Work Text:
The 141-tattoo shop is quiet in the day. Ghost wipes down his station making sure the area is bare of any dust or dirt. He doesn’t want to risk any infection to his clients. There is music playing out in the front where Price is fixing up their minimal merchandise which consists of shirts and stickers. A new artist is joining them today, all the way from Glasglow down to London. Price had informed his workers, Gaz and Ghost, that he met the lad at the tattoo convention in Amsterdam and offered him a spot at their store. The man had agreed and was due to start working this day.
Ghost goes back to his items checking over ink and needles. He adjusts his tattoo gun a bit. He wraps tattoo grip tape tight around the needle in a comfortable hold. He has a client arriving later in the day, they had wanted one of his custom designs. Over the years Ghost has gotten better at polishing his own style in blackwork. He enjoys the thick dark lines of ink, the darker shades of black permanently etched on skin.
Price had been the one to teach him how to tattoo. Ghost had stopped the man down a street when he was fresh out of primary school. Lanky long limbs and a bruised cheek threatening Price to hand over his wallet. The man had just laughed and disarmed Simon easily. He had then taken Simon to a Tesco and listened to the explanation as to why he was out mugging people. Simon had confessed about his home life as he scarfed down a tuna sandwich. Price offered to teach him how to draw, a hobby to distract him. Simon had not been interested but when Price dragged him to a tattoo shop, Simon was easily transfixed. He sat down watching Price tattoo a client as they talked about their days in the military.
From that day on Simon would wander into the shop and watch Price tattoo. The man bought Simon a sketchbook and asked him to draw. Simon could not draw at all. His print was scratchy at best, and his drawings looked more like chicken scratch. Price would teach him the best he could, and Simon picked up drawing quickly. The first time Simon was allowed to use a tattoo gun was on a grapefruit.
He had been irritated by the smell of the fruit and the fact that he had pierced the needle too harshly on the skin. He learned how to soften his hold on the gun, and the first lines of a skull were carved on the skin. He had grinned proudly at his wobbly skull and Price had him continue practicing. The first time Simon tattooed on skin was on Price’s arm. Simon had been ready for it, but the tattoo had come out a bit heavy, and over the years the ink had blown out obscuring what it had originally been. Simon was still embarrassed of the tattoo, but Price would grin at him not at all bothered that he had Simon’s worst work on his skin. Price giving Simon his own tattoos, his left arm decorated in a sleeve of skulls and bones.
Later in the years Price bought his own little shop and set up his own tattoo studio. Ghost was his first hire and then he found Gaz. The man was a piercer and body modder. He had done some piercings on Ghost and Price when work was slow, and he was bored. Ghost had been hesitant at first but after a while allowed the younger man to pierce an industrial bar on his left ear, and then more piercings were added to his body.
Simon’s work has gotten better over the years. Strong firm black lines and shades that remained consistent even after healing. He enjoyed tattooing skulls and enjoyed designing two headed animals. Ghost had an affinity for collecting animal bones and oddities. Ghost enjoyed dressing himself in dark colors, a mask or balaclava covering his face. At first it was out of necessity but then he found the comfort in the weight over his head and face as an easy accessory. Most people around the neighborhood of the tattoo shop had gotten used to the large man walking around covered from head to toe. Ghost could care less about fashion, and he quite enjoyed blending in with the shadows. The only color in Ghost’s life was the red string attached to his right pinky finger.
Less than 5% of the human race had soulmates. Ghost had not met any people with soul mates in his life, but they were widely known about. Movies and soap dramas alike were always based on finding your soulmate. Sometimes people had their pinkies tattooed to imitate a red string when they would get married, or they’d tie a string together. The faux string was nothing compared to the real thing. The colors were always off and so was the thread. The real thread was only visible to Ghost’s eye. The vibrant red turned to different shades depending on the light. It also seemed to change along with the mood of his soulmate. A variety of red hues indicating that his soulmate was either happy or sad. Sometimes the thread would be pulled, his soulmate trying to get his attention and Ghost would tug back as a response. He never shared the fact that he had a soulmate out there somewhere. Drunkenly though, Ghost had confessed about his soulmate after Gaz had teased him of never owning anything of color in his wardrobe. Ghost had held up his hand to the light to show Gaz his finger, but the man had just blinked at Ghost’s blank hand, unable to see the thread. Ghost slurred that Gaz needed to get his eyes checked because Ghost could see it. The following day a hungover Ghost had groaned at Gaz’s insistent questions of his soulmate.
