Chapter Text
Even from behind closed eyes, he can recall every detail of the night he let his father go.
Almost four weeks to the day. September 14th, Pier 35. 01:15 in the morning. A nice view of the Manhattan Bridge, late enough that there were hardly enough onlookers for Minho to care. He’d found a corner overlooking the water of the East River with the towering city looming just over his back.
There was a lit cigarette in his hand; a vice he had never truly fallen into, but one that reminded him of his father. The bone chilling breeze that had ripped through the unceremonious hoodie and big baggy jean shorts he’d thrown on for the occasion only added to his regret over bothering to go at all, and not even a single drag of the cig made it worth it.
So when he’d had enough of staring at the stupid box of remains in his right hand, Minho had ashed the cigarette straight into what was left of his dad before overturning all the ashes into the river. A parting gift, if you will. Myeong-oh would’ve either laughed, or smacked him if the bastard were still capable.
It wasn’t until he’d watched the ashes scatter in the wind towards the dirty river water that Minho thinks he finally realized his life was never going to be the same, and it was all Myeong-oh’s fault. Nor did the dead man care; he hadn’t cared about Minho when he was born all the way up until he was headed to the orphanage in South Korea at 12 years old.
Only then, after Minho had no one left to protect him, had Myeong-oh appeared through papers, immigration lawyers, and wired money; dragging Minho into a foreign city under the guise of a brand new life.
A life he’d wished he had a choice in agreeing to. Now, almost 18 years after his father had decided to show up for his only son, Minho stands locked in Myeong-oh’s shoes.
When he opens his eyes to free himself from the memory of the pier, Minho thinks he can see the ball and chain that’s stuck around his ankle. He’s carrying the weight of his father from where he stands leaning into his palms over the desk in the dead man’s office.
It’s been over a month since Myeong-oh stood in here, yet it still smells like his nasty cigarettes. It’s not a wonder why the fire alarm has been long removed from this room. Its empty socket still sits rusted over, and useless. Smoke has seeped deep within the old green carpets, bled into the walls and through every file and book lining the floor-to-ceiling shelving. Hell, if Minho was willing to actually sample some of the drugs he’s controlling, he’d probably be able to smell more smoke locked within the wood of the antique desk, too.
No, his nose is clean. Minho has enough shit to deal with right now, the least he can do is stay sober. Though one day, it just might drive him to insanity. Maybe the drugs are the way to go; a blissful, careless numbness. A dangerously appealing thought given the seemingly endless swirl of emotions stuck locked up within his chest. There’s no one for Minho to confide in, nowhere for him to go to escape this place or his father’s people.
Today is no different. Minho hardly has the time to brood by himself; it isn’t long before the door to the office swings open.
“Got those names you were lookin’ for.”
The Staten Island accent gives the newcomer away; his father’s right hand man invites himself in without even a knock, walking up to the ornate desk to drop a small stack of printed papers between Minho’s hands.
Leaning deeper into his palms, Minho looks up through the veil of his long bangs to eye the old man in silence for a moment.
It’s difficult to remember the first time he met Samson. Minho’s known him since long before the man’s greying hair was thinning on top of his head. The details of how he’d become wrapped up in Myeong-oh’s operations are lost to the years. Now, he’s an overweight aging harpy dressed in a shitty suit, constantly squawking into Minho’s ear, giving as much unsolicited advice as he does pushback for a job Minho feels entirely unprepared for.
Wordlessly, Minho drops his eyes to the papers between his palms. A list of names and phone numbers, nothing more.
“Okay,” Minho shrugs amidst his flat voice, he doesn’t recognize any of these names aside from one. “Where the fuck is Bill? This is supposed to be the roster for tonight, he’s overseeing the damn thing. Why isn’t he here? ”
“Listen, Kiddo...” Samson drawls with his thick accent, pulling out a package of Marlboro’s from his suit pocket. Minho already thinks he’s had enough. If the nickname from when he was 13 wasn’t already eye-twitching, he’s going to suffocate in any more damn fumes.
“Don’t fucking smoke in here, Samson.”
The old man scoffs, slowly closing the lid on the packet of cigarettes in his periphery, “Alright, alright, Boss… As I was saying… I know you’re stressin’ about losing another drop, but not even Hyejoon is that ballsy. He’s probably drowning in product right now, he’s not gonna try another lift just yet.”
