Inked - 1. Inked

“I want to get a tattoo.”

“Seriously dude? Your parents will kill you.”

“Well I wasn’t plannin’ on tellin’ them.”

Canaan scowled over the light box. He probably heard a dozen such conversations every month, and invariably they ended one of two ways: either the speaker got seriously disillusioned, pissed off, and headed away scowling with their tails tucked between their legs; or Canaan talked them round to considering something amazing and awesome, when they usually left feeling poorer and richer at the same time. Glancing up at the two boys in Letterman jackets, Canaan already knew which of the outcomes was most likely. The bell rung at the door again and their friend followed the jocks in just as the first speaker arrived at the drawing table.

“Hey.”

“Mornin’,” Canaan sat back in his chair, leaving the half-finished clean up sketch on his light box. It was a tattoo he was really looking forwards to. The girl who was having it done was building quite a portfolio of amazing art on her body, and the elaborate peacock feathered wings were no exception. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

“I want a tattoo.” The speaker was blond, the red and white of his jacket giving him a pinkish tone to his skin, and even though he probably wasn’t much younger than Canaan, he embodied every image of collegiate jocks Canaan had ever seen.

“Well, most people who come in here do. What did you have in mind?” Canaan absent-mindedly ran his palm over his first tattoo as he spoke. He’d always been a big fan of the mantra ‘go big or go home’ and his first tattoo at the tender age of nineteen had been a half sleeve from shoulder to elbow featuring a vibrant sunset over a black desert landscape, and the Two Bears of the stars picked out in shimmering iridescence in the night sky above. The colours shone just as brightly as they had the day he’d had it done.

“Sigma Chi!” The jock’s friend gave him an automatic high five, “Be well cool.”

“Sorry,” Canaan lied, “I don’t do Fraternity symbols.”

“Why the hell not?”

Canaan gestured to the paintings and tattoo photos that decorated the studio. They weren’t all his, but the four other artists who ran the studio all had similar standards. He could hear Maren chatting softly to her client behind the open-work wooden screen and the buzz of the tattoo machine. Chris and Zack were out getting lunch, and Canaan knew that Tyler was trying very hard not to snigger behind him as he organised his ink cupboard.

“We don’t really do that sort of thing here. We’re artists.”

“It’s just a damn tattoo.” The blond boy’s vocal friend shot back. “Just ink him up, how hard can it be?”

“Guys...” the third member of the little party sounded uncomfortable. He wore a Letterman jacket like his friends, but something about him was different. He was leaner, more slender, his black hair short and un-styled, and Canaan got the distinct impression he was not the same sort of jock. “Let’s just go.”

“Don’t be such a wimp.” The blond with the attitude glared at his companion, like he wanted to punch him, but he was too far away.

“Scared of needles are we?” The other one, who Canaan was beginning to think of as a Cocky Little Shit, asked in a derisory tone. “C’mon man. This guy’s obviously too far up himself to bother with us. We’ll go somewhere else.”

Canaan didn’t even watch them leave the shop, but went back to his drawing, hoping that the next potential customer who came in was the type who actually cared what went on their skin.

*

“This is going to look amazing.”

“It already does, you’re the best.” Canaan’s client turned from the mirror to look back at him, “can we take a break before we start on colours? I’m starved.”

“Sure thing bud.” Canaan wrapped the partially finished bio-mechanical pattern on his client’s shin in cotton paper soaked with distilled water to soothe the inflamed skin and a layer of cling film. “Be careful yeah? See you in twenty minutes or so.”

“Thanks Can.”

Canaan stretched and laid down his tattoo machine on the sterilized work top. People who didn’t get ink never realised, but Canaan figured he went through at least a whole roll of cling film in a week. Everything was sterilized and wrapped, and Canaan knew he’d spend at least half an hour cleaning up after his client left. It was the guy’s second tattoo at the studio, and though Maren had done his super beautiful realistic wolf and mountain, he’d been the same then, and eaten every chance he got.

