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Will is fifteen when he first realizes that a body can be a canvas.
It happens gradually, like how the first snowfall of the season starts as dusted flurries and eventually transitions into a thick blanket of glittered frost. There isn’t a moment where something clicks into place, but it’s more like a slow accumulation of small observations stacking on top of each other until the thought settles somewhere deep and stays there.
It’s the day that Jonathan decides to take him out of town that starts the snowfall.
There isn’t a real reason for them to be going out of town. No big plan. No actual destination. Jonathan simply wakes up early one morning and goes into Will’s room announcing, “I think we need to get out for the day. Just get away from Hawkins.”
And that’s really how they end up in the car, driving out of Hawkins until they reach somewhere far enough away. They leave a note for Joyce and Hopper that they’ll be back later, and to text if anything. The windows are rolled down as they drive, letting in the kind of crisp morning air spring always brings. Jonathan keeps the music low, his playlist alternating between Bon Iver, Daughter, and Lord Huron. They don’t talk much at first. They don’t have to. They let the quiet hum of the car lull them into a sense of contentment as Youth by Daughter drifts from the speakers.
If you’re still bleeding, you’re the lucky ones, the singer murmurs, and Will watches the road blur past the window, unsure why the words lodge somewhere in his chest. 'Cause most of our feelings, they are dead and they are gone…
They end up in a small downtown area that Will has never seen before. He’s pretty sure Jonathan isn’t familiar with the area either, but he has a quiet confidence surrounding him as he and Will wander through the town. They visit antique stores and thrift stores, and small mom-and-pop boutiques that feel like a staple to the town. They visit a warm diner with faded menus in the window and a juke box that works. They find a record shop that Jonathan disappears into for twenty minutes (but that’s okay because Will finds posters that remind him of his friends. They each leave the store with a bunch of items they don’t at all need).
It’s outside the tattoo shop that Will slows to a stop.
The sign buzzes faintly in the window. The glass is cluttered with flash sheets—flowers, skulls, snakes, letters that curl and twist around invisible arms. Will doesn’t know how long he stands there before Jonathan notices.
“You wanna check it out?” Jonathan asks, like it’s nothing. No pressure. No expectations.
Will hesitates at first, fingers curling into the cuff of his hoodie. He’s not sure what he wants, only that something about the place feels… deliberate. Like everything inside it exists because someone chose it to.
Finally, Will nods. “Just to look.”
The inside is more or less what Will would expect a tattoo shop to feel like. Rock and metal music plays low throughout the shop, threading through the steady hum of buzzing machines. The shop smells clean, like it’s constantly being disinfected and sterilized. It should scare him, but oddly enough it doesn’t. Maybe because he’s spent enough time around Eddie that he’s desensitized to this atmosphere.
Or maybe he’s desensitized in general.
Jonathan drifts toward the counter, talking to the artist like this is a normal place to be. Will lingers near the wall, eyes tracing lines and shapes, the way ink settles into skin in the photos pinned up like trophies.
He doesn’t think I want one at first.
He just thinks about how permanent it all is.
Jonathan appears at his side after a while, breaking the silence. “I’ve thought about getting one.” he says, like it’s suddenly occurred to him. “Nothing big.”
Will glances at him, surprised. “Really?”
Jonathan shrugs. “Yeah, why not? It’s permanent but it feels right. Feels like something you do when you’re old enough to decide for yourself.”
The idea settles between them, the heavy guitar of Bring Me The Horizon filling the space.
“If you get one,” Will starts, voice low, steady in a way that surprises him, “could I?”
Jonathan doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”
The artist asks questions about placement and size. Not too many, just enough for her to do her job. Jonathan goes first, rolling up his sleeve to expose his forearm. He chooses something simple, linework that’s easy to conceal. His jaw tightens but he doesn’t flinch. His expression remains calm, eyes on Will the whole time like he’s anchoring himself there.
When it’s Will’s turn, the artist asks if he’s sure.
Then she asks again.
Will nods both times.
The design is small. Something he’s drawn himself multiple times in the margins of his notebooks. He redraws it for the artists from memory. Two dice, angled slightly, like they’ve just been rolled and left where they landed. The words etched into the faces are subtle, almost easy to miss if you don’t know to look for them.
