

A few endless seconds passed in a haze of focused pain. Then Ilya paused, tilting his head to examine his work. “Captain,” he murmured, the title sounding like a private joke.

Shane made a choked noise that might have been a question.

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m not - ” Shane started, the denial dying on his lips because a fine tremor was rippling through the muscles of his stomach and side.

Ilya chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through his hand on Shane’s hip. “I thought hockey players were supposed to be tough.”

Heat flooded Shane’s face. “I am tough.”

“I know,” Ilya said, his fingers pressing a reassuring pressure against his hipbone. “Doing great. Better than most.”

The needle resumed its buzzing path. 

“Taking it really well,” Ilya murmured again. “Like a champ.”

Shane exhaled carefully. “It… stings.”

“Yeah,” Ilya said, almost fondly. “Is how you know it is working. How you know it will last.”

The relentless buzz of the machine filled the room again. Ilya’s hand stayed on his hip, his thumb now tracing an idle arc against the skin. It was grounding. Definitely just grounding. Not at all distracting.

“Breathe for me,” Ilya instructed, his mouth now dangerously close to Shane’s ear. His voice was a soft command. “You tense up the second you start thinking too hard.”

Shane let out a shaky laugh. “That’s… most of the time.”

“I can tell.” Ilya shifted slightly, his knee brushing against Shane’s thigh as he adjusted his angle. “Are very… controlled.”

“That’s not - ”

“Not a bad thing,” Ilya continued smoothly. “Just means when you finally do let go, it is a lot more… noticeable.”

Ilya hummed softly as he worked, the sound one of clear self-satisfaction. “You keep holding your breath right before the needle hits a sensitive spot. Every time.”

“I’m not,” Shane denied.

“Am touching you,” Ilya replied, “Can feel it.”

Heat crawled up Shane’s spine, a fresh wave of embarrassment. “Sorry.”

“There it is again,” Ilya said, his tone gentle but relentlessly teasing. “You do not have to apologize. Are doing exactly what I tell you to do. Is perfect.”

The needle paused. Ilya leaned in, his hand firming at Shane’s hip to hold him still. His presence was everywhere.

Shane’s fingers curled tighter into the cold leather edge of the chair. “You’re… very close.”

“Occupational hazard.” Ilya resumed. “You can handle a little pressure. Are built for it.”

Shane let out a shuddering breath. “You’re enjoying this,” he accused.

“I enjoy competent people who pretend they’re not,” Ilya said easily. “And you?” He took a brief pause. “You look good like this. All focused. Taking it.”

Shane’s head tipped back against the headrest of the chair despite himself. “You’re not supposed to say things like that.”

“Am not supposed to say lot of things,” Ilya replied. “Don't mean they are not true.”

His thumb pressed that reassuring arc again. “Almost through the first link.”

Shane managed, faintly, “You talk a lot.”

“Only when people need a distraction,” Ilya said, not missing a beat. “And you definitely need it.”

Shane groaned quietly, letting his eyes fall shut for a second.

Ilya smiled to himself. “Stay with me.”

Shane did. He didn’t really have a choice. 

The buzz of the needle had settled into an almost meditative rhythm. Ilya’s voice filled the spaces between each sensation, murmuring little reassurances that all sounded suspiciously like praise, if Shane didn’t think too hard about their source.

“Perfect pressure right there,” Ilya said at one point, his tone one of approval.

A moment later, as Shane instinctively shifted his weight: “See? You adjust fast. Good instincts.”

Then: “Yeah… that’s good. Hold that. Right there.”

Shane had officially stopped trying to correct him or argue. The world had narrowed to the sting, the warmth of the hand on his hip, and that distracting voice.

Eventually, the buzzing faded into silence.

“All done,” Ilya announced.

Shane blinked, surfacing from a haze. “Done?” It felt too sudden. The world rushed back in.

Ilya stepped back and gestured with his gloved hand toward the mirror on the wall. “Go on. Take a look.”

Shane twisted carefully, his ribs humming with a tender warmth. He looked.

There it was. Seven interlocking links, done in fine, dark lines, geometric yet soft. They followed the natural curve of his ribcage as if they’d always been there, a part of his architecture.

“Oh,” Shane breathed. “It’s… perfect.”

In the mirror’s reflection, he saw Ilya watching him closely, a flicker of deep satisfaction crossing his face before he schooled it into something more neutral. “Told you it would be,” he said simply.

Shane kept staring. Something tight and coiled in his chest, something he hadn’t even fully named.

Ilya cleared his throat and rolled his stool back to his workstation. “Okay. Don’t move just yet.” He rummaged through a drawer and turned back holding a bizarre assortment: a cold can of soda, a couple of wrapped peppermint candies, and a single cigarette he pinched between his fingers.