Everyone who got tattoos was different, as different as the work they had done. Some people bit their lip, griped and groaned, and winced in pain the whole time the needle was buzzing; others talked a lot, or asked loads of questions; some ate all the time, others couldn’t touch food for hours. Canaan had once tattooed a guy so relaxed he had genuinely fallen asleep; another who had written a blog post during the tattoo and been so totally absorbed he hadn’t noticed Canaan had stopped when it was over. Tattoos were amazing things, and not one person Canaan had ever worked on hadn’t been in some way transformed by the art they wore on their body. Canaan loved it when his clients gave him free range, adored creating amazing art, but Tyler always told him he was a softy at heart, because he was a sucker for a tattoo with meaning. People who came in wanting their girlfriend’s names got politely but firmly redirected, just as Canaan had done with the jocks the previous day. Love hearts and banners weren’t Canaan’s cup of tea, and he didn’t do portraiture at all. Whereas people like Zack hated to be brought a collection of specific meaningful references, Canaan loved taking those individual elements and making usually very unexpected compositions. The man he was working on had combined his loved for bio-mech tattoo’s with a tribute for his parents and childhood home, and was having various stylized flowers from their garden placed into the structure. Canaan was enjoying it very much.

The bell over the door of the shop went, but it was much too soon for Canaan’s client to be back, even he couldn’t wolf down a burger and fries that fast. Glancing up, Canaan saw one of the jocks from the previous day standing in the entrance looking nervous, and he waved Chris away as the other artist made to speak to him.

“Hello.” Canaan folded his arms and walked towards the boy. He’d been sat down when the boys had first come in, and now he watched the boy’s eyes widen at his unexpected height.

“Um, hi.” The lean black-haired boy looked like he’d just walked into the girl’s locker room by mistake.

“We don’t do Greek Letters,” Canaan glowered at him, “or sports team logos, or girlfriend’s names, or emoji’s, or idiotic shit on hands and faces. If you and your friends want some cookie-cutter pre-drawn rubbish then go somewhere else. Or buy transfer tattoos.” Canaan exhaled dismissively, and turned on his heals to go back to his work space.

“I’m sorry.” Even though it was only two words, the boy sounded like he’d blurted it. When Canaan turned back, the boy was looking at him with a slightly fearful expression in his big brown eyes which made Canaan feel instantly guilty. “I’m sorry. The guys were dicks when we were in here yesterday. I tried to stop them,” he shrugged, almost to himself, “I clearly failed, but Josh can be such a stubborn jerk… I suppose it comes from all those hits he takes on the field.” The boy gave him a small but honest smile, “His brain has been a bit rattled around I think.”

“Well...” Canaan didn’t like to admit the apology had rattled him a little, “Thanks.”

“I shouldn’t have spent so long staring in the window.”

“Huh?” Canaan had been about to step back and leave, but the boy’s words rooted him to the spot. He remembered standing at the window of the tattoo shop where he’d got his first ink, for months and months, before he’d finally plucked up the courage to go in and talk to anyone. For a long time, enjoying the artwork on others had been enough, until he’d known he had to have one for himself.

“Every time I come past. It’s all so beautiful.”

“You got a favourite artist?” Canaan felt his pulse beat erratically for a moment as he asked the question.

“They are all excellent,” the boy replied in a very diplomatic manner, as if it was some kind of test, “but I adore this stuff.” He gestured to a collection of framed work on the wall belonging to Canaan. “The neo-traditional animals are awesome, and I love the colours. It’s not really new-school in that bubble-gum comic-book way, but more… um...”

“Graphic?” Canaan supplied. He always had trouble describing his style, even within the tattoo industry, because he most often thought of his work as illustration on skin, rather than falling into a specific category. He would tattoo most things, but bio-mechanics and animals were far and away his favourites. Anyone who came in wanting any sort of human was sent straight to one of the other four, because while Canaan could draw very good people, he just didn’t like to.