“Drowning in my fucking product that I paid for,” Minho slams his palm against the desk hard enough to send pulsing throbs through his arm when he stands, turning so he doesn’t have to look at the old man anymore.
His slow steps drag along the walls of overstuffed shelves. Minho can’t even think about the money he’s lost in stolen drugs, or he’ll explode. More than anything though, the note that was left behind in the empty shipping container is what truly eats away at him.
“I’m not letting him get the jump on me again, Samson. I just fucking got here. I paid stupid fucking money to keep Myeong-oh’s death quiet, how the fuck did he know? Almost no one knows.”
Samson lets out an audible breath before he continues on in a lazed voice, “I’ve been dealing with Hyejoon for years, kid. He’s good… But your father was always better at this than he was. They’ve been in this turf war for as long as I’ve been around. It’s been bloody, but he’s never pulled anything quite like this… Hell, maybe he knows your dad’s gone ‘cuz Hyejoon was the one who scared your old man into the heart attack himself somehow..”
“Shut up, Samson,” Minho bites, closing his eyes while he shakes himself from the slow building rage in his chest. Something about this place turns him into a person he never was before; maybe it’s that goddamn ghostly ball and chain around his ankle.
A large part of Minho doesn’t even want to care about all of this; he’d felt almost entirely removed from the high stakes of it all from the beginning.. But the note Hyejoon had left in place of a multi-million dollar pallet of drugs on the shipping pier last month is stuck deep under his skin, digging through his ribs and poking at his very essence. Even from behind his twitching eyelids, Minho can see the handwritten hangul script meant for his eyes only.
Condolences, Minho-Nim.
Wishing better luck than this in your exciting future.
-H
All these years, Minho had never thought he cared about the rivalry, about the warring drug empires, or his father at all. Not until a native New Yorker dropped the note onto the antique desk and asked in an obnoxious Brooklyn accent, ‘Boss man can you understand these fuckin’ hieroglyphics?’
Minho still remembers the near rage he felt when he saw the note. He’s giving his all into ignoring the simmering revival of it all when he swallows just before he asks, “Where the hell is Bill, why isn’t he here today of all fucking days?”
“He’s doin’ what he does,” Samson says with an easy tone and a careless shrug, “He’s been at this longer than you, Minho. He’ll show up.”
“Call him. I don’t just want him to show up tonight, I want him to be ready now.”
Samson clicks his tongue, “You don’t wanna do that, Kiddo.”
“Don’t I?” Minho finally turns around to look Samson in his overly knowing, wrinkled eyes, “Fine, then. Take me to him.”
Samson heaves a sigh, dropping his head in a slight angle towards his shoulder, “C’mon, Minho. Let the man live, it’s Monday mornin’. He doesn’t have to work until tonight.”
“Fucker wants to get high before our next drop after we lost the last pallet ?” Minho shakes his head, grabbing his sunglasses from the desk and reaching into one of the drawers for a black face mask, “No. Not fucking happening. You’re driving.”
“Hey, hey, hey,” Samson’s Staten Island accent only seems to grow thicker when he raises a hand in a useless attempt to slow Minho down, “Just how it works. He’s gotta live, you gotta live.. Just let it be, eh?”
“I’m not asking, Samson.” Minho doesn't bother looking him in the eyes when he throws his sunglasses onto his face and sidesteps him towards the door, “I said you’re driving.”
—
The club they’re forced to step foot into is surprisingly alive for a mid-Monday morning. Some thinly disguised strip club in Midtown that likely would’ve been akin to a brothel in the olden days; same font, different year. It’s not a wonder this is where Myeong-oh spent most of his time dealing with the people he didn’t want to bring into his office. But Bill isn’t supposed to set up camp here today of all days, he’s supposed to be in Minho’s office.
Somehow, there are a handful of men populating the club even now. He’s not sure why he expected anything less with at least three or four women dressed in next to nothing swinging around scattered poles amidst melodic, booming music. A few more women are walking around in lingerie with platters of shot glasses in hand.
With no windows to let the sunlight in, only flashing strobes, pink LED lights and neon signs depicting women’s bodies illuminate the place for the sad, straight male gaze.
So when Minho walks through the darkened interior with sunglasses and a face mask still shrouding his expression, he can only swallow all of his snappy thoughts in favor of quietly following Samson’s lead toward the backrooms.
