Page 45 of Take My Hand

His eyes are soft, unsure. He holds his hands at his waistline, balling one into a fist and laying the other over the top. Thick veins flex underneath the ink he has there. A rose takes up most of the space on the top of his right hand with vines and thorns extending down his fingers. I zoom in on them and snap a shot of just his hands before a blush rises to my cheeks at what I just did.

That one is just for me.

Hayden shifts from one foot to the other.

“Do you want to try a few, sitting?”

He nods, sinking to the floor.

We try a few shots of him folded over his legs, then a few leaning back. I try to guide him into a pose that feels natural, but he’s so stiff that they look wrong.

“Try turning around for a few and looking at me through that mirror.” I point to the one that is currently propped up behind his shoulder. But once he’s facing that direction, he’ll be able to see himself in the reflection of it.

He spins around and for the first time, I really get a good look at the artwork across his back. Smaller and larger pieces fill the expanse of his skin and my eyes eagerly trace them, drinking up the uninterrupted view of new territory.

There’s one nestled on the left side of his back, and I can’t stop the sharp exhale that comes out at the instant discomfort it brings me.

“What?” he asks, looking over his shoulder at me.

“Sorry, it’s nothing.”

He raises a brow at me, clearly not buying it.

“I just have a big fear of spiders, so, uhh, the one there,” I say and point stupidly, as if he can see where I’m gesturing to. “The one cupping your shoulder blade. The web with the black widow dangling off. Just gave me a bit of a shiver.”

“Even just the picture of it freaks you out, huh?”

My cheeks heat with embarrassment at how ridiculous it makes me sound. “It’s nothing. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to insult the work. It’s beautifully done, like the rest of them. It’s just not my favorite of yours.”

He twists around to get a better look at me. “You have a favorite of mine?”

I pinch my lips shut, and he smiles.

“It’s not one of my favorites either,” he confesses. “It was more of a filler piece.”

I keep my eyes averted from it, not able to help the slight cringe that takes over every time I do.

“How many tattoos do you have?” I ask, noticing the way he relaxes when I get him talking and he’s not just posing. Or attempting to. Maybe if I can keep him engaged in conversation, that will help him get into a flow.

“I have no idea.” He laughs. “I lost track years ago.”

“What was your first one?”

He looks up and down his arms, his torso, his hands, as if trying to remember where it is. I pull the camera back up to my eye, frame the shot, and start snapping again.

“I think this one…” He holds his arm out, pointing to the words inked on the inside of his bicep. Soft shutters sound off from my camera as I zoom in on the words to read them.

I recognize the lyrics before Hayden confirms, “Got them from one of my favorite Bring Me the Horizon songs back in the day. I thought my mom was going to have a heart attack when I came home with it the night after my eighteenth birthday.” He smiles, recalling the memory. “Now, she doesn’t even bother asking me about any new pieces whenever she sees me.”

“I love that song,” I say softly, almost to myself, but Hayden hears and his attention burns through the lens.

“Me too,” he says, then blushes, because obviously he would love it if he got lyrics from it tattooed on his arm.

A silence hangs between us as he shifts around, trying to get into a rhythm but it’s apparent he’s still not completely comfortable. Not connected with the idea or any sort of emotion, and it’s coming across flat in the pictures.

He spins around, facing me once again and props one knee up, resting his elbow across it.

“Give me some guidance here. I can take the criticism. What do you want from me in these shots?”

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