the glassmaker

ABOUT AYLIN || And under her hooded eyes, the glassmaker poured moonlight to help her see through the night but he blinded her will and made her a slave to the tide.

     tadge  had  no  fuckin  idea  what  that  meant,  so  he  ignored  aylin’s  warning.  he  was  simply  there  for  the  gratification  that  came  with  tattooing  his  very  own  tattoo  artist.  granted,  he  always  chose  the  design  and  the  location  of  his  tattoos  so  he  was  certainly  the  one  to  blame  for  the  sheer  amount  of  pain  that  came  with  them,  but  he’d  still  find  a  way  to  blame  aylin  anyway.  

     ❝  no,  i  was  actually  thinking  of  just  free  styling  the  rest.  fuck  the  stencil.  ❞  he  was  being  his  usual  sarcastic  asshole  self,  but  he  still  wanted  to  see  aylin’s  reaction  especially  when  he  had  more  of  the  control  over  the  tattoo  gun  than  she  did.  ❝  want  to  know  why  i  chose  a  spaceship  ?  ❞  he  asked  even  thought  it  wouldn’t  matter  when  she  would  cover  it  anyway.

She can see his disregard for her warning, but that was to be expected with the specifics she was concerned about. It was part the lessons that came with a particular devotion to her work, one that set her apart from anyone who got their hands on a machine online or drove a needle into their skin with pen ink at some late night dorm party. Instead of reiterating, she tilted her head back for the last of now lukewarm tea. It burned going down, the alcohol sitting at the bottom stronger than it had been all night.

There was a particular dynamic between Mark and Aylin, an arrangement that came from one secret to another in the name of unraveling a different one. Deadwood was suppose to be a fresh start, and yet all Aylin could find was the same loom that she tried to escape from home. Damned be the grass that wasn’t greener, or wherever she went and there she would be. It was different— and it was Deadwood, not her. Aylin could feel a weigh on everyone who ventured into the town, but particularly those born into it. They stood straighter than the rest, maybe from a lifetime of carrying it, but she could see where it took its toll elsewhere. She just couldn’t figure out what had caused it.

Aylin’s chuckle was cut by a hiss she pressed through her teeth. A shudder ran through her that she wound tight against the pain of the tattoo machine over bone, trying her best to stay still for the sake of the work at play.

“Careful or the ink is gonna blow out,” She warned him, hand clasped over his. The gloves over both their hands, used for more than just the spill of ink, was the only reason she let him get so close. If there was anyone she was weary about getting any sense of, Tadge was one of the few that walked that line. Boundaries was what she told herself, but there was a permanent smirk that took place of the usual scoff she awarded him. “And try and trace the stencil, alright?”

lennon had always wanted a tattoo but could never commit to one idea, though veronica had promised to take him to his first tattoo had he ever wanted one but he was content with not having any but he did have a lot of fun overhearing conversations that aylin had with her clients. his smile was hidden, him messing with his camera before watching the customer leave in a huff. “that was very brave of you,” lennon says with a small laugh shaking his head, his head peaking over to see how she was positioned before throwing his head back again. “i’m very proud.” 

he moves back, taking a quick snapshot of her before placing his camera back down. “what did they want anyway? curiosity killed the cat you know….” he asks, fingers drumming away on the counter now, unable to stand still for very long was a tedious thing for someone who was built like a tree, when he moved it felt like a scene, often taking up too much space anywhere but it made his friendship with aylin so comical when it came to their very apparent height difference. “also anywhere in particular in here you want me to shoot for the paper?”

The small click of the camera confirms his intentions before he rolls the question, and there’s a small sigh from Aylin as she turns to face him. One day she’d get him to settle down and into her chair, replacing the infamous sound of that camera for her own tools. Sure, her practice took a little longer for the result but she’d get there.