Minho already sticks out enough amongst the sleazy crowd with his brand new Armani suit, the least he can do is keep quiet. He’s wanted to turn around since he stepped through the front door; the further in he goes, the worse he feels.
It isn’t until Samson guides him down a long hallway lit only in low, blue lights and through a goddamn curtain of beads that Minho thinks he’s beyond over this. The back room Samson brings him to is sprawling and well packed; a red room housing a small, private stage with a nearly nude dancer swinging around a pole. The broad velvet couches and chairs sat full of people he recognizes from years past encase the stage and line the grimy walls.
Everywhere he glances, Minho finds familiar faces sitting around tables illuminated by the red strip lights across the ceiling. Even here, the music is as overwhelming as it was near the entrance. Deep, suggestive tones and a pounding bass add an extra layer on top of all of the implications of the space, surging through the rolling dance moves of the woman on the stage and surely seeping into every gentle touch of soft hands against wrinkled skin.
A few of those old familiar colleagues turn away from their drugs, women, and conversations to look straight at him as Minho lifts his sunglasses onto his head and rips off his mask. Most of them don’t know his dad’s fucking dead, but that doesn’t alter the weight of Minho’s blood born importance. It’s been years since he worked for Myeong-oh; at the very least, the lower ranked dogs all know something is amiss with his sudden return.
While Minho turns over his shoulders a few times to give some of his watchers a fleeting, split second glance, he follows Samson deeper into the room towards a couch in the far corner. The old man howls over the pounding sultry music on the speakers, “ Bill! Look who’s here for ya!”
Minho shoves his hands into Armani pockets, turning his back to the dancer on the stage as he watches Bill straighten up from his slump over the table. The man lifts his head in slow building awareness; he’s always dressed in an old suit that’s a little too tight for him and poorly tied tie. This morning is no different.
It’s a wonder why and how Bill came so high up in the ranks with Myeong-oh; perhaps Minho made yet another mistake by keeping him around. The man is almost as old as Samson, and he’s let himself go just as much. Bill’s short, dark hair hasn’t quite made it all the way to grey, though.
He’s sitting next to a pair of young women who are leaning far closer into each other than they are to Bill atop the plush couch. Their legs are crossed toward one another, hands equally grasping at each other’s small arms as they seem to have been lost in quiet conversation before the interruption.
Sandwiching the women in on the other side is Sven. He recognizes the lifetimer beneath the red lights, he’s one who likely would’ve been closer to Samson’s rank if he wasn’t nose deep in the ketamine on the table right now, snorting a line in favor of sparing any attention towards the fresh new meat next to him, let alone Minho.
“ Big man,” Bill slurs, sloppily settling himself up in his seat, “What are you doin’ here?”
Minho only lets a curt sigh free from his mouth while his eyes dart back to the two women sitting between the drugged up men. They don’t appear too out of place; skimpy outfits and dark eye makeup. Short hair; black and dark red, respectively.
But these women are new. Minho doesn’t recognize them at all. He can’t say the same for the rest of the room. And if he were in the place to truly care, he’d tell the young Koreans to get the fuck away from all of these old, sordid men that he knows are only wrapped up in darkness, not a future. The money isn’t worth it, he thinks. Or, so he tells himself.
“We need to talk, Bill.” Is all Minho says, turning his eyes to the exit after he sees the black haired woman winking at him.
“Al-right little Lee– lay it on..me .”
Minho gestures with his head towards the doorway of beads before he turns on his heel, and he hears Samson work for him in his wake, “C’mon, up you get! Mr. Lee wants a private chat.”
It takes a few breaths after Minho slips past the beads again on his own, but he’s soon joined by Samson and an unsteady Bill underneath the dim blue light in the hallway.
From where he stands with his back against the wall, Minho is far steadier than the one man who’s supposed to be running his entire operation tonight. And the sight of Bill swaying in his stance only makes him that much more impatient.
Minho does his best to bite back his frustration, eventually he only juts out his chin when he snaps as quietly as he can, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing right now, Bill? You think you have time to mess around? I had Samson fire so many fucking people before this, you’re about to make me wish I had him put a fucking gun to your head.”
“Hey, alright alright alright,” Bill closes his eyes when he lifts his slow, lazed hands up in surrender, swaying even as he continues, “I’ll be good by tonight. M’on it, boss. I wasn’t on the last one, and that’s why it went bad. Now you have me. S’all good.”