Still here.
He chooses his inner arm without thinking about it.
The needle hurts. Not unbearably. Just enough that he feels it. Just enough that it’s real. It’s a pain that makes him feel present in his body in a way he hasn’t in a long time.
When it’s done, he stares at it in the mirror like he’s looking at proof of something he can’t quite name yet. Not rebellion. Not recklessness.
Ownership.
Jonathan doesn’t smile until the bandage is securely wrapped around Will’s arm.
Joyce is furious when she finds out. Her voice shakes, unable to understand what would possess her sons to do something so reckless and stupid. Jonathan takes the blame immediately, stepping in front of Will like he always has.
Will listens from the hallway, fingers resting carefully over the fresh ink, heart steady in his chest.
He doesn’t regret it. Not once.
Will starts drawing differently after this.
It isn’t intentional at first. He just finds himself filling a new sketchbook with designs and symbols he doesn’t have the words for yet. Lines meant to curve with muscle. Shapes that make his chest ache in a way he can’t explain. People he sees on the bus, on the street, in the margins of his life.
Some nights he stays up too late, unable to sleep. Graphite smudges into the side of his hand, the same shapes appearing again and again without him realizing why.
He doesn’t show anyone at first.
Eddie is the first to find the sketchbook. By accident of course, which is to say he finds it the way Eddie finds everything: by ignoring boundaries entirely. He finds it one afternoon when Will arrives at the Harrington residence early for Hellfire, the sketchbook falling out of Will’s backpack before he can notice. Eddie grabs the sketchbook and flips it open before Will can stop him.
“Holy shit.” Eddie's eyes grow wide as he goes through the pages.
Will freezes, reaching for the book. “Give that back.”
“These are tattoo designs,” Eddie says, keeping the book well out of Will’s reach. “Like, actual good ones.”
Will shakes his head. “Those are just random sketches.”
“Yeah man, so is every tattoo.” Eddie looks up at him, serious for once. “Before it isn’t.”
A week later, Eddie shows up with a cheap practice gun and a pack of fake skin.
“Thought you might like to give this a try.” He says, grinning wide. “Don’t tattoo any real people yet. Unless they deserve it.”
Will learns slowly. He practices until his fingers ache and his arm buzzes with phantom vibrations. He messes up. A lot. But he tries again until his lines are steadier and his hands stop shaking.
By the time he leaves for college, tattooing isn’t a curiosity anymore. It’s a language. One he understands instinctively.
He gives himself another tattoo the day after he moves into his and Lucas’s shared dorm. He’s drawn the design at least sixteen times, and practiced tattooing it seventeen. The initial pain of the gun against his wrist nearly makes him stop. He forgot how much it actually hurts, the way the pain settles deep against his bone.
But he takes a breath to steady himself and continues. It takes longer than it probably should, considering the design isn’t complicated. He’s still sitting on the floor of his dorm room, surrounded by tattoo ink, cling wrap, and alcohol pads, when Lucas walks in, startled by the sight before him. He doesn’t say anything, choosing to sit in front of Will and watch as he finishes the precise lines and delicate shading.
He doesn’t remember how word gets around (probably someone from Lucas’s basketball team that visits their dorm), but students in his classes start asking questions. He’s hesitant at first but agrees to do something simple for a couple of friends he makes. He doesn’t charge them, but they leave a tip anyway.
But then more people start asking. People he vaguely knows on campus, and people he’s never met in his life. He says yes more often than not, charging much less than he probably should. By junior year, he’s the “tattoo guy” on campus. It’s illegal, yes, but oddly enough nobody rats him out. He’s the one campus secret everyone unanimously decides to keep.
It happens gradually, the way most important things do.
By the time Will realizes this isn’t a temporary fixation, he’s already stopped thinking of it as anything else.
And he just keeps drawing.
Lucas drops his keys in the bowl by the door as the apartment door clicks behind him. His gym bag slides off his shoulder as he kicks off his shoes. His shoulders ache in that familiar way it does that comes from running drills all day and correcting jump shots until his voice goes hoarse.
