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‘HEAVEN’S GATE’

TATTOO ART EXHIBITION

ARTWORK BY AMAZINGPHIL FROM ANGELIS TATTOO PARLOUR

JUNE 11TH, 2018

PART 7 OF HIS CRITICALLY ACCLAIMED SUBJECT SERIES  

FURTHER INFORMATION BELOW

Phil Lester, eccentric tattoo artist from Northern England has made his fame tattooing the weird and wonderful. Never shying away from a challenge, Phil puts a unique spin on every commission he receives. In 2018, having a piece by AmazingPhil is a great badge of honour amongst those in the UK tattoo community. In his latest series, ‘Heaven’s Gate’, Phil focuses on all things celestial, holy, and angelic. In an unusual twist, Phil is asking for random voluntary subjects to come forward and offer themselves as a canvas upon which he can work. Not necessarily for the ink-virginal, these volunteers might receive anything from a small cherub on their inner thigh, to a full sleeve. Anyone hoping to volunteer for part seven of his series be advised: it is entirely at your own risk!

If you are interested in volunteering, please contact Phil at [email protected]

If you’re more of an observer than a contributor, don’t forget to come along to the exhibition on June 11th!

*

“Get back to work, you gram-slut,” PJ calls from the front desk.

Phil smiles wryly to himself, placing the finishing touches on his latest Instagram post. It’s a sleeve he finished up an hour ago, a night sky drenched with colour, the emerald and magenta stars dripping across the inky blue background. The customer had adored it, had cried when they saw the finished product.

It had taken Phil four sessions to complete, and his eyes feel sore from paying such close attention to detail, but it’s worth it to see a reaction like that. He closes Instagram obediently, swivels in his chair, and gestures to PJ to send over his next client.

As he waits, he clears the paper covering from the table, sprays it down with disinfectant, and lays out a fresh sheet. Then, he changes the needle on his gun, and throws the old one in the trash.

A few minutes later, someone is walking up to him, and Phil turns to them, a broad smile on his face.

“Hi,” he says, holding out his hand.

There are a few ink stains on his palm, but he hopes she won’t notice. As she shakes his hand, he subtly looks her over, assessing. She’s got a few basic tattoos already, just some small things - a ‘libra’ star sign on her shoulder, the lyrics to a Beatles song on her wrist.

Those are the ones he can see, anyway. But it’s a good sign that she has even this many; dealing with first-timers is always more difficult.

“Hi,” she says, unmistakably nervous. “You’re Phil, right?”

“Guilty,” Phil replies, grinning, tongue peeking through his teeth. He’s good at this part - calming the clients down. PJ always jokes that he’d make a great serial killer - luring unsuspecting victims into a false sense of security, and then jabbing his needle in them. “And you are?”

“Vicki.”

“Nice to meet you, Vicki. Have you seen my stuff before?”

“I, uh, flicked through your Instagram after I made the appointment,” Vicki says, eyes darting to Phil’s portfolio, which is open on the desk beside him. He offers it out to her, and she gratefully accepts. “It was actually my friend who told me about you.”

“Oh yeah?” Phil turns to grab his Diet Coke. He sips, watching her flick through the laminated pages.

“Yeah,” she says, distracted. “He found one of your flyers.”

“Ah,” Phil says, a tiny flicker of excitement in his tummy. “I don’t suppose you’re here to offer yourself up for my latest exhibit?”

Vicki’s eyes widen, her heavily clumped lashes reaching to her brows. “No!” She places a hand over her mouth, as if she hadn’t quite meant to be so bold. “Sorry, it’s just… I’m only here for a little thing.”

Phil giggles at her reaction, sipping more Diet Coke. “Ah, don’t worry. I rarely get people mental enough to let me loose on them like that. I just live in hope, y’know.”

Vicki nods, chastened, and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Sorry. I bet you’d do something cool, it’s just…”

“It’s fine, really,” Phil assures her, beaming.

Finding volunteers for his subject series, is becoming increasingly difficult. For the six he’s done so far, he’s always just about managed to find someone, even if they aren’t totally ideal. Often it takes too long to find the perfect muse, so he has to settle for anyone willing. He’ll tattoo his design onto the person that signs up, free-hand, based on his ‘Heaven’s Gate’ theme, snap a few artsy photos, then display them in an gallery space a few weeks later.

It’s been successful so far, but Phil is not quite content. In his mind, he still hasn’t found the perfect person, though he’d never let that information out publicly. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with the people who have volunteered so far, and he’s eternally grateful to all six of them for allowing him to etch his art onto their bodies forever. It’s just that Phil prefers a blank canvas to work with. It seems obvious, but mostly, the people who don’t care much about what tattoos they receive have a decent amount of them already.

So, his subject series is in it’s seventh chapter, and Phil still hasn’t found the perfect person to use. He’s starting to doubt he ever will.

“...he’s here actually.” Vicki is still speaking, Phil realises. He zones back in, hoping she won’t notice he drifted off for a while. “The guy who recommended you to me. He’s just in the shop grabbing me something sweet. For the shock, y’know.”

“Good idea,” Phil says approvingly, knowing this will make her feel better. “So, do you need to wait for him to come back, or shall we talk about what kind of thing you’re after?”

She shuts the book with a snap, eyes suddenly gleaming. “No, we can talk now.”

Phil gestures to the client table, and she hops up onto it, her bag falling to the floor. She sweeps her blonde hair to the side, legs dangling.

“So,” Phil prompts.

“So,” she replies. “What I’m thinking is basically, like, wildflowers. I’d like them to be super vivid, with lots of colour, like a whole garden running across the back of my shoulder.”

Phil nods, already flung into a spring meadow, the tongues of thin grass blades tickling his bare shins, the nettles scorching a mischievous blister onto his hand. The scent of a dozen types of fresh, sweet flowers fill the air, and he dives into the midst of them, breathing in their soft perfume.

“How much of your shoulder?”

She turns to show him, pulling her loose t-shirt off one shoulder to expose the bare skin. “Just like, across here and down my arm a bit, is what I was thinking.”

Phil leans a little closer to inspect the area, but notices nothing amiss. He nods, smiling at her, and she pulls the t-shirt back up. “Cool, I’ll sketch something out. You okay to just wait here while I draw? It’ll take me ten minutes or so.”

“Yeah, no problem.” She beams, her nervousness dissipating. “Ten minutes! You must be talented.”

“Your friend has good taste,” Phil jokes, winking as he finds his sketchpad and stencil paper.

“Clearly!” She cranes her neck to the door, and begins waving. “Oh, he’s here anyway. Dan! Dan, come here!”

Phil just ignores her, focused on his sketch. He draws flowers in abundance, getting carried away with the shapes and flowing lines. They pour from his pencil in all sorts of forms: tiny, insect-size pearls, and enormous, widespread petals.

He vaguely notes someone walking over to stand nearby, and the exchange of some quiet conversation between the girl and someone new. It dulls to a background noise though, indistinct as he draws.

After around ten minutes, Phil is finishing up, adding a vague wash of colour to the final design with a few coloured pencils. He blows across the page, getting rid of any excess graphite, and turns the pad to show the girl.

“So, here’s an initial sketch. You can tell me if you want me to change anything-”

The words on Phil’s tongue shrivel and die. The pencil slips from his slackened fingers, rolling off the sketchpad into his lap. Perched, like a delicate bird, on the edge of Phil’s client table, is an Angel. He’s playing with one of the thicket of soft, wispy curls atop his head, staring into the distance.

His vacant eyes are a toffee brown, and his cheekbones are high and rounded. There’s a light dusting of freckles across his nose and cheeks, like he’s walked through a cloud of cinnamon.