Ghost knew a little bit of the person he was destined to be with for eternity. He had learned morse code to be able to communicate, but their communication was choppy at best. Depending on the distance sometimes the string would pull too loosely to notice or not at all. Ghost had only learned that his soulmate enjoyed art, had older sisters that teased them constantly, preferred going out to hike, and had a cat. His name was John, and his favorite color was yellow.
These tidbits were learned over time and Ghost too shared about himself. There was no one out there who would understand Ghost. The only person who could see who he truly was, was attached to him by an invisible string that tugged harder in the past days.
Ghost’s thread felt tighter as if pulling him in a certain direction. He didn’t know if that meant his soulmate was closer or if they were pulling harder than usual. There was no clear message that he could tell, just push and pull that had his hand flexing over his tattoo machine. The thread on his finger was a vibrant red hue that seemed to reflect the sunlight coming in through the window.
Finished prepping his station Ghost sat down on a chair out by the front. Price had seemed pleased with the current state of the display as he turned to Ghost with a gentle grin.
“Not long now, can’t wait for you boys to meet him,” Price starts leaning against the front counter.
Ghost rolls his eyes; all Price has been talking about was the talented new hire. He had shown Gaz and Ghost pictures of the artist’s work. A traditional tattoo artist with dark black lines like Ghost but what set him apart were the hues of red, orange, and yellow in each piece. The work looked bright as if an explosion had gone off on the person’s skin. It was captivating to look at. Ghost had noted the signature at the edge of each picture, a bar of soap with bubbles.
The door to the back opens and voices join Ghost and Price at the front. Ghost turns his gaze towards the door and sees Gaz smiling at his client. The woman is grinning brightly with flushed cheeks before she hands Gaz a piece of paper and walks out of the shop giving Price and Ghost a nod. Gaz drops his smile, crumples the paper up and throws it in the trash as he walks towards his friends.
“Another girl left to wonder why he never called,” Ghost teases easily.
Gaz groans leaning on the counter with his elbows, “It’s not like I’m throwing myself at them.”
Price laughs, “Oh, to be young and have women throwing themselves at you.”
“Too bad I’m gay, and too bad I don’t fuck my clients. Also, you’re not that old.”
“Just yesterday you and Ghost were calling me old man ‘cause I got a leg cramp,” Price grumbled pulling at his hat.
“That’s because you make a noise every time you get up from your seat like an old man, what are you close to 50 now?”
“Fuck off you muppet.”
They all laugh at their shared banter and the jingle of the door rings again. Ghost taps his hand on his thigh, his hand feels warmer than usual the string feels taught like a fish caught on a reel. Ghost turns to the doorway, and he stares at the person who has entered their shop. The person is not at all what Ghost is expecting. The man has his hair cut in a mohawk, his arms are tattooed here and there, the sleeves of his shirt are haphazardly cut off, he is wearing a skirt, or what looks like a skirt? Or is that a kilt? And old warn boots. Ghost’s eyes are fixated on the stranger’s left hand where he sees a vibrant red string coiling down to the ground. His throat feels dry all of a sudden and the room feels extremely warm. Ghost feels like he is going to jump out of his skin when he looks into the face of his soulmate.
The man has a sideways smile directly pointed at Ghost, ignoring Price and Gaz, “Finally have the face ta the mystery person.”
Ghost can’t look away, if he wasn’t wearing his balaclava, he was pretty sure everyone could tell how his mouth hung loosely.
Price cuts in shaking the man’s hand who introduces himself as John MacTavish, or Soap as he prefers to be called. He shakes Gaz hand as well and Ghost’s eyes are transfixed on the red string tugging his own hand.
When Ghost blinks he comes back to himself and hears Price explain to Soap where his new station is going to be.
“So, you two know each other,” Gaz finally asks, and Ghost wants to stuff his mouth with gloves to shut him up.
Ghost doesn’t feel like he is ready for the conversation, doesn’t want everyone to suddenly focus on him and his… his soulmate, his John.
“Ach, met the wee dodger off at the pub last night,” Soap lies easily with a friendly smile.
Ghost feels a bit better that he doesn’t have to explain, and Soap doesn’t move to shake his own hand. He knows the moment they touch it’s over, or well it’s not over, it will finally begin. The bonding of two souls uniting, and the string will be visible to those around them for the rest of their lives.