Lucas doesn’t mean to linger near the door, but the apartment feels too still to rush through. He pauses, taking in the smell of coffee and clean laundry, the low base of Will’s music drifting from somewhere inside. It gives him a moment to shed the day, to let his shoulders drop before he moves again.
“Hey!” he calls once he’s let the tension of the day roll off his shoulders.
“In here!” Will answers.
Lucas follows his voice into the living room where the small dining table has once again been claimed by loose paper, Will’s sketchbooks, and unfinished Celsius cans. The other boy is perched sideways in his seat, one knee tucked under him as he draws on the iPad Jonathan gifted him a year ago, stylus moving in slow, deliberate strokes. His sleeves are pushed up past his elbows, revealing lines and curves of ink Lucas has long since stopped noticing but never stopped registering.
Will has always looked like this when he’s focused. Like the world narrows down to whatever’s directly in front of him. It’s comforting in a way Lucas doesn’t have words for.
He watches Will for a second longer than he means to.
“How were the kids?” Will asks, eyes still on the device.
Lucas snorts quietly. “Relentless. One of them tried to dunk on me today.”
“And?” Will asks.
“I blocked him.” Lucas shrugs. “Had to remind him who he was dealing with. He hasn’t forgiven me yet.”
That earns a smile. Will finally looks up, eyes warm. “What a monster you are.”
The corner of Lucas’s mouth twitches. “Gotta maintain my reputation.”
He crosses the room, sitting in the seat closest to Will. He watches Will go back to his iPad, unable to see what he’s working on. It could be a plethora of things, an art piece he’s been commissioned to do, a tattoo design for his apprenticeship, or just something that struck inspiration. Lucas doesn’t ask any questions, just watches him, fidgeting with his fingers in his lap. He should say something casual. Something normal. Instead, he clears his throat.
“Hey so, um—”
Will pauses mid-line, stylus hovering. He looks up again, attention fully on Lucas now. “What’s up?”
Lucas shifts in his seat, suddenly aware of his own size in the room. He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, eyes flicking anywhere but Will’s face.
“So, I was thinking…” He starts after exhaling.
Will chuckles. “Sounds dangerous.”
“Ha, ha.” Lucas deadpans, but is relieved by the way the joke helps his nerves. “Anyway, I was thinking… and this might be weird. You can say no if you don’t want to.”
Will closes the iPad and sets it aside, brows knitting just slightly. “Okay.”
Lucas swallows. “I was wondering if you’d—” He stops, shakes his head once like he’s recalibrating. “If you’d want to design a tattoo for me.”
The room feels quieter besides the music filling the air.
Will doesn’t answer right away. He doesn’t look shocked or taken aback. His expression doesn’t change much actually, but something in him stills, like he’s listening past the words to what Lucas isn’t saying.
“You want me to design it?” he says slowly. “Or—”
“And do it.” Lucas adds quicker than he means to. “If you’re okay with that. I mean, I know you don’t just tattoo anyone, and you’ve been busy with your apprenticeship…” He trails off, then forces himself to meet Will’s eyes. “But I just thought… y’know, I trust you.”
That seems to break the spell.
Will’s fingers curl slightly where they rest against the table. His gaze flicks down for a moment, landing on the blooming bruise on Lucas’s forearm, then back up to Lucas’s face. There’s something careful in his expression now. Something steady.
“Yeah.” He says after a beat. “I can do that.”
Lucas lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. His shoulders relax, just a fraction. “Yeah?”
Will nods. “What, you thought I was gonna say no?”
Lucas splutters. “I dunno, man. You’re busy with commissions. And you’ve got a lot going on at the tattoo shop, and I didn’t want to…” He trails off, grimacing. “I didn’t want to make it weird.”
Will blinks. “Make it weird?”
Lucas shrugs, suddenly fixated on a loose thread on his shorts. “I just… didn’t want to assume. Or put you on the spot. Or mess anything up.”
Will studies him for a second, something soft flickering across his face.
“Lucas.” he says gently. “You’re my best friend.”
Lucas looks up at that.
“There was never going to be a version of this where I said no.” Will continues, like it’s obvious. Like it always has been. “Of course I’d say yes. In fact, I’d be offended if you didn’t inquire with me first. Your best friend is a tattoo artist, and you go to someone else before him? Unforgivable.”