“Even if it would be a guaranteed cover up, I’d have to tattoo someone’s ass twice,” Aylin pointed out. “And it was an intricate design. They wanted a map of Deadwood, and I’ll leave it to your imagination where the forrest was suppose to go. If they still want it when they’re sober, by all means, but until then?”

She learned not to fight the blink of his lens, a trust instilled knowing that nothing bad was ever captured. If Lennon did poorly snap something, she never saw it. Her curiosity challenged his, but she usually silenced it to submission. She lived vicariously through the photos he had, and her wonder of what he had collected thus was far was evident in the way she climbed right over the counter. Legs swung over and swayed as she nudged him.

“You won’t regret me denying you that tattoo in about a month,” Aylin countered, hand clasped over her appointment book as she leaned over the front counter. Had Lennon peered over the edge of the elevated table, they would have seen a much less confident stance as had both knees propped on a chair and a collection of crumbled papers littering the entirety of the floor. 

Lennon was lucky she kept aspirin in her bedside table, grabbing a water bottle to keep her company until the room stopped spinning the next morning. Slowly she walked into the living room, the covered view of her friend being the first thing to greet her. “The sugar rim is what makes everything more enticing, we know it’s a weakness.” A small laugh left her lips as she walked closer rubbing her eyes with the back of her palms. “Please tell me you remembered the last thing I told you before you made the couch your home?” She questioned, looking up to see if she already had an answer. “You took the aspirin before you closed your eyes, right?”

She had, but she has chased it with the very same poison she had in her glass on the counter. While wolves burned through the phases of alcohol’s sway faster than humans, it didn’t mean they escaped the woes. Her hangover was at its peak already, and Aylin could hardly appreciate through the headache that it would be over soon. The aspirin would only do so much in the small dose, but even Aylin had yet to understand the adjustments she would need ever since triggering her curse.

The smell of ink, blood, and alcohol was a perfume of the tattoo shop that Aylin had yet to get used to. It seemed like a mess of aromas, but she’d slowly accepted each purpose behind it in order to will herself to understand its collaboration. It was interrupted by something heavier as the front door swung open, the buzzing of florescent lights that hung in the quiet replaced by laughter. Sweat, liquor, and something she wasn’t quite sure was legal in this part of the country pulled her away from scheduling.

Aylin had been instructed to remain weary of any customers under any influence, and if they were insistent, so ensure they signed every agreement with a legible signature. She wasn’t suppose to turn them away, though. They brought business all the same, and even more if they’d seek out a cover up. But with most of the staff on break, what was she suppose to do?

Rowan knew better than to engage with Aylin when her emotions ran high. The two were opposite sides of the coin: while she gave into highs and lows that their kind felt he kept himself even, avoiding the sudden mood swings. His eyes locked onto the transfer paper, his ink tracing along the initial sketch he had, he avoided her gaze, but he could feel it burning his skin, “because you’re overreacting,” he sighed, keeping his voice low in an attempt to keep her calm. The two were on the run, away from a pack that kept them grounded and they needed to keep a low profile, but Aylin was dead set on avoiding that, “it’s going to be alright,” he attempted to placate her, in hopes of peace.

It was like running into a brick wall, except it didn’t hurt. It was as if Aylin ran full force only to stop right with her nose no more than an inch from the bright red, finding no satisfaction in the rush of adrenaline or the catharsis. There was no way to engage that rage brought on by the creature who decided her body would be its home, and no way to satiate it until it took over her will the night of the full moon. She wondered why Rowan was able to silence it so easily.

Jaw clenched tight, Aylin watched as he looked anywhere but her way. Her knee bounced under the table they sat at, and she let it knock into the furniture from under with a jolt.

Aylin hadn’t moved an inch. Once she found her place on the couch, a journey’s conclusion that came from no more than a drunken stumble into the home, she had stayed there until the morning beckoned her awake. Or rather, it’s attempt to wake her. Knots still tugged against the forefront of her head and vertigo laid a promise against her that it would take effect soon enough if she stood up too quickly.