by E M Lindsey
Amit threw his phone onto the dock, pulled his hearing aids out, then cranked up the volume to forty. He could feel it more than hear it, the drums rushing through his limbs, the beat pulsing in his feet. The lyrics were nothing more than a blur of sounds, hadn’t ever really made sense since he’d been born with profound loss and it had never gotten any better or any worse. But he didn’t care. He loved this. He loved to feel the beat, and let it consume him.
He had an appointment at Irons and Works, and he was looking forward to seeing the boys. Derek’s new boyfriend was Deaf—the kind of Deaf Amit sometimes longed for, with Deaf family history that stretched back generations. Basil didn’t need to step into the hearing world, didn’t let people manipulate him into accommodating them just because he was able to.
But he’d liked hanging at the shop before too. Tony and Kat’s daughter was deaf and they’d been diving head first into sign to make sure she had all the resources in the world. They never asked Amit to give more than he was willing when it came to speaking, or hearing, and the rest of the guys had followed suit. It felt like a safe space, even if it wasn’t truly his space—not quite his people. Not yet. But they never made him feel like an outsider either, and that meant something.
Amit parked around back, climbing out of his car just as the rumble of James’ bike hit him in the chest. He turned with a grin as James rolled to a stop, and he fixed his aids in as the other man switched off his engine and found his balance before walking over.
“Who did you book with today?” he asked.
“Uh, new guy,” Amit said. “Tony said he needs practice and I wanted to get some funky sort of abstract design on my arm. He said the guy’s good for it. I can’t remember his name.”
“We’ve got two. Finn and Miguel,” James told him with a shrug. “But my guess is Miguel, because Finn’s really into that intense geometric shit. That’s pretty much all he does.”
It was Miguel, Amit remembered. He’d run into Tony at Ruby’s the week before, and though he didn’t get to meet the new guy, he sounded alright. “He’s got a lot going on,” Tony had told him. “He’s doing the journeyman thing right now with this other dude. Both of them are chill—queer friendly and all that shit. My old buddy Martin sent them over. I think you’ll like him.”
It was all the information Tony had offered, but Amit trusted him with his life—and more importantly, his skin. Tony wouldn’t steer him wrong, so he’d booked the blind appointment and hoped for the best.
“You think he’ll be cool with the no conversation thing?” Amit asked. He didn’t talk or sign much during his sessions. The other guys got it, since it was hard to sign with a machine in their hands, and he couldn’t hear shit over the buzzing. But he never wanted to come off as rude—something deeply ingrained in him from his mother, and it still filled him with fear at the thought of coming across as impolite.
James just laughed and clapped him on the shoulder before motioning toward the back door. “Trust me, shug, that guy’s not gonna mind one bit. He’s a quiet one, bless his heart.”
Amit winced. “Okay, I know that phrase isn’t meant to be polite.”
James laughed again. “He’s just a tough one to crack. Been rentin’ from me a few months now and keeps to hisself. Rowan invited him for supper a few times and he turned him down flat.”
Amit tried not to roll his eyes. James was sweet—he loved a little too fiercely, and Amit had seen once or twice when James lost his shit because he thought someone had insulted his boyfriend. “Maybe he just needs to get used to you all. Took me a while.”
James shook his head, but he was grinning as he held the door and followed Amit through the narrow hall, and into the main lobby. “I found this one wandering around in the parking lot. We got room for a stray.”
“Hey,” Sam said, rolling to the entrance of his station. “I haven’t seen you in forever. I…shit, we don’t have an appointment, do we?”
Amit laughed and shook his head. “No. Why, things that bad?”
“Maisy has some fucking plague and I haven’t slept in like four days,” Sam complained, rubbing at his temple. He did look more worn down than usual, and Amit winced in sympathy.
“Who you with today?”