Lucas huffs a laugh. “Yeah, you’re right. I just… wanted to be sure.”
Will smiles then, small and real. “I get it. Do you have an idea of what you want, or am I just creating something off the dome?”
“I don’t really know yet.” Lucas says. “But I have a few weeks before I head back overseas to figure it out. I just… wanted to do this while I’m still here.”
Will nods slowly, understanding slotting into place. “Alright. Well, we’ll take our time figuring it out. Placement, design, and everything. I won’t rush.”
Lucas nods. “Take all the time you need.”
Will’s mouth quirks. “You say that now.”
Lucas grins, tension easing out of him at last. “I’m serious.”
Will reaches across the table for his sketchbook and a pencil, flipping to a clean page. He taps the pencil once against the paper before looking at Lucas.
“Alright, so tell me,” Will starts, “what you want your first tattoo to mean.”
Lucas opens his mouth, then closes it again. He scrubs a hand over his face, fingers dragging down his jaw like he’s buying time. Will doesn’t rush him. He just waits, pencil loose in his hand. Lucas appreciates that more than he knows how to say.
“I don’t want anything flashy.” He says finally. “Or, like… look-at-me. Nothing that would draw a shit-ton of attention.”
Will nods once. “Okay.”
“It’s just—” Lucas pauses, combing his brain for the right words. “I don’t really know how to say it without it sounding weird. Or ungrateful.”
“Just take your time.” Will encourages, reaching a hand to squeeze Lucas’s shoulder. Lucas pretends the feeling doesn’t shoot a shiver down his back. “I’m not in a rush and I’m not going anywhere.”
Lucas doesn’t say anything (or breathe) until Will removes his hand from his shoulder. Finally, he clears his throat. “I… my body has always been… useful, if that makes sense. That’s how I’ve thought about it since we were kids. Train it. Push it. Take care of it so it keeps doing what it’s supposed to do.”
He glances down at his hands, flexes his fingers. “Basketball, overseas, all of it—it’s great. I love it. I really do. But sometimes it feels like my body belongs to everyone else before it belongs to me. My coaches, the teams, the schedules, the stupid European brand deals they sometimes make us do. Even the kids at the gym, watching every move I make as if I’m proof that the dreams they have are possible.”
Will’s expression softens as he listens intently.
“So I guess,” Lucas continues, voice quieter now, “I want something that’s mine. Something that doesn’t have anything to do with basketball, or my career, or how my body can be a tool for others. Something that’s permanent, that will stay even when everything else changes.”
Will leans back in his chair slightly, thinking. “Do you know what you want me to include in it?”
Lucas hesitates. Then shakes his head. “Not really. I just know I don’t want it to be about basketball, or how strong I have to be. Physically and mentally.” He looks up at Will then, really looks at him. “I think… I want it to be about home. About… us, y’know. About where I come from, and how we grew up. Something that I know is me even if nobody else understands it.”
The room feels still again.
Will nods slowly, like that answer makes sense in a way words don’t always need to. “That’s helpful.”
Lucas lets out a breath. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Will says. “It tells me where to start.”
Will doesn’t start drawing right away. That, Lucas notices.
Instead, Will asks questions. Not all at once or like an interview, but just things here and there. Questions woven into the rhythm of the next few days between Lucas coaching and training, and Will apprenticing and fulfilling commissions.
“What places feel the most like home to you?”
“What do you miss about Hawkins when you’re gone?”
“What do you want to carry with you?”
Lucas answers them easily enough. Some with words. Some with gestures—shrugs, half-smiles, the way his gaze drifts when he talks about Hawkins or the kids at the rec center or the quiet relief of being back in the apartment after weeks of airports and gyms.
Will listens. He always does.
He’s constantly writing in his sketchbook, the old one that holds all his original tattoo ideas, pages now worn and soft from years of use. Sometimes he writes while Lucas is talking. Sometimes he waits until later, scribbling things down from memory while the apartment is quiet and Lucas is in the shower or asleep down the hall.
Witnessing his process has always fascinated Lucas in a way he can’t describe. It doesn’t surprise him that Will understands what Lucas was picturing with the vague amount of information given, or that he’s somehow actively making it work. He’s seen Will make beautiful pieces from the most ambiguous ideas back when he was still tattooing students in their dorm room. It’s like Will has this gift for taking in someone’s story, as basic as it might be, and creating beauty from it.