“Yeah. You can’t help but admire those bold lines. Whose are they?”

Canaan blushed, and hoped the boy didn’t notice. He grinned though, because he was always proud of his work.

“Er, mine actually.”

“O-oh!” The boy blushed much harder than Canaan did, and swallowed audibly. “You’re very talented.”

“Thank you,” Canaan replied, and meant it.

“Hey Can,” the bell rang and Canaan’s client breezed back in, an enormous soda held in one hand, and holding a bag of assorted nibbles in the other, “shall we crack on?”

“Yeah. Go get yourself set and I’ll come un-wrap you.” He turned back to the unsure looking boy. “It was nice to talk with you.”

“You too. Bye.”

Canaan had never disliked seeing anyone walk away that badly. He finished his client’s tattoo that session, was pleased with the work and made him promise to come back in when it was all healed up for photos, but the whole time the thought of the boy lingered in the back of his mind.

*

“Hey Can!”

“Hi Tyler,” Canaan couldn’t help but frown. Tyler was not a morning person, and the last time he’d been this happy before eleven in the morning was when he had bounced into the studio and announced he was going to be a father. “What’s up?”

“You had a visitor.” Chris chipped in from his corner of the studio. Tyler shot him a glare.

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

Canaan arched an eyebrow and went to his bench to set up for the day and look through his journal. He liked to keep a pretty even schedule and not have too many wall to wall days of straight tattooing. He’d booked himself off for the middle of the week, and taken the opportunity to relax in the garden in his hammock, read a couple of books, drink a few beers, and tile, grout, and paint the downstairs bathroom. Canaan had been pleased with his efforts, and now when people visited the guest bath it looked a bit like being underwater and surrounded by interesting fish. Now he wanted to know why someone coming in and asking for him was a topic for studio gossip.

Tyler made himself at home on Canaan’s padded tattoo bench, swinging his feet like an overexcited child as Canaan ran his finger down his list of jobs and appointments. He had his peacock-winged girl coming back in for final colour touch-ups and a double consultation with identical twins who wanted complimenting neo-traditional wildlife.

“Someone came in to see you.” Tyler grinned. “That boy.”

“Huh?”

“You remember those three jocks who you sent packing? One of them came back in yesterday and he asked after you. I let him sit and thumb through your portfolio; he was here for like an hour and a half.” Tyler smirked, as though Canaan still didn’t know who he meant. “He was sort of skinny, dark hair, the kind of big doe eyes I know you like...”

“Shut up Tyler.”

“Hey, whatever floats your boat man,” Tyler hopped down from the bench, “See you dude, I gotta go tattoo a massive Harley on this guy.” He bumped fists with his client as Canaan tuned out of the conversation and back to his own work.

The boy had been in to see him. Canaan was proud of his tattoo portfolio, but it wasn’t that thick, and he wasn’t quite sure how anyone could spent so long flicking through it, especially when it wasn’t as if Canaan had just been out to lunch and would be coming back. He tried to remember exactly what the boy had looked like as he had gushed over Canaan’s work without knowing who he was. His mind had focused on those big brown eyes, the shape of the boy’s lips as he’d spoken, and his very white even teeth. Canaan wondered what he’d wanted.

Isn’t it obvious? His inner voice asked, There’s only gonna be one of two outcomes for that boy, and neither of them is gonna be walking out the door disappointed.

Canaan shook his head to dispel the mental image thrown up by his subconscious, and was pleased when his first client walked in to distract him from the inside of his own head.

*

“So, talk to me about this tattoo,” Canaan sat back in his work chair with his favourite drawing pad on his lap, pencil in hand. It was his second favourite part of the job, other than the actual tattooing, to consult with his clients, draw while they spoke to him, and find out what was going on in their heads when it came to the artwork they wanted.