“Me, I think.” The gruff voice was a deep enough rumble Amit could hear it without any real issue, and the guy spoke close enough it made Amit jump before turning around. His heart thudded in his chest as he took in dark eyes, sharp brows, and a thick head of dark hair. The guy was fucking gorgeous, though there was no missing the mottled scars across the right side of his face and down his neck and arm. It was like someone had taken a flaming torch to his temple and dragged it downward.
He also didn’t miss the fact that Miguel’s hand ended about halfway up his palm. He tried not to stare, but it was hard. His eyes were his ears most of the time, and it was just his nature. But he felt a surge of guilt when Miguel flushed and shoved his hand behind his back.
Fuck. Two minutes and he already made the dude inking him uncomfortable.
“Sorry,” Amit said. “Uh, I read lips better than I hear, so I get a little…starey.”
Miguel’s gaze flickered between both of Amit’s ears, then he shrugged and pointed to Mat’s empty stall. “In there. I have some mock-ups from what Tony told me, but all this has to be done without a stencil if you’re cool with that.”
“That was kind of the plan,” Amit said, then dragged his gaze away to head to Mat’s comfy chair. He liked Mat’s stall best—his style of art spoke more to Amit’s taste, even if his ink varied. But Mat was the kind of guy Amit had always gotten along with—unobtrusive and relaxed, never put any pressure on Amit to be anyone but himself.
When Wyatt came around and Mat fell in love, Amit wasn’t as surprised as some of the guys. Maybe it had to do with the fact that he paid attention by looking—that listening was what he was worst at, and he was always watching. He’d seen the way Mat looked at the others—with longing and envy. At first it was easy to chalk it up to him being divorced, to his life having changed. But Amit didn’t miss the way Mat would take long, lingering glances at the twins, or even at Tony, who was even more gorgeous as he approached his mid-forties.
It felt right when he learned Wyatt and Mat had become a couple, especially after Wyatt and Amit had become friends. It was a strange comfort of an unlikely friendship—the Deaf guy and the blind one—but he was grateful for it. To have space outside his home, outside his mother, who just never stopped grieving his dad’s death.
It felt weird to sit with someone new, but he felt strangely comforted as he took in more of Miguel’s face. His eyes were so soft as they met Amit’s, a little hardened around the edges, but Amit couldn’t imagine that going around with scars so visible had ever been easy. He ached to know more, to know him, and that was new. He hadn’t been interested in someone for so long, he was starting to wonder if he remembered how.
“Is there anything special I need to do?” Miguel asked, his low rumble drifting across the space between them. “To help communicate?”
Amit couldn’t help the way his stomach rolled, like a nest of butterflies erupted. He should have expected as much from anyone sitting in a stall at this shop, but for some reason, it blindsided him. “Uh. I can’t hear anything over the sound of the machine. I’m good right now, but when you get started, if you need my attention you can just tap my leg. I can read lips pretty well.”
“Are you totally deaf? Like Basil?” Miguel asked.
Amit shook his head. “No, not totally. Your voice is a good pitch for me.” He couldn’t help his wink—it was just who he was, and he braced himself for Miguel’s ire. The guy might be cool with how the shop worked, but he might not be okay with having it right there in his face.
Miguel just shrugged, the left side of his lip curling up in a half-smirk as he rolled back in his chair and reached for his notepad. “This is what I drew up. Nothin’ special. I don’t really do line-work or intricate design.”
“Not even with a stencil?” Amit mused as he opened the first page. He wasn’t blown away by it—at least, not in the sense that he needed the design on him, but the talent was there for anyone to take notice. It was abstract, like paint splashes and uneven shapes. It was chaotic but still managed to fit so well together, and he loved it.
“I’m not left-hand dominant,” was all Miguel said. “I’ve been using it for years, but I never really mastered my fine motor skills.”
A pang of sympathy hit Amit, but he tried to keep it down. He knew guys like this—they came into the bar all the time—and the last thing they wanted was someone feeling sorry for them. “Well, that works out fine for me. I just want something to connect these little pieces I have here on my upper arm.” He pulled his sleeve up to reveal the compass, the snake, the lily, and the raven he’d had inked over the last few years.