Ghost hums to add to Soap’s story as he stands up, he’s taller than Soap and Soap’s smile turns cheeky.
“Wee dodger, ah meant tal. Cannae tell when ye were sittin’ doon,” the man’s accent is thick. Of course, fate had his soulmate be Scottish.
Ghost awkwardly goes to his station as Price shows Soap everything in their shop. He sits on his chair and stares down at the ground. He hates that sometimes he’s not very good at conversation or finding the words to speak. He knows it has to do with his autism, but now that his soulmate is present everything feels surreal. Ghost knows he feels his heart skip each time he hears the purr of Soap’s voice talk to Gaz and Price. He hears them talk about him, just mentioning that he warms up to people. It’s the truth, he either likes someone or doesn’t. Ghost thinks he just needs some time to get his bearings straight before he confronts John MacTavish.
The door to the shop rings again and Ghost has never been happier to see his client arrive for their tattoo. The station prepped; he has the young man sit on a chair as Ghost prepares the stencil to stick to his bare calf. The man is talkative, and Ghost isn’t. Ghost just hums along as the blue ink transfers over to his flesh. He takes a step back to eye the placement, he rubs on the skin to swipe away extra ink. The stencil looks alright.
“Good,” he asks his client.
He looks down and nods to Ghost.
Ghost feels the tugging on his right hand but ignores it. He feels the warmth as a body settles down at the empty station next to his own. He wipes his client’s calf and runs a razor to get rid of the hairs there. Eyes are focused on him, and they aren’t coming from the man he’s tattooing. No, Soap has sat himself down and is watching Ghost start to work.
Ghost falls into the repetitive motion of tattooing, wiping, dipping the needle in ink, tattooing and repeat. The buzz of the tattoo gun fills his brain in a comfortable static. The man whom he is tattooing is clenching his hands on the arm rest as Ghost tattoos over the stencil. The hours go by easy enough and Ghost’s client cuts him off from continuing. The lad looks pained after withstanding the needles carving at his skin. Ghost doesn’t mind, he knows he can easily get absorbed in his work. Most of the piece is done, there just needs to be shading and final details but those can wait.
Ghost rubs some gel on the fresh tattoo, wraps it, and hands him a card on the proper aftercare. The man smiles and heads to the front to pay for Ghost’s service.
The whistle distracts Ghost as he slowly starts the process of disassembling his station.
Soap is staring at Ghost with bright blue eyes, “That was amazin.”
Ghost swipes his tongue over his mouth, “Never seen anyone tattoo?”
Without thinking the words come out easier.
“Ah have, just enjoyin’ the view,” Soap drawls.
Ghost hums even when he feels his cheeks grow warm. He continues cleaning up his station and Soap starts talking. He starts talking about the work he’s done, the places he has travelled to and even about his family. Ghost listens and actually finds himself asking questions, wanting to know more. Soap never presses about the thread that is attached to both of them and Ghost feels a bit guilty for that.
“What kind of name is Soap anyways,” Ghost asks reclining on his chair as the sunlight starts to dim.
“What kind of name is Ghost, you look more like a bloody grim reaper, Simon,” the teasing is nice and there is no bite in their words. Ghost almost falters at the sound of his name coming from Soap’s lips.
“I got it because of my friendly personality.”
Soap laughs and Ghost finds himself wanting to hear more of it. He could hear Soap speak for hours.
“Aye, charmin’. Soap is aboot my station cleanliness, though I think you like having a clean space as well.”
Ghost nods in understanding, his throat itches to ask about the elephant in the room. To get the conversation over with and of course his soulmate knows.
“Come to my flat.”
“Bold of you, I might be a serial killer.”
Soap’s grin never leaves his face and Ghost notices the metal glint of a tongue piercing which does not help the heat coil down in his belly at the sight.
“Ye’re nay and if ye were, than I donnae judge a hobby. We can talk aboot,” he motions with his left-hand tugging on the string that disappears between them both.
Ghost hums in thought, he doesn’t have anything else to do and he wants to let this happen. His shoulders are stiff having to feel like he’s on the defense, not because of Soap, but because of his own worries.
When Ghost agrees, Soap’s grin only grows wider, as if it were possible to smile any bigger.