The identical twins grinned at each other, and one ran a hand through his hair. They were so similar that even with them in front of him Canaan could barely tell which of them had spoken. Every intonation, every gesture, everything down to their shoes, socks, and haircuts was the same.

“So we hunt.”

“A lot.”

“Yeah, a lot.”

“We’ve both always wanted to get something done. Now seemed like a good time.” The twin smiled at his brother. “In memory of our Dad. He died late last year.”

“I’m sorry.” Canaan nodded gently. “He liked tattoos?”

“Hell no!” Canaan had already lost track of which twin was which, but he enjoyed chatting to them. Already his fingers were twitching the pencil, sketching a pair of figures in the margin, guns ready at shoulders and aiming to the sky. “Dad hated tattoos. That’s why we haven’t got them done before. So we want our favourite prey.”

Canaan raised an eyebrow, expecting them to choose the same thing, but he soon found himself sketching out the shapes of both a stag and boar. He still wanted them to match, to sit well side by side, but he grinned to himself as the twins chatted with each other. They were such a cool pair, and Canaan was really happy to get to work on them. Just as he was finishing up the antler set of his sketch stag, one of the twins stopped browsing through his portfolio and showed it to his brother.

“Hey, can we incorporate this?”

Canaan could nearly hear Zack’s groan over the buzz across the studio. It was his least favourite question, but when the twin flipped the portfolio around, Canaan could only grin.

“Mom’s real religious,” one of the twins explained, “This will totally get her on board.”

Canaan sat further back in his chair, and began adding a stained-glass pattern to his stag and boar. He measured up and traced both of the twin’s forearms, making sure he had the correct one from each twin and making sure they had the right animal each, and made their double full-day appointment for the following week. He wouldn’t normally put himself through twelve solid hours of tattooing, but it was important to the brothers that they got inked at the same time. Canaan figured he could eat during the twin’s breaks.

He’d given himself the rest of the day to draw, and had just gotten started with the cleaned up outline of the boar, when the shop bell rang. Maren got up to deal with it, and Canaan heard her soft voice across the room saying his name. Canaan couldn’t see the door or the sofa from his workspace now that he wasn’t using the light box on the main drawing desk, but he was already distracted from the task at hand. He shook himself mentally and turned back to his drawing. Canaan prided himself on his work ethic over and above all else. Becoming a tattoo artist hadn’t been a particularly popular decision in his family, and Canaan had balanced it by being the best and most dedicated tattoo artist he could be. Even his grandparents were now proud of his work, had his designs hanging on the walls in their house, and barely baulked when they told people what their youngest grandson did. He hated to be distracted from his work, but when Maren draped herself over the screen with a smile, Canaan felt his self-control waver.

“Your boy is here.”

“Thanks Mar.”

“Looks like he’s in for the long wait,” Maren arched a perfectly plucked ginger eyebrow, “He brought coffee and a book.”

“Seriously?” Canaan couldn’t resist the urge to peek around the edge of his screen. Sure enough, the black haired boy was sitting on the sofa, placed neatly at one end, and everything about him made it look like he was trying not to intrude. He had chosen not to wear his rather out of place Letterman jacket. Canaan was shocked at the force of disappointment he felt in not being able to see the boy’s brown eyes as he immersed himself in his book.

“Have fun...”

Canaan chewed his lip as he thought through his options. The stag and boar waited for him on his desk, and really he should be finishing his sketches, cleaning them up on the light box and then making his stencils. He should certainly not be thinking about young men sitting in his tattoo studio, seemingly without purpose, and he certainly shouldn’t be wondering whether or not to go and flirt with the boy. Unbidden, a memory surfaced from his first apprenticeship, back when he’d really only been a kid.