“Post-tattoo care kit,” he announced with grave solemnity. “Sugar. Dopamine. A celebratory poor life choice.”

Shane just stared. “No.”

Ilya raised an eyebrow. “Not even the soda?”

“No,” Shane said, shaking his head. He was sitting shirtless in a tattoo parlor, but somehow, this was the most exposed he’d felt. “I’m on a strict performance diet. No refined sugar. No processed foods. No - ” He gestured vaguely at the cigarette. “That. The inflammation response, the recovery window, it all impacts muscle efficiency and hydration ratios, and - ”

He accidentally launched into a detailed explanation, the words tumbling out in a nervous stream. Ilya leaned against the counter, listening with an expression of almost scholarly focus. 

When Shane finally ran out of breath, Ilya tilted his head.

“So,” he said, his voice dripping with faux gravity. “What you’re saying is… you need to live a little.”

“I did not say that.”

“Lucky for you,” Ilya continued, a smirk evident in his voice, “Am something of an expert in that field.”

He stepped closer again, but his movements were different now. He snapped on a fresh pair of gloves as he began to clean the new tattoo with methodical care. His touch was feather-light, a stark contrast to the firm anchor of his hand from before.

“This part’s important,” he said softly, his full attention on the work. “Pay attention.”

Ilya applied a thin layer of ointment with sweeping strokes, explaining the aftercare instructions - how to clean it, what soap to use, what to avoid, what signs of healing were normal, what warranted a phone call. His hand rested briefly against Shane’s side again. 

“You did really well,” Ilya murmured, not looking up from his careful taping.

To his own horror, Shane felt his vision blur unexpectedly. 

Ilya’s voice softened even further, losing its last trace of edge. “Hey,” he said. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

Shane laughed. “You say that like - ”

“Like I mean it?” Ilya finished quietly, finally meeting his eyes as he smoothed down the last piece of protective wrap. “Yeah, Shane. I do.”

He stepped back but didn’t turn away, didn’t rush to clean up or usher him out. 

Shane gave himself a single second before reaching for his shirt. His fingers were still a little unsteady as he pulled it on. The soft fabric brushed over the fresh wrap at his ribs, and he hissed, freezing for a moment before making himself breathe through the tender sting. 

When he looked up again, fully clothed and trying to reassemble his composure, Ilya was watching him. He wore that same unreadable expression, but there was a hint of something softer in it now.

“All set?” Ilya asked, his voice breaking the quiet.

“Yeah,” Shane said. He cleared his throat. “I mean - yes. Thank you. For… the tattoo. And the… everything.”

“You’re welcome.”

Ilya moved past Shane toward the counter, then paused, glancing back over his shoulder. “For first tattoo,” he said, “choosing the ribs is spicy spot.”

Shane shrugged, the familiar self-consciousness washing back over him. “I like to be prepared. I did my research.”

“Not what I meant,” Ilya replied. “I mean you got good pain tolerance. Or great poker face.”

Heat crept back into Shane’s face. “You say that to all your clients?”

Ilya’s smile was slow. “Only ones I want to come back.”

Shane’s heart did something entirely new and alarming.

Ilya tapped something into his phone, then looked up, his eyes direct. “If you want, I can book you after-hours appointment. To be thorough.”

“Oh,” Shane said, very intelligently. “I - what for? A touch-up already?”

Ilya shrugged, a picture of nonchalance. “Follow-up to make sure it is healing perfectly.”

“That’s… unusually considerate,” Shane managed. 

“Plus,” Ilya added, “it’s quieter after hours. Less people around. No Purple-Hair Guy arguing about dragon placement. It’s easier. For first timers.”

Shane nodded. “Right. That… that makes practical sense.”

“Friday,” Ilya continued, as if it were already settled. “Eight-thirty. Outside.”

The way he said it didn’t sound like a question or a suggestion. It sounded like a promise.

“Okay.”

Ilya’s grin was a victorious flash. “Good.”

He plucked a small card from the counter and scrawled something on the back in surprisingly careful handwriting before handing it over. Their fingers brushed in the exchange. Shane did not recover from it.

“I’ll see you then, Shane,” Ilya said.

Shane nodded again. “Yeah. I’ll - see you, Ilya.”

He turned and stepped out into the narrow hallway. His heart was still performing acrobatics. Then, all at once, the reality of it hit him.

After-hours appointment.

Just the two of them.

Shane pressed his lips together into a tight line, trying to suppress the smile that insisted on breaking through.

He was pretty sure that what had just happened wasn't really about tattoo aftercare.

He was pretty sure that was a euphemism for a date.