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Kuroo barely had any warning before there were one, two, three sharp knocks at the door and by then Bokuto’s voice had already snuck in through the cracks. He invited himself in so easily, radiating confidence. “Oi, Kuroo, you got a couple minutes?”
“A couple minutes for what?”
He set down his coffee and watched as Bokuto ushered in their guest - a tall, lanky blond man wearing glasses on his downcast face. “Kuroo, you’ve met Tsukki, right?” When Kuroo shook his head, Bokuto’s eyes went wide, bigger than normal. “He’s our new member! We got him just a few days ago, and we’ll need you to do work on him - just the usual, like everyone else. That okay?”
Grinning came easily to Kuroo. “Well, I can’t turn down a request from the boss, can I?”
“Then it’s settled!” Bokuto slapped Tsukki heartily on the back. “I’ll let you two get acquainted.”
He left without closing the door behind him. Kuroo got to his feet, looking over his new customer. “So, Tsukki - “
“It’s Tsukishima.”
Kuroo raised an eyebrow. “That’s not what Bokuto called you.” He tried to look straight at Tsukishima but the latter wouldn’t let him.
“That’s - you know - “ Tsukishima seemed to be stammering. His words couldn’t quite come together. “I can’t correct a freaking mafia boss on something as trivial as a nickname.”
His eyes met Kuroo’s when he blinked once and then he was looking away again.
“But you corrected me.”
It came out as a whisper even though that hadn’t been his intention. But it seemed more effective this way. He swore it made Tsukishima shiver down his entire spine.
“You’re different.”
This kid had such a serious look on his face, it almost made Kuroo want to laugh. He wasn’t sure why. For now he put on a smile, cocked his head to the side. “Yeah, I’m different. I’m just a tattooist. Just doing work for you guys, ‘cause you’re all so special.” He imagined he had more to say but now was not the time. Instead, he ushered Tsukishima over to the reclining chair, situated in the center of the room. “Take your shirt off and lie down.”
Tsukishima obliged, surprisingly enough. The thin outline of his ribs created little divots on either side of him. The dip of his spine made one long curve when he laid down on the chair, on his stomach, chin on his palms and looking nowhere in particular.
Off to the side, Kuroo was gathering his gun, his ink; glancing over at Tsukishima’s bared body. It looked so pale under the fluorescent light. “Tsukki, you ever been tattooed before?”
He seemed to jolt at the nickname, but did not bring it up again. “I haven’t.”
“It won’t be too bad,” promised Kuroo. “And your first tattoo’s pretty small. Just to get you started.”
“What exactly is the first tattoo?”
Tsukishima was craning his neck now, trying to look over at Kuroo, who was pulling on a pair of latex gloves. His eyes travelled all over the room, surveying the space; the walls covered with photographs of Kuroo’s work, tattooed bodies with curving color; nearly every one of them faceless.
“A lil’ owl,” said Kuroo, grabbing his binder and opening it up to the first page, holding it in front of Tsukishima. “See? Nothing to it.”
“Nothing to it,” Tsukishima echoed.
Kuroo put the binder aside, put his gloved hand on Tsukishima’s back, on bare skin. Had Tsukishima shuddered just now?
“I usually put it on the left shoulder blade,” he said. “That’s where everyone else has it.”
When Tsukishima did not object, Kuroo took that as his cue to lean in closer, to ready his gun. Heavy silence filled the space around them and Kuroo broke it with his low voice, just barely masking the noise of the gun and the pain. Tsukishima had tensed up when the gun first pierced his skin, injecting a black curve deep and deeper, spreading when Kuroo moved his careful hand.
“Once you move up in the organization, you’ll get more tattoos,” said Kuroo. He was about halfway done outlining the owl by now. He willed his hand to stay steady as he moved on to the feet, one and then the other. Tsukishima was utterly still beneath him, barely making a sound. “Usually they’re related to what you’ve done. And by then you can pick where they go.”