Miguel’s intense gaze narrowed on them, and he reached without thinking. His right arm went under Amit’s, lifting it so he could see the expanse of his skin in the light. His eyes roved over the ink—a few years old and settled in. His left hand rose, a tentative gesture, and he traced a finger in the empty space between images.
After a short forever where Amit thought maybe his heart would beat right out of his chest, Miguel withdrew. Amit felt it like a punch to the sternum, the absence of contact he hadn’t been expecting. It wasn’t like that with any of the guys—it had never been like that before—and he was afraid to wonder what it meant.
“I can work with this,” Miguel said.
The sound of his voice in the heavy silence was startling, and Amit swallowed thickly before he could answer. “Okay. I um…I like what you did on the third page.” His gaze flickered to his lap, at the page that sat open revealing whorls of color in reds, purples, and blues in shades rich and bright enough they’d stand out on his darker skin.
Miguel’s lip twitched, tugging at his scars a bit, stretching them with his half-smile. “I was going to suggest that one. I think it’ll compliment your skin tone and what ink you already have.”
Amit nodded, fidgeting in his seat a little because being under Miguel’s scrutiny was more than he was anticipating. He’d felt something like this before—not as intense, but in college when he set foot at one of the LGBT club mixers. He was closeted then—at least to his family and most of his friends. He was shit-scared that someone there knew someone who knew his parents and would out him, but he’d been so damn tired of being alone.
The guy’s name was Todd. He lived in a house on Frat Row—a junior, the whitest guy Amit had ever met with his pale hair and ice-blue eyes. Amit hadn’t been able to look away, and it was a half hour before Todd made his way over and offered him a beer. The beer led to a couple of dances, then making out on the stairs.
Over three weeks, Todd had fingered him, blew him, then fucked him twice and never called him back.
Amit didn’t mind. Todd was hearing, and he was white, and he’d grown up like his old elementary school friends whose parents didn’t subtly hint about arranged marriages and meeting a good Muslim girl so they could have a lot of grandkids and bring pride to the family. Todd wasn’t the boyfriend who would show up to Ramadan services and learn the prayers to make his parents happy.
Kevin, who came next, hadn’t been either. But Kevin was bisexual, and he was Deaf. He understood Amit in ways no one else ever had, and really, he had Todd to thank for the courage to go for it when Kevin had winked at him from across the room.
But, Kevin hadn’t made Amit feel like this. Hadn’t made his skin burn, hadn’t made him feel like part of his body had been carved away the moment Miguel took his hand back. Todd had been like that. Burning hot and hysterical passion, and Amit hadn’t realized how much he was missing it until it was back.
Not that it was appropriate, he reminded himself. Miguel was his tattoo artist, and Amit didn’t know shit about him other than he could do what Amit wanted done to his skin. He cleared his throat and shifted to the edge of the chair. “Mind if I use the bathroom before we get started?”
Miguel waved him off, the dismissal a little stinging, but Amit needed the pain. He needed to feel the rejection before he let himself get carried away. Pushing up, he hurried to the bathroom, not meeting anyone else’s eyes. He shut the door behind him, the lock clicking into place, then stood in front of the mirror and stared at his reflection.
‘Don’t,’ he signed to himself. ‘There’s nothing here. Let it go.’ Maybe it wasn’t enough, but at least he’d let himself acknowledge that for the first time in years, he was getting a proper crush.
Chapter Five
Miguel couldn’t breathe easily until Amit fled the stall. When Tony had come to him with the request, he’d been a little hesitant to take on one of their regulars. Even if all their artists had their own unique styles, Miguel’s was his own because he didn’t have a choice. Years after losing his hand, he still hadn’t been able to cultivate enough fine motor skill in his non-dominant side to create anything realistic.
He had an entire online gallery of Monet-style watercolor canvas paintings, all because the fuzzier he could make them, the more they looked like it was on purpose instead of a trick to mask his wobbly, crooked lines. His tattoo work was like that too. He wanted to be able to draw sharp, geometric design and realistic portraits. He’d been able to once—and god only knew what his skill level might have reached if it weren’t for the fire.
