Chapter Text
The tattoo parlor wasn’t found on the main road, nor did it outwardly advertise what it was. Its exterior was painted a deep blue, and the sign overhead bore only the sole artist’s name in elaborately-scripted blue neon—Haru’s. Upon stepping through its doors, there were no samples on the wall or framed photographs with famous clients. Instead it was like stepping into the ocean, the walls and the counter painted with blue waves. The only suggestion that the quiet man inside the parlor was a tattoo artist at all was the binder atop the counter, which contained photographs of the art he’d inked onto his clients.
Haru sat on a stool behind the counter, twirling an indistinct mechanical pencil in his right hand. A sketchbook lay open to a blank page, save for a name neatly printed on the top: Sousuke.
Sousuke had been clear about what he wanted—a phoenix on his back, rising from the flames—but this was Haru’s third attempt to draw something that would suit him.
For the tattoo parlor didn’t have stock images, and Haru refused to ink the same design twice. Each was tailored to his client, and they willingly waited out the week it may take for Haru to be satisfied with their request.
But Sousuke’s phoenix was troublesome.
“Watercolor,” he murmured, setting pencil to paper again.
Haru was known for his work throughout the Samezuka Motorcycle Club. Each of its members sported something that had once been sketched while Haru sat at that counter, or in the park across from his apartment complex, or sitting up in bed. He liked working with them, because they weren’t boring. Seijuro had a shark on his biceps, being creator of the club and its name. His younger brother had wanted the same; Haru had designed something similar, but unique to Momotaro in its color and style. Nitori had a vine of morning glories across his shoulder blades. Sousuke already had a trident on his calf and, if Haru could ever figure it out, a phoenix would soon take flight on his back.
It was hard to miss Samezuka when they came roaring through town; the rev of their engines could be heard long before they passed. Whenever they took a trip out they’d always pass by Haru’s parlor and wave, even if they couldn’t see Haru waving back.
He knew each of them by name, insisting on using given names. Family names were too formal, especially when they’d expose their naked skin to his needle. But each time the group passed his shop, and he watched each individual biker, there was one he noticed who had never stepped inside his parlor.
Their faces weren’t visible from behind their helmets, but most of Samezuka had spent enough time in the parlor that he knew them by their bodies, by the arm or leg he’d spent hours bent over. The unknown member was a mystery—the club always passed too fast, but the flash of a red leather jacket was unmistakable.
Haru wasn’t one to pressure someone to get a tattoo, and he didn’t care if the mystery group member ever did, but he couldn’t deny his curiosity. The others had all come to visit him, like a rite of passage. But one never had.
A bike roared up in front of the parlor, and Haru glanced up from his sketch to see Sousuke dismount. He pulled off his helmet, shaking out his dark hair and running a hand through to tame it. He tucked the helmet under his arm and opened the door.
“Haru,” he said, taking two long strides to the counter. He glanced at the open book and the sketch beginning to take form. “Hey, is that mine?”
“Your phoenix is troublesome,” he said, closing the book. “I’m not done.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Sousuke looked around, as if there was anything to look at. Haru wore a sleeveless top and Sousuke’s eyes fell to the artist’s own tattoo, a merman that stretched from shoulder to elbow. His normal wear was T-shirts, which showed off only the tail, but that day the merman’s sculpted chest and dark, wavy hair was in clear view for all to see.
“You know,” Sousuke said, jerking his chin toward Haru’s arm, “most guys get mermaids.”
“Most guys like girls.” Haru’s indifferent expression remained unchanged. “What do you want?”
He leaned over the counter and Haru sat back on his stool, taking the sketchbook with him. Haru wasn’t secretive about his sexuality, but still disliked when men—or anyone—got too close. It was the reason for the counter; only those he was currently working on were permitted behind it. But he allowed the biker group to tease him because most of them were gay, too.
“I’ve got a friend,” Sousuke said, leaning his arms on the counter.
“Are you talking about yourself?” Haru asked.
“No.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Boyfriend?”
“No! C’mon, Haru. He wants to get some ink, but he’s a little nervous about it.”
There were the people who slowed as they walked past the parlor, or held the door handle before turning away without entering. Or they’d come into the parlor, be greeted by Haru’s silent nod, and then walk out without saying a word.