It suddenly felt very warm in this confined space. The door was shut but not locked and if someone came knocking, pulling the door open of their own accord; they would see everything.
“Some just want a whole different design and that’s okay. But some guys - like Bokuto - all his tats are based on his owl.”
“Based on?”
Information like this wasn’t such a secret. By now, most of the senior members had seen Bokuto’s tattoos, not like he ever really tried to hide them. He wore them with such pride. And yet Kuroo could feel himself getting quieter, his voice hushed.
“Like, he asked me to tattoo a tree for his owl to perch in, and a full moon - and a whole fucking forest scene, the works. Some of the other guys gave him shit about it, but, well - they’re not around anymore.”
Kuroo finished up the silhouette of the body, started on the face. He gave the little owl big, big eyes, outlined in thick black kohl. His free hand had been pressing on Tsukishima’s skin, keeping it still for some time now.
“But don’t worry about that,” he continued, letting his voice melt into the room’s warmth, flowing like smooth ink. Tsukishima had gone pliable beneath him over the course of the past few minutes. It put Kuroo at ease when he added the last few details; a beak, wings, some feathers. As he worked he continued to talk in this one sided conversation. “I think you’ll do just fine here.”
Whether he was saying this out of truth or because he wanted it to be true, he couldn’t be sure. But Tsukishima’s voice cut suddenly through the heated air and made it straight to his ears. “Aren’t you optimistic.”
“I’m serious!”
Tsukishima said nothing but he was trembling a little now and Kuroo wondered if he was smirking. He couldn’t see from here and it didn’t matter anyways, he had a job to do - to finish up the tattoo with a little shading here, some extra detail there.
“There we go,” said Kuroo, turning off his gun. “All shiny and bruised.” He watched Tsukishima reach behind his back - contorting in such a flexible way - feeling around until he hit the jackpot and winced all at once. “You feel okay?”
Tsukishima still wasn’t looking straight at him, not for any longer than a split second. He moved little by little, putting his shirt back on and barely even wincing. He put up such a good show, it almost could have fooled Kuroo.
“I feel perfect,” said Tsukishima, smiling with one dimple and looking right at the floor. “Thank you.”
He was almost at the door when Kuroo called after him, almost an afterthought - “Whenever you need another tattoo, just let me know.”
Tsukishima stopped right below the threshold. He nodded once and then he had left, turning into the hallway and his footsteps fading into nothing, gone but only for now. Because over the following months, through changing seasons and the weeks flying by on the calendar, Tsukishima began to come like clockwork, every three weeks. He always had a reason for a new tattoo, for every milestone he experienced in the organization, and Kuroo was only too happy to humor him. In this way he could work on every part of Tsukishima’s body, tattooing his ankle while his upper arm healed and in all permutations possible. Leaving his mark everywhere on something he couldn’t bear to take his hands off of.
The words came to Kuroo one Thursday evening, just after finishing up a small crow on Tsukishima’s back, right next to the owl he had gotten so long ago. “Hey, Tsukki, can I ask you a question?”
“You just asked me one.”
Kuroo pretended like he hadn’t heard that. “Out of everyone in the group, no else gets as many tattoos from me as you do - not that I’m complaining, honestly, but why?”
Tsukishima didn’t answer at first. But just before he turned away sharply from Kuroo - had he been blushing just now?
“I mean,” continued Kuroo, “it’s gotta hurt, they all need time to heal - but you come here every month with some new idea. Honestly, it’s kind of amazing.”
Wait, had he meant to say that? Out loud? His train of thought seemed to be derailing rapidly and if he wasn’t careful, it would careen and crash in a brilliant display of metaphorical flames. Right now, he needed to focus.
“You know, I just don’t want to put you in so much pain, and if you need a break it’s okay - “
Tsukishima cut him off quietly and efficiently. “You don’t have to worry about me, Kuroo.”