None of this, however, compares to the gorgeous, milky caramel of his skin. It stretches, unmarked, untouched, across the sinew of his arm muscles, over the thin branches of his neck bones. He has lain, naked, beneath a waterfall of honey, allowed himself to be drenched in it, head to toe. An image sears itself into Phil’s mind, of licking along this boy’s arms, letting the sweet, golden syrup glide over his tastebuds.

“...honestly I think it’s perfect, there’s really no need to change anything.” Phil lands back into the conversation, turning, dazed, to Vicki. He swallows, trying to gather himself together. “What do you think, Dan?”

The boy turns his head, coolly, and casts his eyes down to the pad of paper in Phil’s hands. He tilts his head to the side, as if he’s viewing it from some other perspective, perhaps from a higher plane of enlightenment. For some reason, despite his own confidence in his artistic talent, Phil finds himself holding his breath, wondering what this vision of a boy will make of his design.

“Wild pansies are a nice touch,” the boy says. “They suit you.”

“You think?” She asks, frowning at the page. She looks up at Phil, eyes twinkling. “Dan’s a botany enthusiast. That’s why I wanted his help with this.”

“O-oh yeah?” Phil manages to lift his eyes to Dan’s, but almost regrets it when he’s hit with the full force of that melted toffee stare. “That’s cool. I just kind of imagined this up. The flowers are probably all wrong…”

“No,” Dan says, eyes falling to the page again. He looks a little confused. “They aren’t. I can identify them all.”

Phil’s heart stammers in his chest. “Oh… Well, um, I’ve been told I have a photographic memory. I probably saw these flowers once, somewhere, and just... remembered them.”

Dan stares at him, unblinking. It’s a mildly terrifying thing, to be under the scrutiny of this utterly stunning creature. Phil feels a slow, creeping blush start to spread over his cheeks; to chase it away, he turns his attention back to the Vicki.

“Right, well, if it’s okay with you then, I’ll get the stencil ready.” Phil busies himself with doing just this, and Vicki squeals in delight, reaching over to squeeze Dan’s hand. “Oh, I’ll, um, need you to remove your t-shirt,” Phil tells her, wincing. “And if you could slip your bra strap off your shoulder. Don’t worry, you’ll be lying on your front, so nobody will be able to gawp at you.”

“Yeah, it’s cool,” Vicki says readily, already drawing the top over her head. “I kinda figured I’d have to strip a little.”

Phil turns his gaze away out of politeness. He can’t help but notice, however, that Dan is not looking either. He doesn’t seem interested in the pretty girl stripping off beside him at all, in fact.

Dan is quiet, standing now, giving Vicki space to move. He holds a chocolate bar in one hand, presumably the one he bought for Vicki’s ‘shock’, his long fingers lightly curled around the purple foil. Despite his silence, his presence is somehow large enough to fill the room. Even as Phil sets up his tools, he feels as if the bubble of Dan’s aura is pressing into his side, threatening to engulf him.

Vicki tells him when she’s ready, lays down on her front, and Phil gets to work. He cleans the area, presses the stencil onto her shoulder, as carefully as he can manage, and peels it off. He takes several photos of it on his phone, then asks her to look at them, to check she’s happy with the placement.

She agrees, bubbling with excitement. When she asks Dan for his thoughts, he skims a measured gaze over her shoulder, and nods once. Having gotten approval from all parties, Phil sets to work. He feels Vicki tense beneath him at the first touch of the needle to her skin, but she holds it together, and Phil slips into his usual trance of concentration. He inks carefully, delicately, keeping the lines hair-thin, the colours pale.

As he draws, he thinks of Dan, and how easy it would be, how glorious, to watch the dark ink blend into the tanned, golden skin. To connect the freckles scattered over his arms, to cover him in swirls and stars and feathers.

Vicki’s tattoo takes around an hour and a half to complete.

The wildflowers sit prettily on her shoulder, delicate and beautiful. She looks as if she were born with them adorning her, like a woodland nymph, with her long, naturally blonde hair and catlike eyes. Phil is proud of himself, and leans away, smiling. He wipes the excess ink from her shoulder, and tells her he’s finished. She squeals, and immediately starts clambering off the table.

Phil reaches for her, knowing that she’ll likely be dizzy; at the same moment, Dan’s hand reaches out, and they both grab hold of her arm, Phil’s hand on top of Dan’s. Phil freezes, pulls away, looking at Dan in alarm. His palm tingles, like he’s been statically shocked. Dan looks unfazed by the error, focused on steadying his friend, who is indeed looking a little pale.

“Woah, thanks,” she says, her hand on Dan’s shoulder. “I should take it slow. I’m just so excited to see!”

Phil takes her hand, leads her carefully to a full-length mirror across the room, and grabs another, smaller one to hold up behind her so she can see the back of it. Even as she gushes, squealing about how pretty it is, how grateful she is, how talented she thinks Phil is… Phil’s mind is stuck in the minute before, when he felt the soft, smooth skin of Dan’s hand under his own.

After a while, Vicki thanks him, and begins gathering her belongings. PJ, still perched at the front desk, is the one who will take care of the payment, but Vicki kindly tips him, and Phil beams at her.

“Seriously, thank you so much, I love it. It’s perfect.”

“You’re welcome. Remember what I said about looking after it.”

“Yes, I will. Twice a day with the stuff you gave me, keep it protected, and no swimming for a while.” She nods, and Phil smiles at her. “Thank you again.”

He realises, as she collects her bag and jacket, that not only is Vicki about to walk out of the door, but Dan is, too. He’s standing to the side, waiting for her with a mild air of impatience. Something claws at Phil’s stomach; somehow, the idea of never laying eyes on this stunning boy ever again seems unbearable. He’s never seen anyone so pure, so perfect.

Vicki heads to the counter, rooting around in her bag for her purse, and Dan moves to follow after her. Before he can stop himself, Phil reaches out for him, a hand landing on one of Dan’s bony shoulders. He draws it back, quickly, mildly horrified with himself; Dan turns, wide-eyed, to face him.

“Sorry,” Phil says at once. “I just… this might be weird, but could I ask you something?”

Dan blinks at him, but nods.

“So, I’m doing this thing,” Phil rambles, hands flapping about on his work station to find one of the flyers for his upcoming exhibition. He finds one and hands it to Dan, trembling. “It’s an experimental art show… thing. A subject series. Basically I ask people to volunteer their skin to me so I can tattoo it. Then I’ll take some artsy pretentious photos of it, blow them up and stick them in a gallery for people to gawp at.”

Phil forces a laugh, hoping to lighten the mood. This whole situation is excruciating for a reason he can’t explain. He feels dumb, foolish beside this celestial being, as if he’s some mere mortal knelt at his feet, daring to ask a favour. Something about Dan’s stoic silence, his penetrative gaze sweeping over the poster Phil has shoved into his hands, is incredibly unnerving.  

“Oh, yes.” Dan lifts his gaze back to Phil’s. “I found one of your flyers in the bus station. And Vicki showed me your Insta-gram account.”

The way he says the name of the app is strange, with an emphasis on the ‘gram’. It’s like he’s never spoken the word aloud before, or heard anyone else say it.

“Right, yeah, I think she mentioned,” Phil says, glancing over towards her. She’s finished paying now, and is hovering by the door, a curious expression on her face as she regards them. “So... would you be interested, by any chance?”

Dan’s eyebrows lift in surprise. It’s probably the most obvious reaction Phil’s seen on him yet.

“Me?”

Phil shrugs, one hand reaching to rub the back of his neck. “Yeah. I… I actually think you’d be perfect.”