“Belonephobic?”
Sousuke shook his head. “Nah, he’s just being a big baby.”
A small smile crossed Haru’s face and he stood, setting the sketchbook back on the countertop. “Am I scary?”
“Not any scarier than most tattoo artists.”
But in comparison, Haru seemed almost . . . normal. The merman was his only visible tattoo, and an industrial piercing decorated one of his ears. Samezuka members often told him that he didn’t look like a tattoo artist, and he’d counter that they didn’t look like much of a biker gang.
“If he wants to come,” Haru said, “then he’ll come.”
He didn’t have to ask who Sousuke’s mystery friend was. And later that week, when a bike with red chrome pulled in front of the shop, he knew exactly who it was.
Haru silently nodded when he came through the door, and the man offered a slight smile as he set his helmet on the floor and went for the binder. Haru sat back on his stool, leaned over his sketchbook, but lifted his eyes to watch.
He turned the pages slowly, studying each design like he hadn’t seen most of them before. Most were, of course, from members of the Samezuka club. His red hair was a curtain across his face, longer than most men’s, but not too long. When he’d come in, Haru had noticed that it fell to the nape of his neck. A perfect length to pull into a low ponytail, he thought.
He knew the guy was inkless, and he had only a small earring in his right earlobe. Haru didn’t have to look too closely to see it was a tiny shark. He vaguely wondered where its pair was.
“This is good,” the man said, pointing to a page. Haru sat up straighter to look.
It wasn’t one of his club member’s, which explained the man’s fixation. Haru had always been partial to that one himself, but anyone looking around his parlor would know he was partial to water—it was a full sleeve of the ocean, with white-capped waves and undersea creatures wound around the forearm.
“When she flexed,” Haru said, sitting back again, “the waves moved.”
“Wow.”
When he reached the end of the binder, the pages crashed to the countertop as he flipped them all back to the beginning. Haru took a moment to take more of him in. It was a habit to study his clients, to determine what colors and styles suited them, but never had he stared so openly. If the man noticed, he didn’t let on. From his spot behind the counter Haru could only see above the waist, but had noticed his leather pants when he’d walked through the door. Not too tight, so he could comfortably ride, but fitted enough to accentuate his muscular legs. His short red leather jacket was zipped only a couple inches, his black V-neck tee strained over his pecs.
“What do you want?” Haru asked, staring at the sharp line of his jaw.
“I’m just looking,” he replied, glancing up.
Haru looked back down at his sketchbook, distracted by the firelike blaze in his eyes. “I know.”
Red suited him, of course. And despite his dark colors and his sneer, also pink. Haru stared at the outline of Sousuke’s phoenix, unable to remember what he’d been doing with it. Why couldn’t he think of anything else for this man? Red was too obvious. But he was all fire, bursting into his cool parlor with his red hair and the awkward fidgeting as he tried to conceal his nerves.
“How much do you charge?” he asked.
Haru closed the sketchbook. He was talking business now; he couldn’t be distracted. “Depends on what you want.”
“Tch.” He closed the binder and looked around, as if noticing the interior’s paint job for the first time. “Most guys have shots of their work on the walls or somethin’.”
Haru shrugged. “Don’t need ’em.”
The man rapped two fingers hard on the binder’s plastic cover. Even the cover was indistinct, a simple cursive “Haru’s” on plain white paper tucked into the clear sleeve. “I’ll be back,” he said. Haru straightened, peering over the counter as he crouched to pick his helmet off the floor. His short jacket lifted slightly, exposing a pale strip of skin and the black band of his underwear. Haru flopped back down when the man stood again.
“What’s your name?” Haru asked.
He paused before pushing the helmet down over his head. Haru stared at the slight wisps of red hair that escaped around the edges. “Matsuoka.”
“Your given name.”
He flipped up the visor and, for the first time, full-out grinned. In those seconds he wasn’t the fidgety prospective client; he was fire, blazing over the cool walls of the parlor and warming Haru’s cheeks. “Rin,” he said, and flipped the visor back down. He waved over his shoulder as he turned to open the door. “See you later, Haru.”