Note: This isn't really a new chapter. This is 3K words that should have been at the end of the previous chapter. I'll spare you the details, but I uploaded the last chapter a day or so after I found out my grandmother had died. I wasn't finished, but I uploaded it anyway because I didn't want my usual self-inflicted pressure to upload hanging over my head (it was a day before my grandmother's birthday and I had enough to deal with).
Also, small error: Portland has Third Thursday and Last Thursday art walks, but Last is the more hip of the two; Third is more commercial. Two other American cities I've lived in have art walks on First Fridays and Third Thursday and I confused the lot of them.
Indecent exposure, addendum
The ride from Raven's apartment to Quicksilver takes longer than Erik wants it to. Normally he likes to pedal from the shop or from his loft to Raven's, but with no shirt and the sun beating down on swaths ink he feels exposed and concerned about fading. Some people believe he keeps his tattoos covered because the sun's ultraviolet rays are damaging to the ink beneath his skin. It's sound reasoning, but they're only partially right.
He tops his carbon fiber Felt out in both gears as often as he can in his race to get to the shop faster than ever before. By the time he gets there, his thighs are burning and he's covered in sweat once more. His hair is matted to his scalp under his helmet and a steady trickle of sweat from beneath his backpack has soaked the back of his shorts. Going up the stairs to the shop feels disgusting; he has a terrible case of swamp balls thanks to all the perspiration.
He takes his shoes off at the door, drops the backpack on the vase with Raven's MoMA umbrella, and hangs his helmet on the coat rack. He goes straight into the shower with the rest of his clothes on; two birds with one stone, he thinks. The soap he keeps in the shower isn't meant for clothes, but he washes his body and his clothes in one go anyway. It's partly to rid everything of salt and partly to keep his mind off the idiocy that was his and Charles' behavior at Multnomah Falls. There's already one dent in the shower, he doesn't want to start a collection of them.
He didn't have the usual struggle with his anger on the drive to Raven's building, but then he had distracted himself by checking his email and reading and rereading messages he'd already replied to. Now that he has less to distract himself, he's not feeling as calm as he had at the Falls. Now he's alone he starts to think about how close he was to testing out his theory about Charles' thighs and how that's never going to happen.
It's for the best because fucking somebody he's going to tattoo isn't the brightest notion that's ever sparked through his brain. Fucking Raven's brother would be even worse. Stupid. Everything to do with Charles is confusing and stupid.
When he turns the shower off he rubs his face so hard with a towel that it comes away dotted with red. His lip is bleeding again.
Annoyed, Erik slings the towel the short distance into a shower corner and sucks hard on his upper lip. He tears a strip off the roll of toilet paper and looks in the mirror above the small wash basin. Avoiding the sight of his own face, he focuses tightly on his mouth. Erik releases his lip and carefully presses at it with the paper until the bleeding slows. Then, just as he would treat a shaving knick, he tears a corner off the toilet paper and sticks it to the cut.
Cut dealt with for the moment, Erik retrieves the towel he threw and wraps the clothes he washed within it. He and the clothes drip on the small bathroom floor, but he'd planned to wash the floor soon anyway. Though before that he thinks meditating is the best thing he could do. His annoyance with himself and with Charles is manageable; he thanks all the physical activity and the Falls for that.
He drops the clothes into the store room washing machine and pulls on a pair of boxer briefs. Since it's a Monday and Raven had kept the day open for his outing with Charles and lunch with the two of them, he has no reason to put more clothes on. He doubts Raven will be over anytime soon, so he pads through the gallery space, knocks the noren out of the way, and steps into their workspace.
He rifles through his incense collection, avoiding the 'wild-crafted' Douglas Fir incense that he buys specifically because it reminds him of Multnomah. Instead he goes for one of the paper boxes of Indian cones he hasn't burned in ages. There's only a few green cones of Lotus left but there will never be a shortage of New Age shops in Portland that sell it. He grabs two and shakes them in his palm like he's about to cast dice.