Dan looks down at his body, as if he can see every inch of it through his clothes. Phil tries not to let any rogue thoughts of what this might look like infiltrate his brain.

“I don’t have any tattoos,” Dan says.

Again, Phil shrugs. “That’s okay. I actually prefer that. But if you’re not comfortable getting one…” he trails off, and Dan just stares. “Well, it’s obviously your decision. And it’s a big thing, I know, letting me just tattoo whatever I want on you. But it’s free obviously, and…”

Phil’s sentence dies. There’s a blankness to Dan’s expression; he can tell that this is a useless pitch, much to his disappointment. He sighs, reaching to retrieve the flyer from Dan’s grasp; the other man holds tight.

“Why me?”

The question makes Phil pause. He dithers, not at all sure how to respond. “I… don’t know.” He frowns, unhappy with his own answer. He can’t really articulate his own roiling desire; he just knows that there’s something about Dan, something that pulls him, drags him in, something powerful. He could see, from the second he first caught sight of Dan, that he was the one he’s been looking for. “I just have a feeling that it should be you.”

Phil regrets the words the minute they leave his lips. It’s too big of a thing to say to someone he’s only just met. But he can’t suck them back up. Instead, they hang in the silence between he and this maddeningly pretty young man, dangling like cherries from their stems. Dan makes no move to pluck them, he just continues staring into Phil’s eyes, seeming to see straight through them, into the jumbled, colourful mess of his mind.

Just then, there’s a hand on Dan’s arm. They both turn to see Vicki, her shoulder cling-filmed, taped, and bulky beneath her t-shirt. She stares up at them both, obviously growing impatient at the hold up.

“Hey, are we going?”

Dan nods to her. “Yes.” He turns back to Phil. “What time shall I come for the tattoo?”

Utterly thrown, Phil casts about for a response. “Oh, um, maybe come back when they shop’s closed? Like... eight-thirty tomorrow?”

Dan nods, then folds the flyer in his hands, neatly, and tucks it into his back pocket. “Okay.”

With that, he turns to go, his friend already whispering something excitedly at him as they walk to the shop door. As they step through, the bell tinkling above their heads, Vicki turns, eyes sparkling.

“Thanks again, Phil!” She calls.

“No problem!”

Dan doesn’t say anything, but his gaze lingers for a moment on Phil’s through the shop window, caught there for a snatch of a second, and then he’s gone.

*

“So, you’re good here?”

Phil nods at PJ, distractedly. He’s putting the finishing touches on a new Instagram post, one he’d taken of the wildflower tattoo he did yesterday, on the girl who came in with Dan. He types out a quick reminder about his upcoming exhibition underneath the caption. He leaves out the fact that he hasn’t actually done the tattoo he’ll be exhibiting yet.

“You think this dude will show?” PJ asks, dithering by the door.

He’s never happy about leaving Phil here alone, waiting for volunteers. PJ has this idea that Phil will get lonely or scared by himself in the studio after hours, but he rarely does. Phil’s an introvert by nature, and enjoys being in the stillness of the familiar shop after the hustle and bustle has died away.

“Honestly, probably not,” Phil answers, pressing ‘post’, and watching the wildflowers flick to the top of his Instagram feed. He locks his phone, swivelling to PJ in his chair. “But I’m gonna wait just in case.”

PJ sighs, nodding. “I can wait with you, if you want?”

It’s a polite, sweet offer, one that he makes each time. If he accepted it, Phil knows PJ really would stay here, but that’s because he’s too lovely for his own good. Really, he wants to get home to his girlfriend and their little springer spaniel puppy. What with the late closing time of the shop, he barely gets to see them as it is.  

“Nah, don’t worry,” Phil tells him, like he always does. “Soph will kill you if you’re late again.”

“Okay,” PJ frowns, but begins pulling on his jacket. “Well… don’t wait for more than an hour this time. These jerks who don’t show up aren’t worth your time.”

“They’re doing me a huge favour, Peej.”

“They’re getting free tattoos from a popular artist!”

Phil just smiles, shaking his head. He can’t imagine what goes through the minds of the people that volunteer for this series. Over the years he’s been doing this, he’s had a plethora of different volunteers; some just want a cool free tattoo, others are fans of his, wanting to be supportive. He’s had a couple of people who do it simply because they’re addicted to the pain of being tattooed, and can’t always afford to feed their cravings.

“Okay, I’m off then,” PJ says, grabbing his bike helmet and heading to the door. 

Phil sends him a wave, already back to scrolling through Instagram. “See you tomorrow.”

“Bright and early.”

There’s the tinkle of the bell, signalling PJ’s exit, and then Phil is alone. He relaxes into the chair, gazing around at the quiet space, letting himself melt into the shadows hanging from the walls, draping themselves over the knick-knacks littering the large room.

He and PJ opened this tattoo parlour just over six years ago, and it hasn’t changed much. It’s named Angelis Tattoos, which they settled upon after months of squabbling. ‘Angelis’ is PJ’s mother’s maiden name, and it’s the word that allowed for the most creative design for the logo.

As a result of the name, the shop has an angel-theme, and is thusly decorated with a lot of tongue-in-cheek ‘holy’ memorabilia. There are graffiti-moustaches and monocles on the posters and statues of Jesus. Christian Bible pages hang like bunting in the windows, over which Phil has drawn blood red designs, obscuring the verses. One night, long before their grand opening, he and PJ had drunk some beers, intending to paint the interior. Instead, fuelled by the alcohol, they wrote ten ‘altered’ Holy Commandments in calligraphy on the walls.

Thou shalt not ask for a basic butterfly or dolphin on thine hip.

Thou shalt not opt for a tramp-stamp.

Thou shalt honour the after-care protocol or thou shalt receive a grim malady.

Those aren’t even Phil’s favourites.

It gets to 8:30, and there’s no sign of Dan. Normally, Phil would only wait fifteen minutes or so for a volunteer to turn up, but he knows instinctively that he’ll wait a lot longer for Dan, if necessary.

Half of Phil’s determination to wait it out is that he’s not entirely sure he didn’t make Dan up. Surely nobody could be pretty enough, enigmatic enough, to render him the stuttering fool he became yesterday. He must have just been in a strange mood. Perhaps he was hungry, or tired, or craving affection. It’s been a while since Phil’s had any sort of romance in his life, after all. He probably just swooned over the first hot guy he’s seen in a while.

Even so. It’s worth waiting, just in case.

Time ticks on. Phil plays around a hundred games of Candy Crush, then switches to scrolling through Tumblr. He glances at the time at the top of the screen after his fifth reblog, and notes that it’s almost nine.

Phil sighs, taking his feet off the client table where he’s propped them. Dan is not coming.

He’s just starting to clear away the inks he’s set out in preparation, when a voice startles him.

“Sorry I’m late.”

Phil shrieks, dropping his phone on the floor, and turns to the sound. Standing there, just in front of the door, is Dan, haloed in the milky white light pouring in from the street. His face is in shadow, but it’s undoubtedly him. Even the way he holds himself is ethereal somehow, as if he’s stepped straight off of whatever cloud he perches on in his free time.

As his heart struggles to settle back into a normal rhythm, Phil straightens up. “You made it.”

Dan nods, then steps a little further into the room. “Do you still want to do this?”

As he gets nearer, Phil’s eyes lift above his head, to the little bell above the door. It’s perfectly still. How on earth did Dan manage to get in here without making a sound?