Lucas has also taken up a new hobby: pretending not to notice how often Will’s eyes linger on him lately.
He pretends not to notice the way Will watches his hands when he talks, or the way his gaze flicks, just briefly, to Lucas’s chest when they talk about placement. Or how carefully Will says “we” when he means “you”.
It’s part of the process, Lucas tells himself. He’s just trying to figure out the best spot for the tattoo. That’s his job.
They sit together on the couch one night, their T.V. flickering images that have long been muted. Their knees brush as Will flips through the rough drafts he’s been working on. Nothing finished. Just ideas.
A skyline that dissolves into constellations. Dice sketched so lightly they almost disappear into the page. A horizon line that curves, subtle and familiar.
Lucas leans in to look, shoulder pressing into Will’s. Neither of them moves away.
“I like that one.” Lucas says, pointing. “I like the way it connects.”
Will nods, pencil tapping once against the paper. “Yeah. I think it could work.” Their eyes meet for half a second too long.
Lucas looks away first.
The next few days blur together like that. Will draws in the mornings, before his shift at the tattoo shop, and in between any commissions he’s scheduled to complete. He draws at night with a lamp on low, music playing through his headphones. He scraps entire pages without showing them to Lucas, crumpling them up and starting over. He reconnects lines, re-shades shadows, simplifies and refines.
Finally, he walks out of his room on the fourth day, sketchbook clutched to his chest. “I think I’ve got it.”
Lucas looks up from where he’s sitting at the kitchen counter with his laptop. “Yeah?”
Will nods, nervous now in a way he hasn’t been yet. He gestures toward the couch. “Come sit.”
Lucas does.
Will lays the page down between them, careful, like the paper itself matters.
“This is the final draft.” he says. “But we can still change things if you want.”
Lucas leans in.
And for a moment, neither of them breathes.
The design sits between them, quiet and deliberate.
Lucas doesn’t know what he was expecting exactly—something louder, maybe, and that announced itself. He knows he told Will that’s not what he wanted but he still wasn’t fully sure what to expect when Will showed him the finished product. But staring at the design just feels… right. Familiar in a way that settles deep instead of sparking all at once.
A thin horizon line curves gently across the page, unmistakably Hawkins to those that know what to look for. The water tower sits just off-center, subtle enough that it could be anything to anyone else. Along the curve of the skyline, four small silhouettes ride side by side—bikes sketched so lightly they almost disappear into the line itself, wheels barely touching the horizon as if they’re suspended there, forever in motion.
Above it, a scattering of stars forms a loose constellation—Capricorn, abstracted enough that it can read as pattern even if you didn’t know what it is. Threaded through it all are two dice, half-shadowed, their faces turned inward like they’re mid-roll, paused forever between outcomes.
“It’s…” Lucas trails off, searching for a word that feels big enough. “It’s home.”
Will nods once, watching him carefully. “Yeah.”
“And it’s not—” Lucas gestures vaguely. “It’s not obvious. Like, it doesn’t scream anything.”
“I was hoping I conveyed that enough.” Will says quietly. “I tried to keep everything subtle, which is really what you want with fine-line designs. But anyway, it’s yours. It doesn’t have to explain itself to anyone.”
Lucas leans back against the couch, breath leaving him slow. “You did this from what I said?”
Will shrugs, suddenly shy. “Yeah, some of it from what you said. And most of it from what you didn’t.”
Lucas huffs a soft laugh, shaking his head. “You’re unfair.”
That earns a small smile.
They sit with it a moment longer, knees still touching, the space between them charged but unspoken.
“Placement.” Will says eventually, clearing his throat. His voice is steadier now, Lucas recognizing it as the grounded, professional tone he has any time he speaks to a client. “You mentioned your chest before. Is that still what you want?”
Lucas nods. “Yeah. Left side. Close to my heart, just not… right on it.”
Will’s eyes flick up at that, something unreadable passing through them before he looks back at the sketch. “Okay, that’ll work.” He hesitates before adding, “You sure you’re ready?”
