All characters in sexual situations are 18 years of age and older.
Note: Be sure to read the prologue of the series before diving into this chapter.
Chapter 1: THE TATTOO
7:15 am. Alarm beeping. A terrible headache caused from mild sleep deprivation. What a great way to start the first day of my last semester of high school.
The sizzling smell of bacon, eggs and toast waft into my room from downstairs. Huh, it looks like my dad still hasn't left for work yet, which was rare. I debate whether I should hop into the shower to wash off the drowsiness, but then my stomach grumbles. Still in my pajamas, I choose nourishment instead and head downstairs.
"Morning, dad," I yawn, far from being completely awake.
"Morning, Q. Did you sleep well?"
"Not really," I say, hoisting myself onto my seat at the dining table. "Waking up around noon for the past week really did a number on my sleep schedule. I feel
horrible
."
My dad chuckles quietly as he carries out the breakfast, hot plates balanced on his arms like he was a skillful waiter. My dad was a tall man, well-built with broad shoulders, defined forearms and a military-style buzz cut matching his clean-trimmed beard. By traditional accounts, I'd say my dad would be considered a pretty good looking guy. He kept in shape with regular exercise, his chiseled and symmetrical facial features complementing his athletic stature. Which, of course, made him look all the more ridiculous whenever he decided to don his favorite, frilled apron whenever he cooked in the kitchen.
I mentally grumble every time I stop to think about my dad's appearance. I mean, why couldn't I have inherited more of the masculine parts of his DNA? The sole trait that I seemed to pick up was his height, which-- partly due to my tragic lack of muscles-- made me look more like an awkward giraffe rather than a human stallion. The genetic lottery can be such a cruel game of chance.
Unaware of my internal complaints lodged at him, my dad turns the dial on the radio as he grabs his fork and begins to eat. Always a man of few words, the radio was his way of comfortably filling the silence whenever we sat at the dining table. I yawn again, and grab my own fork to do the same.
... And that was the moment I caught a glimpse of the sleek, new tattoo I was now sporting on my right hand.
I slam my silverware onto the table. My dad glances up in confusion.
"Q? What's wrong?"
Eyes wide and mouth open, I examine the tattoo more closely. What the heck? On the palm of my hand, in big, bold, gothic-style lettering, was the number "9." Below it, on my wrist, were nine names. The names of all my crushes. It was the Naughty List. I frantically think back to the terms and conditions that were written at the very top; that weird detail about some tattoos.
What the heck
??
"... Q?" my dad asks again, eyes squinting.
I look up. Shit. My dad was a generally docile person, but also very disciplined and austere when it came to respecting rules. He was a real, straight-edge guy; he'd kill me if he found out I got an entire tattoo on my arm without him knowing.
"N-Nothing!" my voice cracks, as I immediately duck my right arm under the table. I try to play it cool while I continue to eat, but my dad furrows his eyebrows at my response. He's clearly unconvinced.
"Nothing?"
"Yep. Nothing."
"Then why are you eating with your left hand?"
I gulp. Underneath the table, I frantically scrub the ink against my pants, hoping that the friction will cause the raven-colored ink to smudge right off or something. It doesn't. Okay, then. Maybe it's water soluble? My dad looks at me, and sighs.
"Q, show me your arm. The one you just hid."
"I-I said nothing's wrong."
He frowns this time. "Quentin. You know the house rules. No keeping secrets between you and me."
I feel an awful, sharp pang in my heart. Firstly, because I made my dad call me by my actual name, which happens only when he's serious about something. It was usually followed by his disappointment, which was somehow always worse than his anger. But secondly, because he reminded me about our little rule about secrets. It was a promise I haven't exactly been able to keep since middle school, especially after realizing which half of the human population I was attracted to. Oh, dad. If only you knew.
Guilt-ridden and defeated, I hesitantly raise my arm, and place it on the table, palm-side up. My dad cranes his neck, and looks over curiously. I duck my eyes, and bite my lips.
"... So, what am I supposed to be looking at?" he asks, after a very long pause. I look up, in confusion. Our eyes lock, and he's looking back at me with an equally puzzled expression. Uh... what? Does he not see the coal-black inking splayed across my palm and wrist?
Right then, the exact wording on the parchment crosses my mind:
invisible
tattoo. Last night, I had no clue what that part meant. And I still don't, to be honest. But after another short, awkward pause between my dad, I decide to just roll with it. "I-I told you. Nothing's wrong," I say, retreating my arm again.
"Hmm, I could've sworn you were acting a bit weird," my dad mumbles. "It felt like you were hiding something on your arm, like a tattoo or something."
Wow, perceptive. I guess there's a reason why parents are parents.
My dad glances over to his watch. "Shit, I gotta go now. You done with that?" he asks, gesturing towards my near-empty plate. I nod my head. He carries the dishes to the sink, washes them swiftly, and returns to wipe the table surface with a kitchen rag. His movement is deliberate and efficient, indicative of the calm and collected comportment he's built from years of working at the hospital. As a walking ball of anxiety, that was another quality of his that I envied.
"Have a good first day of school then Q," my dad then says, patting my head and ruffling my hair as he leaves the table.
I let out a delayed breath once he was gone, and then shoved the remainder of my toast into my mouth. I then sprint upstairs, slamming the bathroom door behind me to hop immediately into the shower. With my arm extended out underneath the hot water, I vigorously scrub the ink on my arm... but it won't go away. Okay, so apparently this thing isn't water soluble, either.
Fuck
.
I'm not sure what to do, but I recall my dad's strange behavior from earlier. He didn't seem to acknowledge or register the ink on my skin at all.
Invisible
tattoo? Again, what the heck does that even mean?
I get out of the shower, and stand in front of the mirror, hair still wet. I place the fingertips of my right hand onto the surface, and my eyes widen. In my reflection, the tattoo that was definitely still on my right hand was nowhere to be seen. As absurd as this may sound... it was almost as if the number 9 on my palm-- along with the names on my wrist-- were inked in magic.
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