“Y-yes, if that’s okay,” Phil replies, immediately moving to get everything in order. He puts a fresh layer of tissue down on the client table, and switches on the gun. “Obviously no worries if you’re having second thoughts, or-”

Phil stops speaking. Dan has walked over to the table, and is pulling off his t-shirt. An immediate warmth spreads into Phil’s cheeks. Even in the dusky, silver darkness, illuminated only by the novelty lamps and fairylights Phil has kept on, Dan is stunning. His skin seems to run on for miles, coating his body like treacle, clinging tightly to each curve and muscle, as if its aware of the precious body it’s protecting.

“Um, what are you doing?” Phil asks, dazedly.

Dan turns to him, chest bare. He folds his t-shirt and places it on the client table. “This is what you want, right?”

Yes.

“No. Well, I mean… don’t you want to, I don’t know, talk about it first?” Phil is floundering, he can feel it; this is all so unusual. Normally he’s the one with all the control, and it’s the volunteer who’s flustered and nervous.

Dan frowns. “I thought the whole idea is that I’m not supposed to know anything.”

“Well…” Phil can’t argue with him there. It’s true; much of the uniqueness of this project stems from the idea of the trusted bond between the artist and the subject. They’re supposed to be unaware of how the finished result will look, to have surrendered their body to Phil, to decorate as he pleases. “Yes. I just want to make sure you know what you’re agreeing to.”

Dan scrutinises him, eyes narrowing. “I understand the concept. You will tattoo me with a free-hand design, One that you have not pre-drawn, based on how you perceive me, and my body. I will not know the design until it’s finished.”

It might be the longest sentence Dan has said yet; his turn of phrase is like something out of a black and white film. It occurs to Phil for the first time that everything about Dan, barr his plain-ish, but normal, clothes, is somewhat old-fashioned. His accent is proper and Southern English. Perhaps he’s from a wealthy family, one where he had a butler, and a governess that taught him diction and etiquette.

He’d been so gentleman-ly towards his friend, holding doors for her, offering his arm to steady her as she climbed on and off the table. Phil tries to remember if he’s seen Dan handling a mobile phone, and comes to the conclusion that he hasn’t. Even though he was waiting for Vicki for over an hour yesterday, and must have been bored. What with his encyclopaedic knowledge of flower breeds, alongside the rosiness of his cheeks that seems straight out of an Austen novel, it would be easy to see Dan as a nineteenth-century gentleman, or possibly from a time even earlier than that.

“Okay, well if you’re on board, have a read of this and sign here,” Phil says, handing Dan a clipboard with the standard form of consent attached. “Also, underneath there’s a release form for the photos I’ll take of the piece when I’m done. If you could sign that too, that’d be great.”

Phil busies himself with putting on a disposable apron and gathering his materials as Dan reads it all over. As soon as he tears his gaze from the other man, the brunt of his own idiocy slams into him, and he wants to laugh at himself for having such ridiculous, fantastical ideas. Dan being from another time. Dan’s manner of speaking being anything more than the result of an upper-class upbringing, or possibly a stint in some snooty Private School.

When Phil turns back around, Dan is sat on the table, perfectly still, back straight. The clipboard is beside him, signed and dated. Somewhat surprised at the speed with which Dan managed to read and complete this, Phil takes the forms, checks them over, and shoots Dan a smile.

“Okay then, let’s get started.”

Already, Phil’s heart is thrumming. All of that beautiful, unmarked skin. He circles around the table, studying the dip of Dan’s waist, the angle of his shoulders, the jut of his collarbone. It’s near impossible to decide what to do with it all. Dan has consented to anything - any design, any size, any array of colours or shapes or words.

“What are you doing?” Dan asks, sounding genuinely perplexed.

“Just, um, deciding.”

Dan’s eyes remain trained on him as he circles. It’s mildly unnerving, as ever, to be under his close attention, but Phil does his best to ignore it.

“Okay,” Phil says eventually, though in truth he’s no closer to making up his mind. Every part of Dan is as beautiful as the next. Purely for the sake of having a larger canvas to work with, Phil opts to go for his back. “Lie down on your front for me, please.”

Dan does so, his movements graceful and smooth where Phil has seen many others be awkward and fumbling. He has his arms by his sides, his face turned to the left. He’s tense, shoulder blades taut. Reflexively, Phil runs a hand over them, and Dan flinches.

“Relax,” he mutters. It’s not the most professional thing to do or say, but it seems to work after a moment or two. He retracts his hand quickly then, catching himself, cheeks aflame. He needs to get himself under control. If he allows his attraction to Dan to work him up any further, he might mess this up, ruining not only his own project, but also Dan’s perfect, nascent skin. For this to go smoothly, he needs to be completely at ease. “Okay, I’m going to start now. Just let me know if it gets too painful, or if you want a break or something.”

“Does it usually hurt a lot?” The question doesn’t appear to stem from any sort of fear, but more from curiosity. As if Dan is far more concerned with the wellbeing of those who have already undergone this procedure, rather than himself.

Phil’s hand stills as he reaches for his gun. “I think it depends on the person.”

Dan nods, his cheek rubbing against the faux black leather of the table. With no further questions apparent on Dan’s tongue, Phil takes hold of the gun, and dips it into the little pot of black ink. He takes a deep inhale, braces himself for the blissful patch of time ahead, and sets to work.

*

Phil doesn’t mean for it to take three hours, but then he looks at the clock, and it’s midnight. He’s been chatting to Dan sporadically; the conversation has been mostly one-sided, as Dan isn’t particularly talkative. Phil is fairly used to this however, as a lot of the time his clients are in too much pain to hold a proper conversation. He’s probably been babbling about nothing to a bored Dan for the last three hours.

Every now and then, Dan will flinch, but it doesn’t seem like it’s from pain. It’s more like a nervous twitch. It feels anxious, as though Dan is on edge about something. The first few times it happens, Phil stops immediately, asking Dan if everything’s alright. Dan just mutters something abstract, blaming his reaction on a non-existent chill, or a muscle spasm. After a while, Phil stops asking. At midnight, he leans away from his work, feeling embarrassed that he let time slip away from him. It’s hard to stop once he’s started, especially in these free-hand sessions. He could keep adding to a design for hours, and this one has quickly become one of his favourites.

“Crap,” Phil mutters, placing the gun back in its holder. “Sorry, I didn’t realise it was so late. Are you okay?”

Dan meets his eyes. He’s in the exact same position, head still turned to the left. His expression is neutral, and he shows no signs of distress, at least. Phil’s gaze glides over the tattoo he’s outlined onto Dan’s back. It’s almost done, just needs a little bit more shading, a few more details added. Another twenty minutes should do the trick.

“I’m okay, yes,” Dan replies. “You don’t have to stop.”

The tattoo is much larger than Phil initially thought it would be. He’d thought, before he began, that he’d keep it mid-size, and not too intricate, as it’s Dan’s first. It seems his mind and hand ran away together however, eloping into the waters of something rather spectacular and heavy.

“I’m almost done,” Phil says, sheepish. “We can continue if you’re still okay.”

“I’m fine,” Dan says again.

Phil pauses, gun in his hand. “It doesn’t hurt?”

“No,” Dan says, a little too quickly. He pauses, then says, “it’s really not that bad.”

It doesn’t make a lot of sense; Dan has never had a tattoo in his life. Usually the first are the most painful, simply because it’s unprecedented. But Dan doesn’t seem like he’s saying it just to sound tough. He genuinely seems unaffected, despite the complexity of the tattoo, the largeness of it.

“Just tell me if you’re in pain,” Phil says, unsurely. “I don’t mind if you want to stop.”

Dan nods, vaguely, seeming focused on other things.

The tattoo takes another half hour to complete, and Dan doesn’t so much as let out a squeak of complaint. He sighs once or twice, deep and heavy, melting into the table beneath him. Otherwise he barely speaks, content to just lie there under Phil’s ministrations.