Lucas doesn’t answer right away, eyes fixated on the design in his lap. On his design. “I’m sure I want you to do it.”
That seems to settle it.
It’s another two days before it actually happens.
Will insists on giving Lucas time to sit with the design and picture it on his skin before it’s permanently there. Time to change his mind if needed. He doesn’t. The design is perfect; he knows that immediately. Still, he listens to Will and gives it a couple days to marinate.
The apartment is quiet the day the tattoo happens, quiet in a way it normally isn’t. Their living room has been transformed into a makeshift private tattoo suite, reminiscent of their college days. The dining table has been pushed back, replaced by a padded adjustable chair and stool Will borrowed from the shop. Supplies are laid out neatly on the counter: ink caps, gloves, disinfectant, transfer gel, cling wrap, a headlamp.
Lucas sits shirtless on the edge of the couch, trying not to think too hard about the fact that Will is moving around behind him, focused and calm.
“You okay?” Will asks, snapping on gloves.
Lucas nods. “Yeah.”
“You would tell me if you’re not, right?” Will asks. “At any point.”
“No, of course.” Lucas says, though he’s unsure if he’s trying to convince Will or himself.
Lucas sits in the adjustable chair once everything is set up and Wills special tattooing playlist plays throughout the apartment. Will steps closer. Close enough that Lucas can feel his body heat. Will’s always run warmer than everyone else in their group. The warmth is grounding in a way nobody else would be able to understand.
Will cleans the skin first, slowly, the cold swipe of alcohol making Lucas suck in a breath.
“Sorry.” Will murmurs automatically.
“It’s fine.” Lucas says. “Just cold.”
Will smiles faintly, turning to grab a disposable razor. He works methodically, shaving whatever faint and tiny hairs Lucas has on his chest. It’s funny, he’s seen Will do this exact routine a thousand times. But sitting here, being the subject rather than an onlooker, it’s like Lucas is experiencing everything for the first time.
When he’s done, Will grabs the transfer gel, spreading a generous amount on the shaved area. Lucas tries not to hold his breath from the gentle caress of Will’s gloved fingers against his chest. Tries not to stare too long as Will carefully places the stencil where he applied the gel, pressing it into the skin.
“Take a look.”
Lucas blinks like he’s woken up from a trance before standing and turning toward the mirror.
The design fits him like it was always meant to be there.
He nods once. “It’s perfect.” The confirmation is all Will needs.
Lucas watches as Will wraps his tattoo gun with a thick layer of gripping tape. This tattoo gun is newer, purchased within the last month or so for Will to continue practicing (and occasionally giving himself random ink). The one that Eddie gave him for practice has long stopped working, but it stays hidden somewhere in Will’s closet, in a box amongst other things he’s kept over the years.
He takes a breath as he puts the headlamp on. It’s subtle, but Lucas catches it.
“Are you nervous?” Lucas asks.
Will meets his eyes. “No, not nervous. Just… this part always feels important. Like a climax or something.”
Lucas nods. “Yeah, I get that.”
Will grabs the machine. The buzz fills the room, sharp and unmistakable.
“Alright.” Will says, pushing the stool close so he’s hovering over Lucas’s chest. “Here we go.” He lowers the machine, needle making contact with skin…
And wow, okay that does kinda hurt.
But not in an unbearable way, Lucas supposes. The pain is sharp, like a thousand pinches happening at once. Definitely reminiscent of his sore muscles after a particularly hard training day… if all the soreness cumulated into one spot. Lucas’s hand curls instinctively into the cushion beneath him, jaw tightening.
“Breathe.” Will says immediately, calm and steady. “You’re doing great.”
Lucas exhales through his nose, nodding.
The pain settles into something manageable. Each pass of the needle is deliberate, precise. Will works with quiet focus, one hand steadying Lucas’s skin, the other guiding the machine.
Lucas is suddenly very aware of how close Will is.
Of the way his breath ghosts across Lucas’s collarbone when he leans in. Of the careful way his fingers anchor him, firm, but still caring and gentle. Of the fact that Will’s voice is the only thing cutting through the buzz.
“You’re good.” Will murmurs again, excess ink from Lucas’s chest with a paper towel. “Just like that.”