He was looking straight at Kuroo for what must have been the first time ever, Kuroo could not recall this happening before and it made his heart skip a beat. Tsukishima was still shirtless in front of him and the two of them had never faced each other like this before, with nothing but warm air and silence between them. It gave Kuroo time to really look at Tsukishima and he seized the opportunity for all it was worth - to take in how Tsukishima sat up so straight, the way his golden hair curled at the tips - how his torso was covered in scars that Kuroo had not made, pink slashes crisscrossing his skin.
“It’s kind of funny,” Kuroo found himself saying. “I’ve tattooed you so many times, but it’s always been small things - a little at a time - “
And then suddenly, words failed him. He watched Tsukishima pull his shirt on, wriggling his arms and head through and moving gingerly still.
“That’s ‘cause it hurts less that way,” said Tsukishima, hopping off the reclining chair as easy as anything, the traces of a smile lingering on his face and gone in the next instant. He moved so quickly, he was already at the door and well on his way to leaving for good before Kuroo blurted out words, nothing he had thought through and processed but maybe they would work anyways -
“Tsukki, wait!”
Like a miracle Tsukishima stopped right under the door, a step away from leaving.
“C’mere,” said Kuroo, patting his reclining chair, the one that Tsukishima had spent so much time in. “Just for a sec.”
He let the silence spread out between them, and at this point it was near impossible to tell who was in control. Or, if either of them had any control over this situation. At least ten seconds passed but it felt like an eternity before Tsukishima turned on his heels and walked slowly to the chair, sitting down with careful motions and stretching his limbs one by one. He was not still quite looking at Kuroo but that didn’t stop the latter from talking more.
“Take your shirt off.”
Tsukishima’s eyebrow twitched. “What - why?”
“Do it for me,” said Kuroo, suddenly aware of his whispering voice and the space between them, growing shorter and shorter. “Please.”
This was a new mood for him but it wasn’t unwelcome. And when Tsukishima obliged, slipping his shirt off once again and balling it up in his fists, Kuroo could drink him in like wine, savoring the moment. There was no need to focus so hard on work, on where and how to tattoo the skin before him - none of that was something he had to think about. RIght now his only job was to play the part of a spectator and he had never realized before how much he loved it.
He reached his arm out towards Tsukishima. “Can I - do you mind - “
Tsukishima nodded and both of them hardly dared to breathe when Kuroo ran his fingers featherlight over Tsukishima’s skin, tracing the edges of his tattoos and where they bled into scar tissue, pink and rippled and in stark contrast to otherwise smooth skin. He could scarcely imagine what led to these wounds and he supposed they all had stories behind them - like the ones Bokuto told after one too many cups of sake - but he couldn’t bring himself to ask. It was easier this way, easier to let himself wonder. And maybe he would know one day.
His wandering hand made its way behind Tsukishima’s shoulders, to all the work he had done spanning these shoulder blades and extending down to the small of his back. Over the past few months, Tsukishima’s requests had led to one thing after another and the ink swirling over his skin reminded Kuroo of a vortex, pulling him in more and more. It hadn’t quite registered at the times when he was actually doing the tattooing, but it was so obvious now with everything all in front of him. Getting the chance to see the big picture and drawn in thoroughly by it.
Without warning, Tsukishima went stiff. He had been holding his hands in front of him for some time and his knuckles had turned white. “Kuroo, I - “
“What is it?”
“The part you just pressed down on - it still hurts.”
The skin around the ink was indeed still pink and Kuroo felt a hot blush rise in his cheeks from not having noticed. “Sorry.”
He moved his hand, let it settle in the groove of Tsukishima’s waist, squeezing once and letting himself lean forward, resting his chin on Tsukishima’s shoulder. His heart was pounding something fierce in his chest and he wondered if Tsukishima could feel it too.
“I lied earlier. It always hurts,” said Tsukishima, out of nowhere. “When you tattoo me.”