“Tattoo rule number one,” his mentor had smiled at him over the top of the light box as Canaan had drawn yet another traditional tattoo rose, “is about sleeping with clients.” Canaan had frowned, because it was something very unexpected for Matt to say. “It can be the best thing in the world,” Matt spread his hands and touched the gold band of his wedding ring. Canaan had met his wife, and had known they’d met tattooing, but didn’t know she’d been a client first. “Or it can be the worst mistake you ever made. You sleep with someone you tattooed, they could end up bad mouthing you everywhere, which is especially harsh on the internet, your reputation can suffer, and that’s not saying anything for how art gets affected by your personal life going up in smoke. Whatever you do, be careful.” Matt had stood and gathered up Canaan’s drawings. “Now draw me another dozen roses and a whole flock of birds in as many styles as you can. Before lunch.”

Canaan went back to his drawings. He figured if the unnamed boy had brought a book with him, he was prepared to wait a while longer, and Canaan knew he couldn’t wrestle with himself if he left all his work undone. Future-Canaan wouldn’t thank him for the late night he’d have to pull at some point to get it all done. He focused on the boar, finalising the outline before working on the individual panes of glass and the shape of the lead outlining. Only when the boar was done and he’d picked his focal point of light in the background, did Canaan allow himself to look up.

Clients had come and gone, Chris was in the middle of the third session of an enormous black work rib piece, and his client was doing really well with the pain. Canaan wandered over to have a look and found himself wanting, yet again, to get something done in the thick, bold, all black style in which Chris so clearly excelled. He made a quick run to the fridge, handed chilled water to Chris and his client, then took his own bottle and turned towards the door and the sofa.

Canaan had the distinct feeling he had missed meeting the boy’s eyes by milliseconds. He was looking down at his book, but if asked, Canaan wondered if the boy could have told him what he was reading. He’d been there for hours, and Canaan figured it was time his patience was rewarded.

“Hey.”

The boy looked up at him, and the flushed expression was everything Canaan had hoped for. His brown eyes shone, and Canaan couldn’t help but grin in a self-satisfied sort of way.

“H-hi.” The boy bit his lip and scowled. Canaan took the opportunity to sit, drain half his bottle of water, then casually offered it to the boy. The touch of his fingers had to have been deliberate. “I’m sorry about hanging around for so long, the other artists aren’t mad at me are they?”

“Nah,” Canaan laughed silently, “you make the place look busy. Really we should pay you to sit there.”

“Beats getting paid to jump off things.” It was such an unexpected sentence that Canaan turned his whole body towards the boy. “I’m a diver. The football jocks only really hang out with me because we’re in the same frat.” He shrugged, “I’m a Legacy, I didn’t have much choice about pledging. The other guys think diving and swim-team is somehow sissy.” The boy rolled his eyes. “Like any of them would throw themselves off a ten metre high board over and over again.”

“Why are you here?” Canaan could have kicked himself for the way he’d asked the question, as though the boy was a nuisance rather than a delight on the senses.

“Because I love your art? And I’d love to get inked, and,” he paused, then plunged on regardless, “I’m really hoping if I ask to buy you a drink, you’ll say ‘yes’?”

Canaan blinked in surprise at his directness.

“I don’t even know your name.”

“Steele.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, mostly I use my middle name. Ryker isn’t much better, but it beats that reaction anyway.”

“I’m sorry.” Canaan felt even more like a bastard for not being able to cover his general dislike of Ryker’s given name.

“Don’t worry about it. I almost didn’t tell you.” Ryker smiled in an incredibly cute and self-depreciating manner. “So, will you come for a drink with me?”

“I have to finish up a few things in the studio,” Canaan began lamely, “but yeah, I’d love to.” He got up, took two steps, and then turned back to Ryker. “You can come wait with me back here if you want.”

As Ryker got up to follow him, Canaan wondered if his mentor had been right, and which of the two available options this situation was going to end in.

*

Canaan had let Ryker pick their destination, and followed the boy through an uncharacteristically chilly early September evening to a bar he’d visited only a handful of times over the years, not far from the shop. As he’d watched Ryker walk to the bar, Canaan had genuinely doubted if the boy would get served, and though he had to flash his ID, he returned with a Corona in each hand.