The back room is dark and cool; the indirect light from the alley-side window always puts him at ease as does the worn weave of the Persian rug that doesn't quite fill the small room. He lights the cones on the dish in the window sill and sits down cross legged in the center of the old carpet. Usually the simple act of walking into the backroom helps his emotional state. By the time he sits down and runs his hands over the carpet's weave, his heart beat starts to ramp down.
Erik's eyes tighten shut; he focuses on the fibers his fingertips are trailing across. He's half-convinced he could select this carpet from a carpet repair shop by feel alone. His concentration narrows down to breathing slowly and calmly in through his nose and out through his mouth.
There's more than one kind of meditation in Erik's slowly-built repertoire. He'd started with simply pouring himself out of his own mind as much as he possibly could and thinking of nothing. His counselor, despite her penchant to be a cold-hearted bitch, had taught him breathing techniques and meditation focused on addressing the source of things that made him angry. She had told him the greatest source of his anger could be resolved, but she doubted he would ever let it go. She was right; he's never so much as tried.
As is normal, Erik loses track of time as he meditates and, as is also routine, he lays back afterward, legs still crossed, arms stretched out above him until his hands touch the cold hardwood floor, and naps. Erik hardly ever dreams, but when he does he has nightmares that he wakes from with too much energy in his fists and burning knuckles.
An unknown amount of time later, he hears the front door open while he's dozing. Eyes shut, he sucks a deep breath into his chest and shouts, "We're closed!"
"Duh, it's Monday," comes Kitty's voice. "I have a delivery for you from Triple Cha. I have a bet running with Alex that it's ladies' lingerie for men, so can I open it?"
Sighing, Erik rolls up to his feet and stands. He glances down at his state of undress and frowns. "Kitty, I'm in my briefs. Are you cool with that?"
There's a long pause and whispers before Kitty responds. "Yeah, and just so you know, Xi'an's here with me and she's okay with it, too. Are your briefs lacy?"
Xi'an? That's unexpected, but maybe seeing him in his underwear will make him look a little less intimidating. Or, with all his tattoos, maybe a little more? Except for Raven's piece, none of his tattoos are particularly violent; many are abstract and a few are beautiful. Then again, he's giving Xi'an a warship. He scrapes the bit of paper from his upper lip with his bottom row of teeth and swallows it.
The two girls are on the couch in the gallery when he walks out into the work area. He runs his hands through his hair to sift it into a sort of order; he's glad it hasn't dried completely and thus saved him a strange case of bed head. Lifting the noren out of the way, and with a mind to obscure the obvious outline of his junk, he walks immediately to the left and sits down in the rail tie wall's window.
Kitty schools her face into a bland expression. "Not wearing the crotchless ones today, I see."
Erik rolls his eyes and says nothing that he thinks might encourage her to harass him; Raven's influence on Kitty is bad enough. He glances at Xi'an and nods a greeting. "I thought you were the one that does delivery, not Kitty."
The girl snorts lightly and shoves Kitty with her shoulder. "Mondays are usually crazy, but it's my birthday and Kitty's on summer break, so we're hanging out."
"Happy Birthday," Erik says and then, since it's Kitty sitting there with her, "Mazl-tov."
"Oh," Xi'an comments, her dark eyes widening a bit. "I thought you were German."
"I have American citizenship," Erik says, and because everyone knows he adds, "I'm a German-born Jew."
"He speaks a different Jewish language than you hear at my house," Kitty says and then goes on to explain that her family comes from the Mediterranean island of Rhodes.
While she explains, Erik finally understands why Xi'an chose Quicksilver, if not him, to do her tattoo. The two are obviously friends, especially if Xi'an's been to Kitty's house, and most of the staff at Morpho send their friends to Quicksilver. Most of them can't afford Erik and go with Raven instead, but Xi'an's been dedicated to meeting his price despite his high rates.
Erik leans back through the opening in the wall and pulls up one of his portfolio cases from beside the desk. He rifles through until he finds the finished gunboat drawing: Xi'an had opted to not buy the original in order to save money.