“Tsukki, you - “
Tsukishima cut him off, kept on talking. “But really, you don’t have to worry about it. Because I - I want to come here. I enjoy it.”
He stopped suddenly, throat bobbing when he swallowed hard. He was blushing now too and barely flinched when Kuroo moved his hands back over his sensitive skin, silent in his contemplation. So quiet on the outside and yet he felt on fire inside, heat rising in his body that felt impossible to suppress.
“Incredible,” murmured Kuroo, and he was leaning forward even more now. When he kissed Tsukishima on the cheek it barely lasted longer than a second and neither of them had been prepared for it. Tsukishima looked so much younger in this moment, not like a member of the mafia or anything - just a wide eyed boy reaching up to his cheek, feeling the skin and staring openly at Kuroo.
“You - “ Tsukishima finally said, “what’re you laughing for?”
He looked so offended right now, petulant and pouty enough for Kuroo to shield his mouth. The corners of his eyes were still crinkled in his laughter. “It’s nothing, you’re just - you’re amazing. The fact that Bokuto’s letting you get so many tattoos - you must be really moving up in the organization, aren’t you? My little mobster.”
It had not quite been his intention but it felt natural when he moved forward and pressed his lips to Tsukishima’s gaping mouth, kissing him slow at first and then faster, wrapping his arms around Tsukishima’s shoulders and pulling him close. Their wayward limbs kept hitting the chair at odd angles but neither of them bothered to correct it. The seat was not quite built for two and yet they both managed to fit anyways, their bodies pressed together and all the space between them long gone. In this way Kuroo could feel Tsukishima’s heartbeat through his skin, pounding hard and strangely comforting. In the end, the young man in his arms was only human.
Tsukishima pulled away from the kiss first, his shoulders heaving. “Actually, about that - not everyone gets tattoos?”
Oh - was that worry in his voice just now?
“I mean, they do,” murmured Kuroo, pulling Tsukishima closer again, “they get plenty. But usually it’s once a year, at most. Or I just add on stuff to their pieces.”
While he was talking he let himself run his fingers over Tsukishima’s tattoos more, tracing their edges. Allowing himself this small luxury. Tsukishima’s skin bloomed heat beneath Kuroo’s eager hands, pressing harder, seeking warmth.
Tsukishima gasped out. “Kuroo, your hands - they’re really cold.”
He didn’t have the chance to say anything more after that. Kuroo took care of that as easy as anything, holding onto the body he thought he knew so well. Although at this rate that would not be the case, not with all these scars on Tsukishima’s arms, his torso, these uneven marks that had not healed quite right. Surely they had accumulated over time but he hadn’t quite noticed them until now. That bit of regret made his heart pang hard, a psychosomatic pain more than anything. Although Kuroo might have been more worried if it weren’t for Tsukishima’s warm body up against his, the two of them breathing in time. Sharing this moment together, a single sliver out of all the hours and days.
And after they parted, then what? Kuroo felt as if he knew the answer and against his better judgement he let himself contemplate it. He would go back to his daily life; tattooing tourists and kids off the street at the parlor, hanging out at the mafia compound three nights a week, bothering Bokuto whenever he got the chance. And Tsukishima - for him Kuroo could conjure up a few mental images - a freshly pressed suit, shiny leather shoes, a handgun. Late nights spent in buildings clear across town, and then coffee at midnight. Sitting in the laundromat a block away and using two cups of bleach on the load in order to get out every last stain.
And then more scars, stretching clear across his body and as permanent as the tattoos Kuroo made. If they ever faded they would fade together, silver lines and old pictures melting into each other. Just like Tsukishima in his arms right now, trembling in his hold, with that body which coerced and tortured and killed and stayed utterly still while under Kuroo’s needle. The art on his body rippled with his every movement always beginning and ending along the length of his spine, swirling swathes of color leading the eye to a black owl and crow, tiny and unblinking for all of time.