emungere

Anyway.

When they pull into the parlour ("Do not call it that, it's not 1949.") parking lot, Shane realises that the concept of "chattering teeth" isn't, as he had always thought, a wimp's hyperbole. Ilya's hand's stayed glued to his thigh the duration of the drive. He's kept the final designs under close wraps. Shane thinks he might puke. He's never felt this pathetic in his life. He didn't tell Yuna they were doing this - she's never much liked Ilya's tattoos, and it's possible this is the straw that breaks the camel's back. Forget gay son. Forget gay son gay marrying gay rival. Forget gay married gay son leaving Montreal. It's going to be the sight of her only child sporting a tarantula with Megan Fox's face on his elbow that does it. Or knuckle tattoos that say SOFT CORE. Or --

Ilya taps him: time to get out. Not once has he said anything to the effect of "You know, you don't actually have to do this." And why would he. Or should he. It is a beautiful June day in Ottawa and Shane is letting Ilya choose a permanent infection to shove under his skin.

When he thinks of it this way he is able to glide into the shop as though carried by travelator.

It's quieter in here than he expected. Shane's chaperoned many a plastered Metro into places like these trying and failing to appeal to their better angels or at least common sense and they were clubbier in feel, blasting bad alt playlists and echoing with laughter and an off-brand kind of locker room banter. There's none of that telltale buzzing machine noise, either. Shane looks at Ilya.

"What, Hollander? You were the one who wouldn't let me bring Andrew to the house."

"I just think it's probably more sterilised here," mutters Shane. "You booked the shop out?"

"Well I wasn't going to let anyone else see you like this," says Ilya.

Shane swallows. Andrew emerges, says hello. He's a bald guy in his thirties with gold wire aviator glasses. This relaxes Shane ever so slightly. Neither of their type.

"Come on down," says Andrew. "Pick a table, any table."

Ilya chooses the middle right. Not that it matters. He sits down on it. Shane hovers. Ilya glances to his side. Shane hops up next to him so they're sitting shoulder to shoulder. He's wearing a loose tank but he's sweating into it in ways he's never sweat before.

It's the permanence.

"So, this is quite the honour," says Andrew. Tattoo artists must be contracted to speak like this, thinks Shane. Somewhere between carney and a person who writes poetry on a typewriter. "I understand this is your first piece, Shane?"

"It is," says Shane, voice compressed and run through an anonymiser. To his ears. He concentrates on Ilya's breath.

"I'll go first, Andrew," says Ilya. Shane glares at him. What the fuck? He wanted to go first. Now he's going to have to--

"You can wait, малыш," says Ilya, in Russian. He rolls down his shorts. "I want it here, on my hip," he says to Andrew.

Shane's mouth falls open. They hadn't discussed location. Hipbone is. It's pretty hot.

"Sure," says Andrew. "Let me just get...." he wheels himself over to a desk, grabs a sheet of transfer paper.

On it, reversed, in stark black gothic looking figures: the number 24.

Shane barks out a laugh.

"You like it?" grins Ilya. "I love even numbers," he tells Andrew, who laughs a bit.

"Oh my god," Shane says. But then--

"Don't get ahead of yourself, Shanya," says Ilya. "Watch."

Shane barely breaks eye contact as Ilya gets his jersey number tattooed onto his body. Looks at Ilya's face as he lies down, and Andrew shaves him. Transfers the stencil. Turns on the gun. Ilya smirks at him when the whining starts up.

In Russian he says to Shane: "Sounds like you."

Shane isn't sure how he gets through the next half hour. He starts getting hard about half a dozen times, and it's only by picturing his parents dead in a car crash à la Bruce Wayne that he kills it every time.

Andrew seems to be quite thorough. He bandages Ilya up. 24 marked up 2.4 inches high. It's.

"Now you," says Ilya, smirking. Shane levitates.

Andrew grabs another piece of paper. Same font. Shane's nothing but gamma waves. Mirror image 81, like he thought. But. It's--

"A temporary tattoo?" Shane all but yells.

Ilya is laughing to himself in the way that Shane really fucking hates. Like that dog from Wacky Races. Shane hits his chest hard.

"No," he says.

"No?" says Ilya, a cherub lifted from church. He's giving Shane an easy way out. Which makes it so much worse.

"No! I didn't-- no." Shane turns to Andrew. "I want it for real. As big as his."

Ilya raises his eyebrows.

"Okay," says Andrew, uncertain. Shane doesn't know how Ilya coached him, but he probably didn't think he was getting in the middle of a marital spat today.

Wait, wait wait. No. This is ridiculous. He cannot get a tattoo out of spite. Ilya's not saying anything, just looking at him with curiosity and amusement. Shane thinks hard.

"Sorry. Actually, I know this is kind of-- could we maybe make it fit on one knuckle? Like on my ring finger. Would that be too small?"

"What," says Ilya, quietly.

"That's good, right?" Shane asks him. "I've always been pissed I can't wear your band."

Ilya answers by kissing him. It's chaste by their standards. Shane smiles big and stupid.

"Give me just a sec," says Andrew, who's elected not to see any of this. Shane likes him, he's decided.