Soap tells Price they’re off to the pub, the man gives them both a look but doesn’t ask questions. He may be their boss, but he wasn’t their keeper. Ghost places his hands in his motorcycle gloves as he makes to follow Soap but stops the man before he can walk too far.
“Wait, I uh, I have to get my bike.”
Soap raises a brow as Ghost motions to the motorcycle parked at the front of the shop.
“Thought that was Price’s.”
“I think the old man would break a hip if he had to ride this.”
Once again Soap laughs and Ghost feels his heart skip a beat, “How far is your flat?”
“Not that far, around two blocks.”
Ghost feels confident now that it’s just him and Johnny. Johnny, now that’s something new but it doesn’t seem out of place.
“Want to go for a ride?”
Ghost grabs his black motorcycle helmet. The visor has a printed human skull with white stripes that somehow he makes work. He doesn’t have a spare helmet, but he’ll give Soap the helmet to use. The drive wouldn’t be that far and he rather Johnny be safe.
Soap opens his mouth as if wanting to say something but shuts it. He grabs ahold of the helmet and places it on his own head, squishing down his hair and covering majority of his face. Simon’s stomach fills with small flutters at the sight of Johnny wearing his helmet. The possession of Soap wearing something of his own.
He sits on his motorcycle, starts it and revs the engine.
“Can ah say somethin’?”
Simon blinks at Johnny who is staring at him with heat in his eyes. The confidence does not waver, and he wants Johnny to say whatever he thinks whenever he wants to. Though he understands why he might be hesitant because Ghost had been distanced at the shop.
“Say whatever is on your mind.”
“Now ye’re never goin’ tah have me shut up,” Ghost bites down his tongue at the improper words he wants to direct back and lets Johnny continue.
“Ye’re really fuckin’ hot.”
Simon is the one to laugh now. He’s covered from head to toe with the only skin showing around his eyes. Most people called him scary or a nun the way he dressed. Never had he been called hot to his face, or maybe it was the fact that most people were intimidated by him.
Johnny gives him a wink and sits down behind Simon. Simon takes a deep breath when he feels Johnny’s arms wrap around his waist. No skin is touching but the thread feels tight as if they were holding hands. Simon slows down his own breathing at the heat on his back, as the other man wraps himself around him and sits on the bike.
“Hold on, this will be fast.”
Before Johnny can say anything, he sets off. Johnny clings around his waist a little tighter and Simon feels his blood ignite at their close proximity. The ride is too short, and Johnny’s arms leave him all to quickly as he stops his motorcycle at Johnny’s flat. He parks his bike and sets his helmet back in its storage. Simon follows Johnny up the steps as the other man’s cheeks are flushed from the short shot of adrenaline. His hair is in disarray, brown strands hanging over his forehead, silver piercings reflecting off of the streetlamps.
Johnny is handsome.
Simon is brought back to reality at the sound of the door opening and the jingling of a bell. Simon looks into the flat which has only a single light on. Johnny bends down at the ground, Simon tries not to look at his arse and instead focuses on what Johnny is looking at. The man is petting an orange cat. He’s murmuring to the cat as it lifts its tail and rubs its head on Johnny’s hand.
Right his cat. Johnny had shared before that he owned a cat and that most of his earnings went to the small beast.
“This is?”
Johnny turns around with a grin, “Aye this is my wild beastie. Now come in before she decides to bolt.”
Johnny stands up straight and ushers for Simon to step in. He doesn’t think and steps through the threshold. The orange cat immediately starts rubbing herself through Simon’s legs. Purring and meowing loudly as if to voice her own opinions.
Johnny locks his front door and Simon bends down to pet the cat. She does the same to him as she had done to Johnny. Rubbing her head along his hand, loud purring vibrating his hand and even his bones. Simon smiles at the cat.
“What’s her name,” Simon asks.
“Her name is Miss Brie Bailey, but I just call her BB, or when she’s in a mood, she-devil. A Scottish Straight she is, somewhat like her Da, though cannae be straight like her.”
Simon hums still petting her softly noting the last bit Soap felt like focusing on, “She likes ye. Most of the time she’s hidin’ in her tree or on my bed.”
“Animals like me, it’s all part of my charm.”
Johnny scoffs not at all convinced, “Ah think she just knoos that ye’re my one and only.”
Simon stills his petting much the annoyance of BB who keeps pressing her head insistently over Simon’s gloved hands.