Lucas doesn’t acknowledge how Will saying that spikes his blood. “You say that like I’m doing something.”
Will glances up, eyes warm. “You’re staying calm and still. That’s more than enough.”
Something in Lucas’s chest tightens—not from the needle.
He closes his eyes, lets the sound and sensation wash over him, trusts Will completely.
The pain settles into something steady. Not dull—Lucas can feel every line as Will works—but predictable enough that his body stops bracing for it. He focuses on his breathing, slow inhales through his nose, long exhales through parted lips. The buzz of the machine becomes a constant, vibrating through his bones.
Will works in silence for a while.
Lucas can tell when Will shifts from outlining to shading by the way the pressure changes, by the way Will’s free hand adjusts its hold on his skin. It’s careful. Intentional. Like Will is acutely aware that this is Lucas beneath his hands, not just a client.
“You’re doing really good.” Will says again as he wipes the excess ink.
Lucas lets out a short breath that might be a laugh. “I’m literally just sitting here.”
“I’ve had first-time clients ask for breaks every thirty seconds.” Will retorts. “Once again, you’re doing great.”
Will leans in closer to adjust his angle, and Lucas feels the brush of Will’s knuckles against his ribs. It’s nothing, barely any contact. But Lucas’s breath stutters anyway.
Will freezes instantly.
“Sorry.” he says. “Did that hurt?”
“No.” Lucas too quickly. “You’re fine. I just—caught me off guard.”
Will studies his face for half a second longer than necessary, like he’s deciding whether to believe him. Then he nods and goes back to work, slower now. More deliberate.
Lucas’s pulse thrums loud in his ears.
He becomes acutely aware of everything: the warmth of Will’s hands, the faint scent of alcohol and ink, the way Will’s brow furrows when he concentrates. Lucas has seen him focused like this a hundred times when he’s lost in his work, caught in flow state. But this is different. This feels personal in a way Lucas doesn’t have language for.
“What are you thinking about?” Will breaks the silence again.
“Uh,” Lucas stutters, “just… how… different it feels being the person you’re tattooing rather than watching you do it.”
“It’s really bonding, isn’t it?” Will jokes easily, still maintaining a steady hand.
Lucas chuckles. “Yup. We’ve never been closer.”
Will giggles as he glances at Lucas, eyes lingering on the curve of his smile.
The buzz of the machine slows, then stops altogether.
The silence that follows feels heavier than the noise ever did. Lucas blinks his eyes open, realizing he’d closed them at some point without meaning to. His chest still hums faintly, nerves alive beneath his skin.
Will leans back slightly, rolling his shoulders like he’s easing himself out of something too. He sets the machine down carefully. Only then does Lucas notice the way Will exhales, slow and controlled.
“Okay.” He says quietly. “We’re done.”
“Already?” Lucas asks, glancing down at his chest.
Will smiles faintly. “Told you it wasn’t huge.” He reaches for a clean paper towel, wiping gently over the tattoo. His touch is lighter now, almost reverent. “You did really great.”
Lucas lets out a breath that feels like it’s been sitting in his lungs for hours. “So did you.” He feels ridiculous saying that to the literal tattoo artist, but Will’s mouth curves into something small and pleased.
“I appreciate that.” Will says. “Come on, you should look at it.”
They stand in front of the mirror together. Lucas’s chest tightens the moment he sees it.
The design sits perfectly against his skin, like it’s always belonged there. The curve of the horizon, the quiet familiarity of Hawkins, the constellation threading through it all. It’s subtle. Personal. Unmistakably his.
He swallows.
“Holy shit.” he murmurs. “Will.”
Will watches his reflection, not the tattoo. “Yeah?”
“It’s… it’s amazing! It’s exactly what I wanted!”
Something shifts in Will’s expression at that. “I’m glad you like it.” He says. “I really wanted to get it right.”
“You did.” Lucas says immediately. Then, softer, “You always do.”
Their eyes meet in the mirror. The silence stretches—not awkward, but heavy. Charged with the air of something unspoken, something neither of them are able to say.
Will blinks, the first to break the spell. “Umm, okay, this next part is important. So pay attention.”
