Page 46 of Ship Happens

To his credit, Brandon doesn’t make any judgments, at least none verbally. Owen lifts himself onto the table, fitting his head snugly into the hole at the top.

“All-righty!” There’s the opening of a bottle, then slick hands being rubbed together. Owen can’t help but flinch when he feels the ghost of Brandon’s touch against his spine. “Just relax.”

Owen breathes, bracing himself as he feels a complete stranger’s hands press against a knot in his back. Touch is difficult for Owen in a way that he’s never really been able to understand. Occasionally, he’s okay with it—when Kaitlyn puts her head on his shoulder, or Abigail taps his elbow to get his attention out in public.

Most of the time, though, he could go without it.

He remembers the day he first felt that way, when a friend at lunch grabbed Owen’s wrist and stared at his skin, one of the earliest signs of his arthritis, asking if Owen had an STD and if he was “infectious” in that dumb way teenage boys ask those kinds of questions.

Owen’s skin felt electric, as if every nerve were crying out in pain, at the way the boy’s fingers wrapped around his wrist, trapping him as half a dozen sets of eyes focused on him, humiliation and pain washing over him.

Even as an adult, though, sometimes it’s a texture thing, like when Jacob hadn’t moisturized his hands in a few days and the calluses that came with the weightlifting he did with Abigail would scratch against Owen’s palms. Or even food, especially while doing the dishes.

“How does it feel when I press here?” Brandon takes his knuckle, digging into the small of Owen’s back. Owen does his best not to flinch, telling himself that it’s okay that a stranger is touching him, that he can deal with it for forty-five minutes if it means his back gets some relief.

“Tight,” Owen tells him through gritted teeth.

“Yeah, I can feel it.” Brandon takes his chance to dig in even deeper. “How is that?”

Owen grunts as he’s pushed forward, faux leather squeaking underneath him. “Bad.”

Brandon either doesn’t hear him or doesn’t want to. “You’ve got a lot of ink!”

“Yeah,” Owen replies bluntly. “I do.”

“How much did all of that cost you?”

“Um . . .” Owen thinks for a moment. It’s not an unheard-of question, even from other artists, especially given just how much of Owen’s skin is covered in tattoos. He doesn’t have an exact number—Owen’s not even sure how he’d calculate that. Some of his tattoos he’s done himself, some were other artists practicing on skin for the first time. Most were done professionally, though, by friends or fellow artists, usually at a reduced rate that Owen tries to make up with ample tipping. “I’m not sure” is the only reply he gives.

“I’ve always wanted a tattoo,” Brandon says.

“You should get one, then.”

“Really! You think?” Brandon asks as he continues to dig into the knot in Owen’s back. He thrusts his hand, angling up.

“Oh!” Owen grunts, gripping the edge of the massage table. “I didn’t like that.”

“It can feel bad at first, but that means it’s working!” Brandon tells him without a care in the world.

Owen grips the table’s cushion in a vise.

“I’ve always been scared of what I’d get,” Brandon says, just moving on like Owen’s discomfort is nothing. “It’s permanent! I want it to mean something, ya know?”

Owen doesn’t bother asking the masseuse what he thinks of the cat dressed as a clown on his bicep. Or the yaoi panel on his thigh depicting a man with huge pecs having his chest grabbed by another guy. “Uh . . . sure?”

For him, tattoos can mean something, sure. But Owen just enjoys having art he likes covering his body so it’s always with him.

“How does that feel?” Brandon asks, digging deeper.

“Terrible,” Owen grunts. “Again.”

“We’ve got more work to do, then! Loosen up a bit, the more tense you are, the more it’ll hurt.” Brandon pushes Owen’s arms down, forcing Owen to dangle them over the edge of the massage table.

Owen feels more oil dripping on his back, heating as Brandon continues to knead it into Owen’s back like he’s a ball of dough. Owen winces as Brandon focuses on his shoulders. “Can you go a little lighter?”

“Of course!” Brandon says, not changing the amount of pressure he applies at all. “How’s that?”

Worse somehow, Owen thinks.