As soon as he’s finished, Phil sits up straight, letting out the breath that’s been playing in his lungs. “Okay,” he tells Dan. “Done.”

At once, Dan begins sitting up. Phil immediately stands, rushes to catch him, sure he’ll topple straight off the table; he must be woozy. But Dan remains perfectly composed, eyes falling in confusion to where Phil grips his arm.

“You don’t need to help me.”

“Oh, right,” Phil says, releasing him. He takes a swift step backwards. “Sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“Phil,” Dan says, his voice low, but somehow rich enough to fill the room. “When you were… working on me. Did you feel something?”

For a solid ten seconds, staring at Dan in the dark, Phil cannot wrap his head around the question. It seems for one bizarre moment that Dan might be referring to the magnetism he seems to radiate, pulling Phil towards him every time he’s anywhere near. But that’s absurd. Phil’s attraction to Dan is not a tangible sensation.

“Feel something? Like what?”

Dan regards him carefully, eyes roving over his face. “Doesn’t matter.”

The follow up questions rush to the tip of Phil’s tongue in a great bundle, but they stopper one another, preventing any from actually dripping out. Then, Dan has pulled his shirt back on, and the moment, somehow, is lost.

“So, I need to come back for photos?”

A pleased little thrill vibrates through Phil’s stomach as he realises that he’s going to get to see Dan again. “Oh, yes. Maybe in a couple of weeks? I’ll need to check it’s healing properly anyway, so we can do it then.”

Dan nods. “Two weeks from today, then?”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Phil replies, smiling. He pulls off his apron, and starts clearing away his work station. “Same time?”

“I can try to be earlier,” Dan offers. “I got… held up today. But I can be here at eight-thirty next time.”

“Cool,” Phil says, trying to act unbothered. “No pressure. You’re doing me a huge favour, Dan.”

“I…” Dan looks thrown for a moment, which is unusual. “You’re welcome.”

*

“So, what did you end up drawing on the cute twink, then?” PJ asks, setting a coffee down at Phil’s work station.

“Is this the lanky, stoned-looking kid who was in here the other day?” Steph asks, crossing the room to grab another of the coffees from the tray in PJ’s hands. “The one you couldn’t stop gawping at?”

Phil splutters at her, shooing the two of them with his hands; neither of them budge, unsurprisingly. “Come on, guys. You know I don’t let anyone see the finished tat until the exhibition.”

Steph rolls her eyes. “All this secretive stuff. It’s poor taste to keep your creations from your friends, Philly.”  

PJ slings an arm around her, adopting an equally hurt expression. “Awful, isn’t it, Steph? He gets a little bit of recognition for his fancy doodles, and suddenly we’re cast aside.”

Phil laughs, but he feels a familiar pang of guilt in his chest. In truth, he’s not sure why he’s the one with the growing success story out of the three of them. PJ and Steph are, in Phil’s eyes, equally as talented as he is. It’s just that they all have vastly different styles. PJ, who has only just begun training as a tattooist, opts for a more cartoony style. He draws manga, and chibi art, along with mimicking the styles of any number of famous cartoon characters; this is a popular request amongst their customers.

Steph, their flame-haired, foul-mouthed beauty, is more of a portrait queen. She does intricate, heavily detailed black and white pieces, all of which are astonishingly accurate, and beautiful. She also loves the classic stuff: skulls, snakes, Celtic symbols, and pin-up girls. She’s popular too amongst the customers, but even so, the most requested artist is still Phil, by a long way.

It helps that ‘Heaven’s Gate’ has attracted a significant amount of press. He’s had his exhibitions written about a number of times in various newspapers. His last exhibition, in which he’d done two sleeves on a particularly willing volunteer, inspired by traditional Roman Catholic church stained glass windows, even had a small slot on Channel Four news. His mum had rung him in tears after catching it on TV, having not expected to see it.

“I’ll give you guys an exclusive, VIP tour around the exhibition before anyone else if you want,” Phil tries, attempting to rectify the situation. “I just want everything to be perfect before anyone sees.”

Steph walks over and kisses him on the top of the head. “Only teasing babe. We won’t force you to show us that li’l cutie’s bare bod until you’re ready. For now, he’s still all yours.”

*

Two weeks fly by in a blur of colour, ink, and a constant, burning desire to see Dan walk through the door of the shop once again. It’s nonsensical, Phil knows, but each time the little bell tinkles, Phil lifts his head in hope, sure he will be met with two soulful, toffee brown eyes. But he never shows.

The Wednesday that they have arranged to meet again, Phil has a difficult customer. She wants something complicated and ill-advised - a tribute to her two dead cats, one on each wrist, covered in flowers, paw prints, and their names in calligraphic font.

Phil tries to talk her into simplifying the design, but it takes a lot of persuasion to get her to budge. He does his best with it, silhouetting the two cats in a more simplistic outline instead of the full-blown portraits she wants.

In the end she seems happy with it, and though it’s not his favourite work, Phil is at least not that ashamed to claim it as his own. He chooses not to post the finished tattoos on his Instagram, however.

At closing time, Steph flounces out, announcing that her boyfriend is driving her out for burgers and vodka slushies on the beach somewhere. Then, PJ does his usual routine of pretending to clear things up for twenty minutes as an excuse to keep Phil company. Eventually, he leaves as well, and Phil is once again alone. Eight-thirty comes and goes, but he doesn’t have to wait as long this time.

Dan arrives at around eight-forty-two. He has a Starbucks in his hand. It’s peculiar, seeing him hold something so brand-name. He definitely comes across as more of an independent coffee-shop kind of guy. 

“Hi,” Dan says, already walking over. He pushes the cup into Phil’s hand before he can say anything, then begins pulling off his t-shirt. “I brought you this.”

“Oh,” Phil says, looking down at the cup in surprise. “For me? Thanks.”

He takes a cautious sip; it’s frothy and sweet, the perfect temperature.

“You’re welcome,” Dan replies. The words seem to fit strangely in his mouth, like he’s not used to saying them.

“How did you know I like Caramel Macchiatos?” Phil jokes, setting it down on his work station.

Strangely, Dan stiffens, and his eyes go wide. “I didn’t. Obviously, I couldn’t have. It was a guess.”

Phil looks at him, eyebrows raised. “Y-yeah, I know. I’m just kidding.”

Dan holds his gaze for a moment, then nods. He clambers onto the table, laying on his front the way he had before, head turned to one side. Phil sighs, settling in for another unusual evening, and switches on the overhead work lamp.

He adjusts his glasses, then wheels closer on his chair, inspecting the tattoo. “How’s it been? Have you been keeping it clean and-”

He breaks off, staring.

“What is it?” Dan asks sharply.

This is not possible. Phil’s finger reaches out, tracing along the lines of ink he remembers drawing just fourteen days earlier. He scoots even closer, bringing his face right up to the skin in the hopes it might reveal an explanation.

The tattoo is completely healed.

Two weeks is barely enough time for it to have scabbed over, let alone for the ink to have properly sunk into the skin. Phil marvels at the sight of it; if he were a stranger to Dan, he’d guess this piece was four, maybe five months old.

“I don’t… I don’t understand.”

All of a sudden, Dan surges up, like a cat resting on his front elbows. The movement nearly catches Phil in the jaw. “What’s wrong? What did you feel?”

Feel?

“N-nothing, I just-”

It all happens very quickly then. One moment, Phil is again reaching out to touch Dan’s back, and the next he’s being thrown backwards, out of his chair, and across the room by a great, magnificent explosion of blinding, vivacious blue. It shocks him, sending goosebumps hurtling over his skin, his scalp screaming in outrage as every strand of hair jerks upright. He lands on his ass, a few metres away, his back smashing into Steph’s work station, sending a load of her empty mugs and bobble heads tumbling down onto his head.