“So, how long have you been a diver?” Canaan had never met anyone in water-based athletics, and he was curious why someone would choose to jump off a springboard, presumably for a living.

“Since I was fourteen. I was a swimmer first, but I just couldn’t resist the lure of high boards...” Ryker grinned as he pushed the lime down into his beer. “One of the coaches at my gym gave me tips and pointers, but there was no one there who was an actual expert. I watched a lot of videos, and pretty much discovered a lot of stuff by myself. Luckily I got scouted before I managed to break any limbs being foolish.” Ryker saw Canaan’s look of surprise. “Diving is far more dangerous than people think, especially from the heights we dive. People who don’t know what they’re doing… cracked necks and shattered wrists, along with the usual sprains and torn ligaments… it’s not that uncommon.”

“I had no idea.” Canaan sipped his drink. “So are we ever gonna see you on television or something?”

“Hopefully,” Ryker blushed, and it was incredibly attractive. “I have this dream of getting picked for the Olympic squad, but I try to be realistic. I placed top ten at last year’s World Championships.”

“You’re kidding me?” Canaan could barely believe the offhand manner in which the boy had spoken. “That makes you practically famous Ryker.”

“It does not. You’ve got way more people who know you for your work.”

“Yeah, but if there were World Championships in tattooing, I wouldn’t even qualify, let alone place top ten.” Canaan didn’t have any qualms about admitting it. He was good, talented, and always strove to be better, but he wasn’t the type of arrogant jerk who wanted to be world famous and compete in a reality TV series for a prize which wasn’t as good as loyal customers and happy clients. Money didn’t make anybody any richer, not in the ways which counted.

“There are way more amazing tattooists than there are elite divers,” Ryker replied. He bit his lip, “I love your work,” he muttered softly.

They both sat and drank their beers in silence for a moment, and just before Canaan was about to ask the obvious question and find out what the boy wanted, Ryker changed tack, smiling playfully as he asked him about his day off, his house, his family. By the time Canaan had realised his beer had been empty for a while, he and Ryker had been in the bar long enough for it to get properly dark, and he had told the boy more than he’d ever told a client before.

“This was really fun,” Ryker stretched in his seat, and Canaan found himself hating the table for obscuring the shape of the boy’s lean torso.

“Yeah.”

“I’d better go. I have training first thing, and coach hates it if we’re late.” He paused in the act of getting up. “Walk me out?”

Canaan couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so hung up on a person. He wondered absently if he’d ever been this distracted by a client he thought was cute, but following the diver out of the bar, Canaan found it very hard to think about anything much at all. His imagination was doing a lot of interesting things to his inner vision.

“Um...” Ryker had gone all shy again, out on the street under the orange lights. “Can I see you again?” he bit his lip, his big brown doe eyes flashing up at Canaan through thick lashes, and Canaan knew he couldn’t resist, even if the move had been unintentional.

He took a step forwards, pushed his fingers through Ryker’s black hair, and kissed him. When he moved back, the boy looked dizzy, and Canaan could feel his heart beating twice as fast as normal.

“Oh yes.”

*

It had been surprisingly easy to work out when and where Ryker had his diving practice. Having an unusual name had been a bonus, and since high level collegiate sportsman usually had dedicated pages on their school websites, Canaan had gone looking and found exactly what he wanted. It had been a while since Canaan had been near a swimming pool. The scent of chlorine, water, and the lingering smell of cleaning products on tile brought back sharp memories of high school gym classes at the swimming pool, sneaking glances at boys in speedos and feeling emotions hitherto unknown stir inside him. Now he tucked himself into the stands about half way up, took out a sketch pad, two pencils, a water brush, and a pocket sized tin of watercolours, and doodled.

Canaan wasn’t alone in the stands. There were a smattering of people about: coaches pacing the pool, a couple of the maintenance staff discussing lighting fixtures, a few students who looked like they had little better to do, other students who clearly were also athletes there to watch their friends, and a few people who could have been parents, relatives, scouts or just big fans of the sport. No one paid Canaan and his art supplies any mind.

