On Tuesday, they take their exploration further. After a session with his therapist, Dario gathers up Charlie from the pool and they board the boat again to make the trek across the lake. This time, when they tie up, they disembark.
Dario’s never had sea legs in his life given all his experiences out on the water, but today as they venture into the fray of tourists in town for the big music festival, he wobbles all over the place. Charlie’s arm linked in his steadies him some.
For an hour, they wander in and out of shops, sticking to the sidewalks and trying their best to keep a slow, even pace.
Eventually, as Dario knew it would, the overwhelm catches up to him. His mind becomes a timer blinking up the seconds he’s been away from home, then a film reel of worst-case scenarios that won’t stop.
When his breathing grows labored, Charlie pulls him into the least crowded storefront they come across.
To both of their surprise, it is a desolate tattoo parlor. The walls are a smorgasbord of designs big and small. In the next room, there’s a comfy-looking chair with supplies on a rolling tray beside it. A woman with jet-black hair pulled up in a high ponytail comes out from the back asking if they had an appointment.
“What did she say?” Charlie asks.
“She says if we don’t plan to get a tattoo then we can’t loiter here.” Dario grips his chest.
“You just need a place to reset. Can’t we tell her that?” Charlie asks.
Through the haze of his anxiety, he gets a better idea. After a brief exchange and a flashing of some cash, the artist ushers them back to the chair with little fanfare.
“What’s happening?” Charlie asks as Dario takes a seat.
“We are getting tattoos,” Dario says as he breathes in the sanitized leather of the chair.
“Of what?” Charlie asks.
“You tell me,” Dario says. The panic attack subsides incrementally. While his heart still thrums, it does so with excitement. He had never thought about getting a tattoo before, but he likes the way they look on Charlie, and he wants to share this experience with him.
“You want us to get matching tattoos?” Charlie asks, seemingly stunned. The tattoo artist appears impatient beside him, since they’ve clearly disrupted a chill day in her studio.
Dario nods. “Something small to remember all of this by.”
Confusion dovetails into enthusiasm. Charlie reaches for his sketchbook. The stool gives a softpfftas he sits on it. “This is your first tattoo!” Glee widens Charlie’s eyes. “Where do you want it? What do you want? Oh my God, this is going to be good.”
Charlie’s zeal laps over Dario in sonic waves. “I trust you to decide for me,” he says.
“You know a tattoo means no sun or pool for a few months. Are you sure about this? It’s permanent.” While he understands the hesitation, he loves—loves—every inch of ink sketched across Charlie’s body. Anything Charlie’s beautiful imagination comes up with will delight him.
“I’m sure. Anything, anywhere,” he says, placing his trust where it will be valued and honored.
“Anywhere?” Charlie’s eyebrows go up. “Your lower back? Your dick?”
“Okay maybe notanywhere.”
“I got you, Candy Man,” Charlie says, and Dario wonders if he knows just how much he’sgot him.
Charlie sketches away. Dario uses this time to work through his deep-breathing exercises. Meditation should rid him of thetingle that still infects his toes from the abrupt onslaught of anxiousness that hit him. A performance from the festival must’ve gotten out. People spilled en masse into the street. His fight-or-flight responses kicked into overdrive.
Centered enough, he reopens his eyes and chats with the artist.
She watches over Charlie’s shoulder as he works, angled away from Dario. “Lui è bravo.”
“She says you’re good,” Dario translates for Charlie. He blushes, responds with a timid, “Grazie.”
“È un artista?”Is he an artist?
He tells her that Charlie is self-taught and that his dream is to become a tattooist.
“È stato apprendista?”
