Trigger Warning: Emotional/physical abuse, depression, panic attack, injury, vomit 

Remington was part way through drawing up a design for the following week when one of his colleagues, Emma, came into the back room to say, "Some customers are asking for you," with a whiff of spite in her voice. It was no surprise that she was unhappy about his high demand; she had been working in the studio for three years before he became an apprentice, and in the space of six months, he grew to be a very popular artist, with waitlists for future clients and the luxury to chose which designs he wanted to tattoo and which to turn down. 

Getting up, he left his tablet on the couch and made his way to the reception desk, where two men were waiting. He recognised them as the couple who had arrived an hour late and spent an agonisingly long time deciding where to put the ink. "Hey guys," he said cheerfully. "What can I do for you today?" 

The man he had tattooed - Andy - was staring at the corner of the desk with blank eyes, until he was nudged by the other. It was hard to miss the flinch that came with it, and in a mumble, he said, "Would it be okay to add a few things to the tattoo?" 

Remington eyed the broader man for a moment before smiling in Andy's direction. "Sure. It was the Scorpion Rose, right? What is it you'd like adding? If it's not much, I can fit you in now, otherwise we'll schedule an appointment for next week." 

Again, Andy's eyes seemed blank, and again, he was nudged, and again, he flinched. "Yes. The Scorpion Rose," he confirmed, shifting his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other. 

"Alright. Let me get my tablet. I'll be one second." Remington left the desk and returned a moment later with the device, already opening the design. "Come and sit over here with me, show me what you wanna add." 

Andy nodded, followed him towards a red couch. He sat unsurely on the edge, his boyfriend lingering like a bad smell.

Remington put the screen on his lap, held the pen between his fingers. "What is it you'd like to add?" He asked, eyes flicking up to meet Holden. He thought back to the last time they were in the shop, the way Holden answered for Andy, how he spoke with an air of forcefulness. Something about it felt like a warning. Maybe he was just reading too much into it, but he'd had a bad feeling about the guy since they last met. Though, it wasn't exactly a reliable source - being a stranger looking in. 

Andy was quiet. He looked at Holden for permission, and then said hesitantly, "More thorns." 

"Oh, cool. We can do that now, no problem. Do you have any specific placement, or are you happy for me to free hand with a pen onto your skin?" Hovering before them, Holden opened his mouth to speak, and to shut him up out of frustration at his unnecessary presence, Remington said, "Come through with me, we'll get everything set up. Is your friend coming?" 

"Boyfriend," snapped Holden. 

"Boyfriend, right. Are you coming through, or..." 

"Yes." 

Remington hummed, stood from the couch. He wanted to ditch Holden, but didn't know how to do so without being rude. 

In the studio, he wrapped the chair and table with cling film, and said casually while pouring the ink into the cap, "You haven't parked out the front, have you?" Holden said they had, and he explained that, "There's been a lot of wardens round lately. They don't like people parking out the front for more than a couple minutes. I've seen loads of cars with tickets." 

It took a couple of minutes for Holden to decide to move the car, and as soon as he had left the building, Remington said, while putting on his elastic gloves, "Is everything okay?" 

The question caught Andy off guard. His face drained of colour and his eyes filled. He blinked furiously. Even after so many years, he still was unable to keep his cool.  

"It's not my business by any means, but I just-I don't know. Something feels off with him." He took out a needle.

"You don't know what you're talking about," Andy snapped. It was the easiest response, and the only one he could muster in his panic. The harshness of his tone made him feel sick. He had dealt with such anger and vulgarity that he hated the idea of anybody else having to know how it felt. 

"It's not my place, I'm sorry," Remington said easily. "Are you happy for me to draw straight onto your skin with a pen? I can take off anything you don't like." 

Andy nodded. "I'm sorry," he muttered. "Shouldn't have shouted." 

Remington took the cap off his pen. "Don't even worry about it, you didn't shout, anyway. And I was out of line. How many thorns are you thinking? Three on each side?" 

"Uh, yeah. Okay." 

Getting to work on his arm, Remington said no more, and when Holden returned, the comfortable silence was obliterated. He talked at length about the fact that there was no parking ticket on his car, then asked Remington how long it would take to finish the tattoo. When Remington said he couldn't say for sure, but that it would be less than half an hour, he rolled his eyes and spoke nothing more until the time came to pay. 

Digging in his pockets, Andy discovered, horrified, that he'd forgotten his wallet. His initial reaction was to freeze and act like he was no longer there, but all too soon, Holden urged him to pay. 

"If you want to drop by sometime in the week, you can pay me then," Remington said, desperate to diffuse the situation. "I can just note down your contact details." 

"Andy. Pay the man." 

"Really, it's fine. Drop by in the next few days, it's not much you owe. It's no bother at all." 

Andy still couldn't move. He felt that if he did, he would vomit up everything inside him, including his bones, all pulverized and bloody. Holden nudged him and it took all he had not to show visible fear. Instead, he stayed as still as he could, prayed and wished for his heart to disintegrate inside him and spare him from the situation, and from what would come after, once they were alone in the bedroom. He'd barely recovered from the beating a week ago, when they collected Holden's parents. 

"Pay the man for your tattoo, Andy." 

Remington bit his lip before speaking. "Please, just drop by with it." 

Andy's hands had started to shake, his muscles seizing up, the bruises and cuts on his torso alighting. The lump in his throat was strangling him from the inside. 

"Pay for your tattoo, Jesus Christ." 

"Why don't you pay if it's so important to you?" Asked Remington, snarky, shooting Holden a hard glare. "It's all good, Andy, really. Drop by with it in the next few days." 

Finally, Andy gave a slight nod, and on their way out, Remington heard Holden muttering meanly, "Get yourself together, boy."

He frowned, watched them leave, didn't like the sight of them together, Holden holding Andy's hand as though to keep him within touching distance.