"Kitty," Erik says, not really caring that he's interrupting her spontaneous lecture, "give me the package from Triple Cha."
"Sure," she says and jumps up from the couch. She has the shop's new shopping bag; pink and purple striped paper with black lace handles. The shop logo is emblazoned in gold on both sides. It's gaudy, but typical.
He takes the bag and hands her the drawing. "Give this to Xi'an; her birthday present."
Kitty pauses with her back to Xi'an and nods. She silently mouths, This is perfect. Thank you.
Within the bag, wrapped in a layer of gold tissue paper and smelling of cologne is the black shirt he had made for Raven's show. He pulls it out and lays it across his thighs and then checks inside the tissue for the other piece.
"Thank you, Mr. Lehnsherr," Xi'an says from the couch. "I really did want it."
Erik glances at her as he pulls out the last piece of black fabric. "You can call me Erik. When I hear 'Mr. Lehnsherr' it sounds like trouble. Kitty can probably scrounge some cardboard tubes at Morpho so you can get it home safely."
"Do we get to see your lingerie?" Kitty asks. "It doesn't look very lacy."
It isn't lacy at all. In fact, the shirt is as non-decorative as it could be, constructed with a stretchy, matte material that will cling to his skin. "Only because you can't come to Raven's show."
"The sooner I turn twenty-one the better," Kitty sighs. "I don't even like beer."
"Eighteen might have been okay," Erik replies. He picks the shirt up again and shakes it out; to his disgust it smells of the lavender and pepper cologne from the bag. "It's not the alcohol we're worried about."
After studying the shirt to make sure he has the right side up, he pulls it over his head. It's a tight fit, but it's supposed to be. It's difficult to get his arm down the single sleeve, but once he has he tugs the hem down and smoothes it over his hips. It takes a little more adjustment to lay the material properly over his chest so that the dragon tattoo is fully revealed. The final piece is a half-sleeve that he pulls up to his elbow. Considering the changes Raven's made for the show, he's not sure if the shirt is a good idea or not. The changes she's made have also meant they won't be attracting attention with another roof-top party. It's a shame; the roof has an excellent view of the city at night.
"Nudity or something?" Kitty says while Erik pulls the half-sleeve up. "I think the boxer briefs are more exciting than the shirt."
"Shut up, Kitty," Erik and Xi'an say simultaneously. Erik smirks at the unintentional coordination and Xi'an gives him a rare smile.
"You owe me a Coke," Xi'an murmurs then drops her gaze down to the picture she's carefully rolled up and is now trying to roll tighter.
"I don't have soda, but there's juice in the fridge," Erik replies. "Or Kitty can owe you coffee."
Kitty jumps off the couch to take Xi'an to the half fridge opposite the bathroom for juice. Erik slides out of the wooden alcove and follows, but where they turn, he walks past to retrieve his phone from his backpack.
He has a couple missed calls and a text from Raven. He's not sure he wants to deal with anything Raven has to say, but he checks the message anyway.
Since Charles got here we've missed drinks twice and now lunch. Dinner tonight or else. Charles says he'll buy dinner to thank you for the tour of the falls.
Erik sighs and shakes his head. He does, but he doesn't, want to see Charles again so soon. He's far too confused with a body that says yes and a head that says no. He replies, Not tonight. Saturday night.
Before he can even set his phone down, a reply buzzes in his hand. After work on Wednesday.
Erik stares at the screen, thinking, and then punches in his response. Saturday morning and if he causes problems he won't be coming over the following Wednesday to help set up for your show.
Raven's reply is just as quick. That's bullshit, Erik! You can't forbid MY brother from helping with MY show.
Erik replies with quick thumbs and not a second of hesitation. I pay Quicksilver's rent, not you.
He passes Xi'an and Kitty again; they're drinking the last of his orange juice outside the bathroom. The fingers of his right hand turn his phone over compulsively. It buzzes with a new message, but Erik doesn't check it. Instead he walks into the work space he renovated over three years ago and walks up to the full length mirror he bolted to one of the walls.