It hurts like hell, but Phil is not focused on the pain. He’s too wired, like he’s been hooked up to a thousand volts of pure, raw power; the aftershocks course through him, thrumming in his chest, pulsating over every limb. It's a pleasant, almost blissful feeling, as if the current is stroking against each nerve, as if a floodgate has been lifted in his cerebral cortex, releasing every endorphin in his brain in a great surge.

Phil pants, trying to get the sensation under control; the next thing he knows, Dan is crouched in front of him, hands on his shoulders, eyes wide. There’s something in their depths, too, a flicker of opalite crystal, far in the deep black holes of his pupils.

He hears his name on Dan’s lips, briefly, softly. He feels Dan take hold of his arm; there’s a gash on his wrist, he notices, bleeding and scarlet. Dan is frowning at it, concerned. He watches, from somewhere in the back of his mind, as Dan places his hand over the cut. Another, softer glow of that same brilliant blue light appears from beneath Dan’s palm; Phil can feel the warmth, the fizz, radiating into his skin, then shudders as it sinks deeper, into the muscle, the sinew, the bone. Dan lifts his hand after a few seconds, and the wound is gone.

It’s at that moment that Phil passes out.

*

When he comes to, Phil is somehow on the client table. He doesn’t remember how he got there, and is immediately confused. The bright overhead work lamp is still on, making him squint. He wonders if his clients have to endure this torture each time he works on them; the intensity of the garish light is making his head squeeze.

He sits up, the room swirling, trying to fit the pieces of what just happened together. He has no idea how long he’s been unconscious, but he imagines it can’t have been more than ten minutes. It’s around then that he notices Dan, sat in his office chair beside him, back straight, shirt still off, watching him with an avid intensity.

A sharp strike of fear suddenly whips into Phil’s gut. Whatever mental, utterly unfathomable thing is going on, Dan would appear to be the cause of it. Phil brings his forearm up to his face for inspection, remembering that it was injured at some point, but there’s no sign of any wound ever being there. In the next moment, he realises that his tattoo of a tiny sparrow, the one Steph inked into him on her first day at Angelis, is gone.

Phil scrambles off the table and darts around the other side of it, wanting to have something between he and Dan. It’s not that he feels afraid, exactly, because Dan just looks like a beautiful boy, still. Hardly intimidating. His frustration is the thing agitating him, making his heart race, his palms sweat. He needs to know what on earth is happening, why he’s been unconscious, why he feels like a million electrically charged needles are pricking at his skin. 

“What the fuck,” Phil hisses into the silence, because he can’t think of a better way to voice his thoughts right now.

“Careful,” Dan tells him, wary. “You’ll likely be stronger than you think right now.”

Phil takes a moment, trying to allow time for Dan’s words to fold into his brain, to make any kind of sense. “What?”

Dan presses his lips together. “Perhaps you should sit down again.”

“Tell me what’s going on,” Phil demands. “What was that blue explosion? How did you make that cut on my arm disappear?”

“I apologise for all of that,” Dan says slowly, eyes shifting away from Phil’s. “I overreacted. I thought that maybe you’d felt… something. Something that would have confused you. On me. It was not my intention to hurt you.”

“Why do you keep going on about me ‘feeling’ something when I touch you?” Phil asks. “If you have some kind of medical condition, you’re supposed to write it on the form I gave you-”

Dan laughs, shrill and loud. The sound of it is so jarring that Phil’s sentence breaks off before it can reach a conclusion. Something about Dan laughing doesn’t seem to fit right. It occurs to Phil, belatedly, that he doesn’t think he’s seen the other man so much as smile before now.

“It’s not a medical condition. At least not one that you, or anyone you know, would recognise.”

It feels as though Phil’s mind is going a mile a minute; he can’t keep up with his thoughts. Paranoia attacks him from every angle, suggesting trillions of possibilities, none of which seem even remotely plausible. Unable to decipher any singular voice among the cacophony, Phil plucks one at random.

“Are you an alien?”

Dan lifts his eyes to Phil’s. “I guess it depends on who you ask.”

“I’m asking you,” Phil says through gritted teeth.

He attempts to stand straighter, wanting to draw himself up to his full height, to appear strong in the face of whatever danger is seemingly before him. Instead, he wobbles, unsteady on his feet, and almost falls to the floor.

Impossibly fast, Dan is at his side, steadying him. There’s a strange, sharp scent emanating from his body, like how Phil imagines the ozone layer might smell, or the taste of the air in the midst of a storm the instant before lightning strikes. Dan helps Phil back onto the client table, sitting him on it carefully; Phil can’t be sure, but Dan seems strong - perhaps too strong. His insistent pushes are gentle, but incredibly firm.

“You have known my kind by many names,” Dan answers him, once he is settled. “In the past, we were Seraphs. Soldiers of Heaven. Now, people tend not to believe in such things, so we are aliens, or monsters, or ghosts.”

“Ohh, I’m dreaming,” Phil realises, shoulders slumping in relief. He chuckles to himself. “I fell asleep waiting for you to show up, and I’m dreaming.”

A glow, pure blue and piercing, ignites on the horizon of Dan’s steady gaze. Phil watches as it flickers in the depths of his pupils, then snuffs out. “No,” Dan sighs. “You aren’t.”

Phil swallows, something akin to fear crawling along his skin. Again, Phil doesn’t feel afraid of Dan necessarily, more of the situation, the realisation that - if what Dan’s saying is true - then his life, his world is a lie. That he’s been living in a Matrix, unaware of the truth beyond.

“What do you want,” Phil whispers. “Why are you here?”

The question seems to strike something in Dan, and a flash of pain is visible on his beautiful face. “I don’t know.”

There’s such a vulnerability in the way he shrinks from the question that Phil lurches towards it, as if Dan has shrunk from a lion to a stray kitten, in need of protection. Instinctively, Phil reaches a hand towards him, placing it on his bare shoulder. At once, Dan freezes, staring down at the hand, as if he’s not sure how to respond to it. It’s so awkward that Phil draws it away again, embarrassed.

“Why would you… let me do this?” Phil asks, gesturing vaguely towards the tattoo on Dan’s back. “If it’s true. If you’re… what you say you are.”

“Because I won’t be much longer. You wanted my skin. I failed to see the harm in it. This body is just a vessel, something to contain my mortality. It means nothing to me.” Dan replies, subdued. His gaze is travelling off into the distance, appearing to look past the wall of the shop, possibly to somewhere Phil can’t see. “I am falling.”

Phil is no stranger to Angelic Lore. As his subject series is centred around all things Heavenly, he’s had to brush up on his research. ‘Falling’ is the term used for Angels who have done something wrong, something that warrants banishment from Heaven.

“What did you do?”

Dan looks surprised, as if he hadn’t expected Phil to understand him. “It’s not what I’ve done. It’s what I will do.”

All of this is making Phil’s head hurt. His mind still races, uncontrollably, dizzyingly, but it seems as if it’s starting to slow. A rogue carousel, at last winding down, leaving him nauseous. He presses his palm to his forehead, squeezing his eyes closed. 

“Ah,” he hisses.

Unexpected warmth covers the hand against his head. “Sorry,” Dan murmurs. “This is my fault. It’s my Grace. It’s not meant for human tolerance. When you touched me, I panicked. I fluxed. My Grace flew out, struck you like a gong. You’re still vibrating with the aftershocks, the Grace lingering in your system. I imagine things might feel a little… overcharged for a while.”