Will grabs the green soap, applying the cold foam to the tattoo. “This is gonna feel a little tender for a while.” Will continues, cleaning the area. “It’s gonna take about three weeks before it heals. Try not to mess with it or scratch it or anything.”
When he’s done cleaning and letting the area dry, he grabs this large, clear-looking tape and presses it over the tattoo. Lucas’s breath catches despite himself—not from pain, but from the intimacy of it. Will’s fingers move with practiced ease, but there’s something gentler there now, like he’s acutely aware of what he’s touching.
“This is called a Saniderm bandage.” Will continues. “Leave it on for about two days. It helps with the healing process. Once you take it off, clean the tattoo with some antibacterial soap. And it helps to apply Aquaphor as often as you can until it fully heals.” He glances at Lucas, seeing that the darker boy is already looking at him. “I know this is a lot, but just try not to overthink it.”
Lucas snorts softly, maintaining eye contact. “You know I’m bad at that.”
Will huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah. I do.” He finishes with the bandage before removing his gloves. “Alright. You’re all set.”
Lucas nods as he stares at himself in the mirror. The tattoo is like a missing piece to the puzzle that’s his chaotic life. He touches it with a careful hand, fingers barely grazing the skin. He can feel where the tattoo has been etched into his skin, the lines and curves creating the slightest bump. It’s there forever now. He wishes he had something like this sooner.
Lucas turns slightly, facing Will now. They’re close, closer than necessary. Lucas can feel the warmth radiating off him.
“Thank you.” He says. “For this. For—” He gestures vaguely at his chest. “For understanding what I meant.”
Will nods once. “You didn’t make it hard to understand.”
“Still.” The corners of Lucas’s lips curl. “I appreciate you doing this. This… means something to me. Especially because it came from you.”
Will’s eyebrows go up. “Oh?”
Lucas nods. “You know me better than anyone else, which is why I trusted you so much in the first place. And the fact that this came from you… it’s like you’re the only person that actually sees me for me. Past the physique, and usefulness, and everything else.”
Will’s voice drops. “I’ve always seen you for who you are. And I wouldn’t have done something like this for anyone else.”
Lucas’s heart stutters. “Oh,” is all he can say.
Will exhales a soft, almost embarrassed laugh. “Yeah.”
The moment hangs there — not fragile, not urgent. Just… present.
Neither speak on it. Neither acknowledge it.
Will is the first to step back, not retreating so much as giving them some form of space to think. And breathe. He reaches for a roll of paper towels, busying his hands in a way Lucas recognizes immediately.
“You should probably take it easy for the rest of the day.” Will says, tone lighter now. “No workouts. No stretching. No challenging middle schoolers or anything like that.”
Lucas grins. “You’re really killing my vibe here.”
“Doctor’s orders.” Will says. “And mine.”
Lucas nods, still smiling. “Yeah. Okay.”
They stand there a second longer than necessary, the mirror catching them side by side — Lucas bare-chested, ink still fresh, Will steady and close and exactly where he’s always been.
Lucas reaches for his shirt, pulling it on carefully. The tattoo pulls slightly, a reminder of what’s there now. Of what Will gave him.
“It really is perfect.” he says again, quieter this time.
Will nods. “It suits you.”
The apartment settles around them again—music low, the afternoon light stretching long across the floor. Will turns back to the counter, finishing the last of the cleanup on instinct. Lucas watches him for a moment, the way his hands move, practiced and careful, like this has always been part of him.
It’s not the first time he’s thought of this, but somewhere along the way, Will thinks that this is how it’s always happened.
Gradually.
He didn’t wake up one day knowing what to do with skin and ink. He didn’t plan on becoming someone people trusted with their bodies, and with permanence. It was a slow accumulation of moments. Of choices. Of learning that a body could hold meaning if you treated it gently enough.
He glances back at Lucas, at the way he stands a little straighter now, like something has finally settled into place, and finally makes sense.
Will hadn’t known, all those years ago, that one day he’d be asked to make something like this for someone who mattered this much to him.
The thought doesn’t scare him.
It just feels… right.
When Lucas finally turns away from the mirror to go about his day, the moment moves with him—unspoken, intact. Nothing has been named. Nothing has been rushed.
And still, something has changed.
The way most important things do.