It wasn’t until a hush fell over the pool that Canaan even looked up, and he was just in time to see a girl balanced right on the edge of one of the lower boards before she flung herself off with a twist and spun as she entered the water with a surprisingly small splash. The first round of warm up dives went quickly from the three metre board, but all of them were forgettable once Ryker stood there. Canaan hadn’t seen such an expanse of virgin skin in a long time, and the boy wore nothing but a pair of skimpy red, white and blue speedos. He looked sleek and solid as he stood on the board, totally still for ten heartbeats before he leapt. Canaan couldn’t have peeled his eyes away even if someone had told him his truck was on fire. Ryker executed a pike twist and slid effortlessly into the water like it was nothing. From that moment on, Canaan couldn’t look away whenever Ryker was on the board.

By the time various divers were warmed up and making it up to the highest diving platform, Canaan’s water brush was moving seamlessly over his pages, decorating his sketches in a fluid manner, each colour blending into the next. Ryker’s smooth pale skin was such a contrast to his dark hair, and Canaan found himself imagining ink on the boy’s lean, lithe frame as he readied himself for the next dive. Canaan knew how to watch, art school had taught him well how to get the most observation from a moving target, and time seemed to slow as Ryker pulled his hands up over his head for the moment when he tipped over the board and gave control of his direction to gravity. It was viewing the world through a lens of honey.

Ryker’s whole form made a single slim line, taught and tense. He inhaled, his stomach drawn in, showing definition in his abs and all his lower ribs. His legs tensed, deep furrows in between the muscles of his thighs, toes splayed for a split second, taking all his weight and gripping the board. His brown eyes, so full of hope and adoration, were darkened by concentration. He bit his lip and leapt. Canaan lost count of the twists, but already his hands were drawing the shapes Ryker’s body had made in the air, twisting and spinning before straightening out into a darting arrow. The boy closed his eyes as he entered water, and Canaan scanned the surface for his re-emergence.

Ryker came up metres away from the edge of the pool, grinning from ear to ear, climbed out of the water, and Canaan was hit by a sudden, slightly unexpected stab of hot jealousy as he was hugged in congratulations by his team mate. He watched the boy until he disappeared from view, then began to scan through his drawings. He had a dozen sketches, but they all had the same elements of design, bright bold colours, hot oranges and cool vivid greens, paired with thick black outlines that gave the pieces texture and depth. Canaan figured if Ryker ever did want a tattoo, it would probably be completely different from what he’d imagined on the boy, but he figured at least one of sketches would clean up nicely for a new wall piece. He was just in the process of dating them all and making a few scrawled notes on details he wanted but hadn’t been able to fit into the scale of the drawings, when he heard his name.

“Canaan?”

Ryker stood on the poolside below him, towel over his shoulders, hair messed up by his fingers, clearly on the way to the showers, staring up at him with those big doe eyes. His brow wrinkled with the smallest hint of confusion, but already he looked a tiny but flushed.

“Hey.”

“Umm...” Ryker glanced down at his body, as though he’d only just realised he wasn’t fully clothed. “I have to go take a shower.”

“OK.”

Ryker looked like he wanted to say something else but didn’t dare. Canaan was about to apologise for the intrusion, just to break the tension, when he heard his own words echoed back to him.

“You can come wait with me back here if you want.”

Canaan didn’t think he’d ever packed up his stuff as fast. He tucked his sketchbook under one arm, grabbed his bag, and damn near skidded down the steps in his All-Stars. He followed Ryker into a large well-laid out locker room, and sat where the boy directed him. Ryker grabbed shampoo and headed for the showers, and Canaan was left pondering the various reasons for his sudden appearance in a college locker room.

Various reasons? You are kidding yourself. His inner voice was incredibly smug. You’re here for one reason only.