Phil’s eyes peel open; Dan’s hand is pressed over his, pressing it to his forehead, like a concerned parent feeling for a temperature. There’s a tiny crease between his brows.

“That shiny blue stuff,” Phil says, weakly. “It’s your... Grace?”

The corner of Dan’s mouth twitches, hinting at a smile; Phil zeroes in on it, fascinated. “Yes. Though it seems to be rapidly depleting.”

“Because you’re falling,” Phil surmises. Dan nods, the twitch of a smile disappearing. Phil misses it the moment it’s gone. “Tell me,” Phil urges.

There’s a silence; Dan doesn’t remove his hand. “For my kind, time is not finite. Not like it is for humans. Every lifespan - yours, mine, everyone’s - is written out, sewn into the fabric of the Universe. My kind may view them at any time if we wish to. I can see what any human, or I, or any of my siblings, have done a thousand years ago, or one second ago, or will do in a hundred minutes from now.”

Phil’s eyes widen. “I don’t think I’d want to know.”

Dan smiles then, and it’s so beautiful, so genuine, that Phil forgets how to breathe. A dimple pushes itself into Dan’s cheek; Phil wonders if it’s even Dan’s true cheek, if that dimple belongs to him, his true form, or if this body before him is just an illusion.

In the next moment, he decides he doesn’t care.

“I didn’t either,” Dan confesses. “But one of my sisters sought out my timeline. She saw something in my future, something that I will do, that will be unforgivable.”

“What is it?” Phil’s heartbeat is a slow, steady drum. 

“I will fall in love.”

“Oh,” Phil’s eyes widen. His head pounds still, but it’s dulling to more of a distant throb. It occurs to him, perhaps after a longer time than it should have, that Dan might be crazy, or an elaborate prankster, armed with a magician’s sleeve of blue flashing light tricks. Then, Dan’s eyes meet his again, and they flicker ever so slightly, that distant glimmer of something more than human in the depths. “With who?”

For a mad, fleeting second, Phil imagines it could be him. That Dan was sent into his shop through divine intervention instead of random coincidence. That he’s destined to be Dan’s, and Dan is destined to be his, and that together they will find a new Heaven, inside one another, one that’s enough to obliterate whatever Paradise Dan has already lived in.

Then Dan says: “I don’t know.”

So much for that, then.

“Another Angel?”

Even the word sounds ridiculous. Angel. It’s like saying ‘ghoul’ or ‘goblin’ in a completely serious conversation. Dan seems nonplussed. “No. Angels don’t fall in love.” There’s a twist to Dan’s pretty mouth. “They don’t feel any emotions. They observe, they don’t participate. If we feel, we fall.”

“So you’ll fall in love with a human.”

Dan nods, distractedly, looking as if he’d rather speak about anything else. “So it is written.”

“And then what?”

“Then I’ll become mortal,” Dan says, the words getting stuck in his throat. “I’ll lose my Grace. I won’t be able to heal, or see past the laws of human physics, or fly, or-”

“Woah, wait,” Phil jumps in, eyes wide. “You can fly?”

“For now.”

“So, what… you have wings?”

There’s a glimmer of amusement visible on Dan’s face, presumably prompted by Phil’s obvious, childlike excitement. “I think they’re disappearing. I thought for a moment that you might be able to feel them as you… touched me. But you didn’t. So they must be almost gone.”

Dan’s face drops into a sadness that’s almost unbearable to look upon. Images of distraught, marble Angels, their arms flung across mausoleums appear before Phil’s eyes. In this instant, mourning for his lost flight, Dan is every bit as devastating, every bit as hauntingly sad. 

Phil has to drag his gaze from the sight, lest he weep for Dan’s grief. Then, out of nowhere, a laugh barks from his throat; it startles Dan. 

“Sorry,” Phil says, shaking his head at his own insensitivity. “It just occurred to me how… ironic this is.”

“Ironic.” Dan’s echo is cold.

“Just... here I am with a seven-part ongoing subject series about Heaven, and then you, like, literally fall out of the sky! A real-life Angel! And I didn’t even know that when I started tattooing you.”

There’s a pregnant pause; in the torturous silence between them, Phil wishes for the earth to swallow him up whole. 

“I should go,” Dan says, suddenly. Any openness about him has gone, suddenly. In its place rise enormous gilt Church doors, barred and locked, preventing Phil from getting anything more out of him.

“Wait, don’t leave,” Phil says, panicked. If Dan walks out like this, he’s sure he will never see him again. “I’m sorry - shit - my mind’s a mess. I didn’t mean to upset you, it’s just… well, you have to admit - of all the things I could have tattooed onto you…”

Dan pauses, already halfway across the room. He turns to Phil, head cocked to one side. “What did you tattoo onto me?”

Phil balks at him. “You haven’t seen?”

Dan’s head shakes slowly.

“Well… shit! I’ll show you right now. I still have to take some photos…” Phil slips off the table, carefully, using it to balance himself. He’s a little steadier now; the nausea has receded somewhat, his head no longer pounding. “Would you stay a little longer? Just to pose for some photos, if you’re still okay with me using them. I’ll show you them after.”

There’s a long, drawn out pause. If Phil had to guess, he’d say that Dan was at war with himself. Eventually, for whatever reason, Dan nods, just a quick tilt of his chin towards the floor. It’s enough for Phil. He leaps to action, pushing the table out of the way, ripping down posters and fairylights on one white wall, leaving it bare.

He switches on the projector on the other side of the room, so it splashes a watery wash of rippling blue against the newly naked wall. Then, he takes Dan by the wrist, already flushing, and pushes him against it. He grabs his DSLR, which he mercifully had the common sense to charge, and gets to work.

“Okay,” Phil says. “T-turn around. With your back facing me, yeah, like that.”

The blue filter cascades over Dan’s back, dappling the broad, intricate wings Phil has inked into the skin from shoulder to hip. As the aqua ripples flicker over the dip in his lower back, the wings flutter, lifelike. The time he’s spent perfecting the design is obvious, and Phil is pleased. The lines have settled nicely into Dan’s skin, not bleeding or smudged. Phil had used Celtic inspiration, drawing hundreds of delicate, precise swirls and loops into a typical wing shape, fanning them right across Dan’s shoulders, then down into the curve of his waist.

It must have been painful, difficult to bear for even an experienced tattoo patron, but Dan had never once made a sound. Perhaps mortal pain is not one of the things he’s subject to, yet.

“Can you spread your arms out wide, against the wall?” Phil asks; as he does it, the wings seem to expand, the swirls contracting as his muscles move beneath. “Wow, Dan. That looks beautiful.”

They do a number of different positions, experimenting. Dan lifts his arms over his head like a ballerina. He extends one arm, then has both on his hips. Hit with a sudden flash of inspiration, Phil asks Dan to lie on the floor, and switches on the overhead light, positioning it so it blares against his back.

He gets a little carried away, and ends up crouched over Dan, hovering above his bum as he snaps photo after photo. He kneels, one leg either side of Dan’s hips, straddling him as he points the lens between his shoulder blades.

Click, click, click. Snap, snap, snap.

And then, Dan rolls over, swivelling in the valley of Phil’s thighs until he’s facing upwards; in the moment that follows, Phil tumbles, headfirst, into the caramel of Dan’s eyes. His hand seems to stretch out towards that faint flicker of milky blue, glimmering in the black holes of Dan’s wide, blown pupils. His fingertips only skim the edges, never quite catching hold.

Phil doesn’t know how they end up kissing, but if he had to guess, he’d say he was pulled into it by Dan’s ethereal, celestial gravity. One moment, he’s suspended above Dan’s perfect face, the next he’s leaning in, the camera around his neck jutting between their chests as he finds Dan’s mouth and seals his own over it.