“No, it’s not fucking good, Bill. It’s not ‘ all good,’ ” Minho grabs the man by his collar, pulling him nice and close to whisper, “ You’ve a wife back home, don’t you Bill? And.. two kids? 17 and 20, they’re in college, aren’t they?”
Bill goes limp immediately, catching himself with a hand against the wall over Minho’s shoulder from where he stands many inches taller. It doesn’t stop Minho from looking up into his eyes to snap, “A few pretty hookers probably wouldn’t make your family very happy to hear about, would it. Don’t even think I have to mention the drugs.”
Minho pushes him away with that, putting as much force into the shove as he can until Bill is stumbling back against Samson’s awaiting arm with ever more pleas, “ Wait wait, C’mon– Boss, you haven’t even tried ‘em. Never tried any of it. Why don’t you try havin’ a little fun one day with us, and then we’ll talk, yeah? Y’know your Mong-oh was never this nasty.”
“ Myeong-oh,” Samson corrects, pushing Bill back into a wavering standing position. “Myeong-oh, Bill. Jesus. Are you that fucked up right now?”
“That’s what I said, Mong— Muh .. oh, you know… You know. The Boss. He brought in the women, okay? You’re slacking…”
Minho smooths the lapels of his suit jacket while he ignores the idiotic ramblings, “I’m not here to haggle with you. I said you have a fucking job to do, and you need to sober up before it’s time for you to do that fucking job.”
“Alright, but–” Bill brings a palm to his right eye, scratching into his receding hairline when he slurs, “You could still bring some more girls in. Myeong-oh brought ‘em in. But you’re young, you’ll be a fucking magnet .”
Minho closes his eyes and takes a quick breath before he blinks himself back into reality just to seethe through his teeth, “ I don’t fucking care about the girls, Bill. I care about the millions I just lost and am about to lose again if you don’t pull your fucking shit together.”
He follows it all up with another forceful shove against Bill’s chest, it’s enough to send the pot bellied man slamming against the opposite wall so that Minho can twist another fist into his collar, “Go home. Sleep until the sun sets, I don’t give a fuck how you shake this off. Just show up when the shit drops, or I’ll send someone to pay your wife a visit.”
“Ah, new boss is all work and no play, Bill.” Samson says in his periphery, “He’s right, though. Go home, get your head right. Big night tonight.”
Minho drags himself away, freeing his fingers from the residual sweat with a few flicks. He takes another step back until he can look to Samson, “Get him home, I’ll catch another ride. And find out who those new girls are.”
“Lucy,” Bill says lazily, head nodding over his chest before he adds, “And… I dunno.”
Minho scoffs, “As I said. Figure it the fuck out. And if he’s not good to go by tonight, I want you on the drop, Samson. We’re done here.”
— —
These days, Minho isn’t even sure how time slips away from him so quickly. The morning already feels as though it was a lifetime ago. He had almost given in to the voice in the back of his head telling him to stay in the office until he got confirmation and proof that Bill was capable of leading a successful shipment pickup, but eventually Minho shook it off.
After hours spent desperately trying to wrap his mind around how his dad managed to run such an extensive drug ring, everything began to blur together just like it had the day before, and the day before that. Addresses of fronts and names of cooks and dealers and peddlers and connections that never seem to end…
He put it away for the night. There is always more to drown in tomorrow. He’s only been at the head of an empire for a little over a month, he’s bound to get the hang of it eventually.
As soon as he’d stepped outside of the building, it was already well after 9 at night. Minho’s driver was waiting for him on the curb, standing beside the open door on the rear passenger side of the luxurious black coupe. At least Wooseok knows how to dress himself. He’s about ten years older than Minho; a professional private hire he had found all on his own outside of his dad’s established circle, and an investment in a sliver of peace of mind.
Wooseok’s actual purpose isn’t driving the brand new, outrageously expensive Bentley that Minho had purchased the day after his dad died, he’s Minho’s personal security detail.
Tonight, Minho is already being smothered by the weight of the city. He takes one look at Wooseok in his sleek, all black suit and turns to walk right past him, “I’m taking myself home tonight.”
“Oh,” Wooseok shrugs, closing the rear door to the Bentley before he calls out towards Minho’s back, “Where do you want me?”
“Just go home,” Minho raises his voice so it sails out behind him in his wake, “I’ll see you at the same time tomorrow.”