He didn’t hate what he could do, but there were moments he resented what he couldn’t. This man getting ready to sit for him deserved better. He was beautiful enough to take Miguel’s breath away. It had taken him a full minute after coming out of the back room to find the courage to speak, and then to touch him—to lay hands on his warm skin—it was almost too much.
Miguel had shut himself off from relationships, from sex, from vulnerability since that afternoon when Kyle had made such an epic fool of him. It hadn’t been difficult to wrap the metaphorical steel cage around him and throw away the key. He’d been raised trusting no one, and it was instinct not to believe a word people said.
Miguel had apprenticed for two years in Florida with Martin. He’d grown close to him, the old green man more like a father than Chuck had ever been. When the club sent word that Chuck died—an overdose in his bitch’s bed—Martin had bought him a bottle of jack and let him crash on his uncomfortable sofa. No more, no less, and that’s all Miguel had ever wanted from someone. Just a quiet support and an understanding of what he needed.
Finn came along shortly after Miguel had, and the pair had bonded. Their styles were completely different, but Miguel found Finn was easy to talk to, even when the guy was going on about ancient history and blurting out random facts Miguel had never once wondered about. But he was a hard worker, just like Miguel, and it made it easier to decide about his journey when Martin brought it up.
Of course, their boss offered to let them stay on and apprentice in the shop instead of traveling. “Most people aren’t doing a journey these days, and the guys are happy to show you whatever you want.”
He knew Martin was hesitant for the same reasons Miguel was. A one-handed tattoo artist who couldn’t work with his dominant hand wasn’t going to be a welcome addition to any shop. People would have expectations, and when Miguel couldn’t meet them, they’d be pissed. It didn’t take long for the start of the journey to prove his suspicions right.
He’d been turned away more than he’d been accepted, hanging around towns that were cool with Finn doing clients here and there, only because Finn deserved it. He didn’t quite understand that kid, but he didn’t really need to. Finn was blunt, literal, kept to himself, and if you got him talking about ancient history he wouldn’t shut up. For hours, he’d go on, and Miguel liked him just enough not to say a word when Finn got on one of his tangents.
Maybe it was because the kid was a genius with both his memory and with art, or maybe it was because Miguel knew what it was like to be visibly di
fferent—even if Finn’s didn’t manifest until he opened his mouth—and it killed him any time Finn was patronized or shushed or looked at askance. He didn’t hate the journey, but he couldn’t help his raging imposter syndrome. What was he really doing here? He was no artist. He was a mess—capable only if he hadn’t lost so much—and people deserved better.
Yet, he couldn’t make himself say it, not when Amit returned to the seat. There was something about him that drew Miguel in. It was more than just his beauty, which was intense and obvious. There was something lurking in his eyes, behind his casual smile, that told Miguel there was more to this man. But whether or not there were secrets, Miguel liked him. He was genuine, unapologetic about himself. Miguel could appreciate that. His scars defined him, and sometimes they choked his ability to climb out of his shell, but he’d accepted them as part of himself.
When he arrived at Martin’s shop, he was ready to swear off all other people, but he was also ready to stop apologizing for the thing that happened to him. He was done feeling guilt over existing because his appearance made people uncomfortable. It wasn’t his problem—it was theirs.
So fuck ’em.
“Okay,” Amit said as he settled deeper into the seat. “What do you need from me?”
“I’m gonna do this free hand, if you’re cool with it,” Miguel told him. He hitched his arm under Amit’s once more, and traced his finger around the blank spaces between the previous tattoos. He could see the image coming to life under his hand, and he felt that too-familiar itch to get started.
“Whatever you need to do. I trust you,” Amit told him.
Miguel looked up, a little startled, his mouth quirking in a half-grin he couldn’t hide. “You know I’m an apprentice, right? And you barely know me?”