Dan tastes exactly how Phil might have dreamed an Angel would, were he to ever give it some thought. He tastes of pearlescent starlight pouring in through a car rooftop after a long, night drive. Of powerful ocean waves plummeting fruitlessly into sheer, chalk-white cliffs. Of waking at midnight in his childhood bedroom, safe in the content knowledge he has hours left to dream. Of the sticky catch of sugar between his fingers, the sweet, crunchy remnants of a toffee apple on his tongue.

The most shocking thing about it is perhaps how Dan responds. Whilst Phil has only seen a calm, restrained passivity in him thus far, Dan’s kiss is feral. It is a primal, ferocious thing; a wild animal breaking free of captivity. He kisses as one might if he had been starved of even the concept. His teeth are sharp, and his tongue is frantic, as though he wants to taste every nook of Phil’s mouth. Dan’s hands find their way underneath Phil’s t-shirt, and as the fingers tickle his skin, a hint of that same thrilling electricity shocks him, alighting nerves in his hips and thighs, ones Phil didn’t even know were there.

“Dan,” Phil whispers as the rush of Grace pushes into his bloodstream.

This one, near incoherent utterance seems to be the thing that breaks the spell. One moment Dan is beneath him, wild with a passion he possibly did not know existed. The next, he is gone, suddenly yards away, one hand braced against the blue-wash wall, panting and wide-eyed. His shirt is back on, the tattoo once again obscured from view.

Phil collapses to the floor, no longer buoyed by anything; he feels dumb. “What- what’s wrong?”

“I have to go,” Dan tells him. “I can’t…”

“Wait,” Phil says desperately, struggling to his feet with some difficulty. “Tell me I’ll see you again.”

Dan’s eyes meet his, tortured. He opens his mouth to respond, and Phil knows it will be a refusal, so he jumps in first, not wanting to hear it.

“Come to my exhibition,” he pleads. “Please. It’s on June 11th. Come and see how perfect you are.”

Dan shuts his eyes, tight. It’s as though he’s trying to block out the sight of the world around him, Phil included. “I would tell you not to tell anyone about this,” Dan murmurs. “About me. But then, I highly doubt anyone would believe you.”

“Dan,” Phil tries, though he has no clue what to say.

“Goodbye, Phil,” Dan says.

His eyes flick open, casting a final glimmer of dazzling blue across the room, and then he is gone.

*

“This is your best one,” Steph tells Phil, privately, catching hold of his arm as he pours himself another flute of champagne. “By far the best of the series. He’s perfect. I can tell he really inspired you.”

Phil grimaces. She’s perhaps the fiftieth person to tell him this tonight. 

“Thanks,” he says, bitter now because he’s had to say it over and over, when really each compliment is like a punch to the gut. “He did.”

Steph winds an arm around him, presses a kiss to the top of his head. “Hey, chin up. An artist’s muse is always fickle. They’re there to be looked at, not to love.”

Phil smiles, strained, and moves off. At some point, a speech is made in his honour, and people applaud him. The photos turned out gorgeous, but Phil knew they would. Phil can’t bear to look at them, though they’re plastered on every one of this gallery’s walls. The model is a true icon, people exclaim, a potential star on the rise. Phil refuses to name him, has captioned each photo as simply ‘The Angel’. Everyone who has attended tonight has gushed over the photos, as well as the tattoo depicted; he’s had buyers flocking to him, desperate to hang Dan in their private galleries, and Phil can’t blame them. His next few months of tattoo sessions are already booked up, according to PJ. 

It’s a hugely successful event, and Phil knows he should be over the moon. He sips more champagne, avoiding the dozens of pairs of Dan’s eyes, all of which seem to watch him.

In the weeks since Dan evaporated from his life, Phil has become a shell. He yearns for a thing that no other human person can understand. He aches for something that he only clasped fleetingly, for a boy who wasn’t even a boy, for a creature he may have dreamed into existence.

The only proof he has that Dan was real are these photos lining the walls. And now, each of them has been sold off. By the end of the night, he won’t even have those. PJ tries to console him, tries to remind him that the success of this one exhibition will likely be enough to sustain him for years. At least twenty journalists have approached him, asking for exclusive interviews, but Phil has brushed them all away. It doesn’t deter them; elusive, mysterious, brooding artists are all the rage.

Finally, after what seems like years, the night draws to a close. The patrons dwindle, having exhausted the free wine and nibbles. Steph blows him a kiss as she leaves, congratulating him in great whooping cheers as she sweeps her long dress out of the door. PJ, as usual, offers to stay longer, but Sophie is already dragging on his arm. 

“It’s fine guys,” Phil assures them. “I’m gonna leave in a sec too. I just want a final look around. The owner gave me the keys to lock up.”

So, at last, Phil is once again alone with Dan. He gazes out of every frame, seeming to stick Phil in place, right in the centre. A black and white photo, the largest of them all, stares at him from the centre of a far wall. In it, Dan looks over one shoulder, his piercing eyes seeing straight down the lens, looking beyond it, into the eyes of the spectator. His wings are deflated in the folds of his hunched shoulders. He is calm, and serene.

“They didn’t look like this.”

Phil swivels, almost stumbling, the few glasses of champagne not helping to keep him steady. Dan - the real, physical form of Dan - is stood at the side of the room, neck craned as he stares at a photo of himself. It’s one of just his back, arms spread wide, elongating wings, as if he were about to lift off the floor and take flight.

For a long, palpable moment, all Phil can do is look at him. His clothes are different, though just as nondescript. Now he wears an oversized jumper, white with thin blue stripes. The sleeves hang over his hands.

“No?” Phil whispers.

Dan turns to him, slowly. “No.”

Cautiously, Phil takes a step towards him. “Tell me how they looked.”

As he gets closer, it’s obvious that there is a glisten in Dan’s eyes. “Bigger,” Dan says. “Broader. They were made of light, and interplanetary dust.”

“Oh,” Phil says, trying a smile. “Is that all?”

Beautifully, Dan splutters a laugh; as he does it, two tears fall down his cheeks. “They were bigger than skyscrapers, if I wanted them to be.”

Phil takes another step towards him. “Show off.”

Dan sniffs, smile watery. “I could have beat you back into another dimension with one flap.”

“I’d have found a way back to you, I think.”

Dan looks down at the floor. “I don’t understand why any of this is happening. Why you? Why me?”

Phil is close enough now that he is able to reach out, tilt Dan’s chin up with two fingers, so he does. “I thought Angels were supposed to know all about fate.”

Dan shakes his head, though he doesn’t break their joined gaze. “I’m not an Angel anymore.”

“How come?”

“I fell in love,” Dan replies.

Another tear falls, trickling down until it touches Phil’s finger. He brings it to his mouth to taste. “He must have been quite something. To ensnare a creature like you.”

Dan doesn’t reply for a moment, but when Phil wraps two arms around him, he doesn’t struggle. “You gave me my wings back,” Dan whispers into his chest. “I didn’t even know.”

“Do you like them?”

“They’re beautiful.”

“I’ll make it worth it,” Phil promises, pressing a kiss to his head. “Falling. I don’t know how yet, but I will. I can make you happy. As happy as you ever were.”

Dan’s head lifts, and he stares Phil in the eyes. The flicker of blue is still visible, just. “I’ve been so scared of falling,” Dan confesses. Phil’s arms squeeze him tightly. “I never even thought… it never occurred to me.”

“What never occurred to you?”

Phil brushes a curl from his forehead, kissing the patch of golden skin it leaves behind.

“That falling is better than flying,” Dan says, mouth twitching in a smile. “As long as there’s someone to catch you.”