Johnny clears his throat, “Do ye want somethin’ ta drink?”
Simon stands up straight, both men look at each other. Simon’s heart goes back to beating heavy in his ears. “Tea?”
“Fuckin’ Brits,” Johnny walks off leaving his keys by a small table in the corridor, “Make yerself at home.”
Simon follows after and BB follows close behind him. The living room area is small and there are boxes still fully stacked together. There is a cat tree and bowls for BB who hops on the sofa and sits next to Simon. From where he sits, he can see Johnny putter around his kitchen before he joins Simon.
“Ah put the kettle on.”
Simon nods, his hands feel hot with the gloves he’s wearing. He pulls them off and Soap’s eyes follow along the thread. Soap sits down on the sofa, BB eyeing her owner now that she has chosen Simon to be her absolute favorite.
It’s easy for Simon to feel like he wants to get closer to the other man. As if reading his thoughts, Soap sits a bit closer until their thighs are touching. Simon tries not to stare at Soap’s bare thigh, the tantalizing tan flesh makes Simon’s mouth water for something that is definitely not tea.
“How’s ye’re Ma,” Soap asks easily, and Ghost has to remember that they know more about each other’s lives than that of a stranger. If anything, Soap doesn’t feel like a stranger even if they’ve only officially met hours ago. No, it’s as if he’s always been there because he has. Every step in Ghost’s life, Soap has been there.
“She’s fine. Started a community garden in her neighborhood.”
Soap seems glad to hear that, “Your sisters,” Ghost asks, he really just wants to ask about their thread, he wants to reach over and grab Soap’s hand and finally establish the final step.
“Good, Isla got married to prissy sob. Daisy finally made partner at her law firm. And ah think Lorna is somewhere in Canada taking pictures of whales.”
Simon pets BB only because it distracts his hands. Soap’s stare is heavy on him, and it makes him want to squirm in his seat.
“Can I,” Soap asks, and Ghost can’t help but meet his eyes.
Johnny’s left hand is held up, blue eyes filled with more emotion than Ghost has seen. Asking for what? Ghost knows, as the thread seems to shorten between them. BB, tired of the humans leaves them and for once Ghost is thankful that it’s just him and Johnny.
Simon doesn’t look away; his own brown eyes stare back at Johnny, and he lifts up his right hand. There should be more, but it feels like enough. When Johnny’s fingers touch the tip of his own fingers Simon thinks that he’s no longer breathing. The heat of warm flesh against his own makes him shiver and his pinky feels like it’s on fire. It’s as if an electric current has made its way through his entire body igniting every nerve and synapse. There’s a rolling wave of emotions that constricts his chest and everything seems clearer. It’s strange but it’s wonderful at the same time.
He holds Soap’s hand, fingers entwined as he pushes close to kiss him forgetting his face is covered. Soap has a dazed look on his face searching Ghost’s face for something. Simon doesn’t hesitate, he yanks off the black balaclava allowing Soap to see him because they’re soulmates. The thread is very real, and tangible twisted around their hands tying them together in a handfast. Simon doesn’t think he’ll ever want to let go.
Johnny’s eyes roam over his face, a smile falling back to his lips that Simon wants to kiss.
“Fuckin’ bonnie, Simon Riley.”
Simon’s heart continues beating quickly, his face heating at the compliment and Johnny had called him by his full name. Simon no longer hesitates and presses his own chapped lips against Johnny’s.
Their moment seems ruined with the loud whistle of the kettle. Johnny breaks the kiss and Simon knows that he doesn’t want to let go. Simon doesn’t let go of his hand as he is led to the kitchen by Johnny. The fire never leaves his veins and when Johnny stops the stove pulling the kettle aside, he’s surprised at Johnny grabbing him by the neck and kissing him. It’s all-consuming. It’s as if Johnny is trying to steal the air out of his very own lungs and Simon would be more than happy to provide him with his oxygen.
Simon only pulls enough away to breathe out his name, “Johnny.”
Johnny holds his neck tighter looking up at him with heavy lidded eyes, “Nae one’s called me Johnny before.”
And Johnny goes back to kissing Simon. Simon thinks he can get used to kissing his soulmate for the rest of his life. To be wrapped around the man before him that makes him feel like he can breathe for the first time. His life wouldn’t be enough, but that’s okay because they have eternity.