The mirror is there for clients to look at tattoos placed in hard-to-see locations. Erik doesn't usually use it himself; most of his tattoos are visible to him. Raven often uses it to admire her chimera, though Erik checks her back piece for touch ups himself.
The shirt the ladies at Triple Cha made him looks fine; with his black boxer briefs, it almost looks like he's wearing a set. The inside of the upper hem of the half-sleeve has rubber adhered to it to keep it from slipping down his skin, but he's not sure he likes the look of it. The idea behind the shirt is to display Raven's journeyman piece by covering the others, but it can't completely conceal the tattoos that flank the heart on his bicep.
Setting the phone on a bench, he rubs his hand over the tattooed heart. Raven put his heart on his sleeve; what a joke. It's beautifully rendered; layers of red, blue, and purple watercolor-esque washes on a graphic-rendered heart. He traces fingertips over the ventricles and red mist to the dragon and back again. It has pleasant movement, a bit of eternity imagery to keep the eye constantly roving back and forth between heart and dragon. Charles eyes, though, don't rove; they fix on the dragon and hardly deviate to his arm or any of the other works on his body.
On impulse, Erik pulls the sleeve off and then the shirt. He hooks his thumbs into his briefs and starts to pull them off too, but remembers Kitty and Xi'an at the last minute.
"Hey, Kitty," he shouts, "lock the door on your way out; I've got some work to do in here and I don't want to be disturbed."
"Okay," he hears her call back. "We're on our way out now!"
"Thank you for the artwork, Mr –Thank you, Erik!" Xi'an calls next.
Erik waits for the sound of the door shutting as the two leave and then strips off his briefs. He's always known he has a strange body. Most of his height is in his long torso which starts at hips so narrow they occasionally play up. One of the officers that worked with dogs said he reminded her of her German Shepherd. After that, she never used his name, just called him Shepherd. It was one of many jokes he never found funny.
Erik doesn't want to think of that. Any of that. But he can feel those dark days coming back to him, creeping up from fingers that remembered violent events as they twisted Charles' shirt this morning.
Not for the first time since meeting Charles, Erik wonders if he shouldn't call Moira. He dismisses the thought just as he did the last time and refocuses on his image in the mirror.
Frost and Charles both think his brush-stroke tattoos are a subconscious way of crossing himself out. It's unlikely since the black one wasn't entirely his idea; an esteemed associate in Germany had suggested it. Later, after a London show, he had another collaborator add the red stroke that crossed it. Erik keeps his other tattoos from coming too close to the strokes; it's an aesthetic choice rather than a personal one. None of his tattoos are personal, after all. None but the one Raven gave him and that very first one he gave himself back when he still believed in things.
Erik looks up and down his body. Other than tattoos, he has no modifications beyond his lack of foreskin. His circumcised penis is never called into question here in America. In Europe, it marks him as foreigner or Jew, but here it's just another penis. Nobody cares about the lack of foreskin, only how big his dick is.
And that was part of how it started; the need to assert his Jewish identity. He declared himself with his first tattoo; he'd crudely stippled a perfectly straight Star of David into his thigh.
Erik slaps his left hand onto the mirror, covering his face's reflection. "No. I did the right thing."
He slides his hand down to his reflection's throat and brings his other hand up to join it. His right thumb overlaps his left hand, his left thumb rests perfectly beneath the edge of his right hand's palm.
Dr. Frost had said that the more he talked about it, the better he would feel, but she'd been wrong. The more he talked about it, the angrier he became. The more he even thought about it, the angrier he became. That's where meditation came in; he couldn't be cured, he'd always be an animal, but he could be managed.
He looks at his hands laying over his reflection's throat and then up to his eyes. He'd wanted to take the inspiration from Multnomah Falls and set it onto paper, but now he wonders if it wouldn't be better to get dressed, go back to his loft, and take a sleeping pill.