Art? Canaan replied to himself in a hopefully, if completely unbelievable, tone.

Sure. Even in his own head, he sounded smarmy. Nothing to do with the incredibly hot and adorable boy you kissed last night dressed in very few clothes. You got it bad, man.

Canaan stared down at his sketch book, and the patches of dried water colour staining his fingers. He generally made a point of not turning up on dates filthy and covered in paint.

It’s a date now? His inner voice asked as he watched Ryker walk back towards him wearing a towel and apparently nothing else. Do you reckon he knows?

“You came to watch practice?” Ryker opened his locker, glanced at the mirror inside the door and began fiddling with deodorant and clothes. Canaan tried not to stare.

“Yeah,” Canaan wondered why he felt suddenly nervous. Ryker seemed remarkably self-assured suddenly, and Canaan wondered if he was also a different person on his home turf. He was about to ask if Ryker minded, but since the boy had sat in the shop for several hours, he figured he was allowed a pass. “You dive beautifully.”

“I was really happy to nail that three and a half twist. It’s been bugging me all week. I keep over rotating.” Ryker was smoothly confident as he settled the waistband of his boxers on his flat hips and pulled on a thin red and white t-shirt. Canaan allowed himself to glance up at Ryker’s fine musculature as he dragged the fabric over his head, but obviously he wasn’t as quick at subterfuge as the boy, and Ryker caught him looking. There was no missing the flash of desire in his eyes. “You drew me? Can I see?”

Canaan felt powerless, and simply handed over his sketchbook. Ryker’s eyes lit up as he scanned the pages, and Canaan wondered if the boy had forgotten he was only half-dressed. Since he’d already been caught looking, Canaan didn’t figure a bit more would hurt. Divers clearly shaved, and Canaan wondered how much time Ryker spent in the gym and the pool to keep his incredible physique.

“These are amazing. Is this really me? I look like that?” Ryker let out a long low whistle, “I could look like that...”

He turned the sketch book so Canaan could see the page. It was the most complete sketch, rather than the most intricate tattoo design, and Canaan had drawn the boy exactly the way he stood on the platform, eyes downcast, teeth set in his lip, his hair messy where he’d run his hands through it on the way back up to the platform, his hands straight down by his sides in preparation for the dive. The whole thing was rendered in pencil, and Canaan had made his hair really dark and crisp on the page. In contrast, the water brush gave the tattoo a flow and colour to the page. The tattoo started on the ball of Ryker’s shoulder and spread down his entire arm in a swirl of colour. Even though it wasn’t hugely detailed, the overall composition of the dog shark and the Aztec shapes in the water was pretty clear. Canaan was pleased with the flow of the tattoo.

“Can you really make me look like that?”

Canaan smiled up at him, taking the sketchbook back with one hand. This time there was no doubting Ryker’s intentions, because he couldn’t touch Canaan during the handover, so instead just took his hand and held on. Canaan looked from their joined hands back to Ryker’s smile, and his big brown eyes, so full of emotion and adoration.

“You already do.”

Half an hour later, once Ryker had been debriefed by his coach, he walked with Canaan towards his truck. Canaan carried his sketchbook, but Ryker hadn’t let go of his other hand. The boy with the virgin skin and the big doe eyes laughed as he planned their day together, chatted about his training session and the swim he’d complete later, and Canaan couldn’t think of anything he’d rather do other than everything Ryker wanted as long as he got more smiles from those lips. Maybe other things too.

Generally there were only two outcomes when someone came into the studio without knowing what they wanted or why, and Canaan knew everyone he worked with would advise him against getting romantically involved with a client. And none of that mattered. Canaan could already see the colours of Ryker’s tattoo sleeve as the boy bumped against his shoulder in the cab of the truck, big brown eyes promising so much for the future. Canaan didn’t care what anyone thought, or what outcome was apparently most likely, because when Ryker smiled at him, he was already lost.