Minho needs the chill in the air to revive him somehow. He’d left his suit jacket on the desk chair upstairs; the wind bites right through the thin white fabric of his button down shirt. Car horns and trains and the rest of the loud, all encompassing ambiance of the city should be enough to drown out his fears, he thinks.
Once he watches Wooseok drive past him amongst the taxis and crushed up Priuses in the Bentley, he knows he’s alone for the night. Here on the city sidewalks within the constant foot traffic, Minho is no longer the kingpin standing in his father’s shoes. He’s a ghost living in the shell of his old body, quickly swallowed up by the skyscrapers all around him until he feels smaller than ever before.
Following an aimless path, Minho walks alongside strangers on the streets of New York City with only his regrets to keep him company. He isn’t even sure why he left his old job down on Wall Street behind, or how he managed to let Samson, Bill, and Chatree suck him back into his dad’s work.
They’d reappeared from out of his memories onto his doorstep, pitched him with something about old round table plans his father had in place, ramblings on blood and lineage and “ the rightful heir…” Ironic, considering Minho’s a goddamn bastard son and his father never truly seemed to have much love for him at all when he was alive.
He’d distanced himself from the drug ring years ago, as soon as he’d turned 18 and caught his own leg to stand on with university studies. Then, Minho felt like he was finally in control of his life. That was exactly how he’d lived for almost 10 years; so how did he let himself fall back into the bullshit as soon as Myeong-oh kicked the bucket?
Sure, the numbers he saw once he’d logged into as many accounts as he could access were even more striking than what he’d seen on Wall Street. But Minho never thought of himself as greedy even when he lived and breathed in the Financial District. Everything he'd done, every choice he ever made was a survival tactic. Now that he's here, all the excess he’s dripping in is just a coping mechanism, he thinks.
Maybe it was the fact that his father’s underlings showed up unannounced, years after he’d gone no-contact with every last one of them. He thought he was safe. Even the idea of remembering what it felt like to see those three men outside his front door in Fidi makes him want to fucking puke.
He can’t seem to grapple with, let alone accept the fact that he’s downright terrified of where he is now. It’s as if he’s been sleepwalking through his life with a looming darkness always towering over his shoulders. At least now, he’s standing at the top of the world amongst it. He’s in control of billions of dollars; drowning in the loss of his old life and forgotten hopes and dreams, smothering his emotions with everything his father’s money can buy.
There’s something missing. There always has been. Despite all the money and constant barrage of people giving him hell, Minho is alone in this city. He can feel that emptiness numbing his mind, it sours his heart until it’s difficult to swallow another breath of the thick air all around him.
He walks through the lights of the city with his ghosts held close and the occasional passerby running right into his shoulder. The smell of incoming rain hits him in a whiff of sulfur and metal just as the first droplet pelts the bridge of his nose.
He hardly had any warning aside from the people nearby starting to pick up their pace, and he did not mentally prepare to be stuck in the rain. He supposes he can catch the next train he finds down to his place in the Financial District, but he’s running out of time to decide.
The rain picks up into a full on storm with a flash of lightning across the tall buildings overhead; the chilly breeze turns ice cold as the sudden shower starts to soak through his shirt. A fitting way to end another shitty fucking day, he thinks.
He doesn’t even bother picking up his pace, just accepts where he is now even as the cars driving by flip on their windshield wipers and lay on their horns in a constant battle against one another. Giving in to his surroundings is all Minho can manage to do anymore as he heads towards the closest station.
When the thunder cracks overhead, he wonders if it's karma for threatening Bill’s family this morning. The shiver that runs down Minho’s spine is hardly the new cold across his skin; he just can’t recognize himself anymore. Minho didn’t even know he had it in him to pull a move like that. It’s impossible not to wonder what else he’s capable of.
Once he comes to a crosswalk with a steady flow of cars blocking his path, Minho has no other choice but to stop in his tracks and accept the storm soaking through his clothes, dripping through his hair and into his eyes. He turns to look over his shoulder toward the street on his right as he waits, blinking through the sight of ever more traffic until a sign along the darkened convergent sidewalk catches his eye. A black awning hanging overtop of an illuminated store advertising a tattoo parlor.
As soon as he sees it, he ponders finally just taking the leap. He’s been writhing within himself for a month; and amongst his constant worries and slurries of thoughts, he’s been thinking about tattoos. A new branding for a new chapter, and a little extra pain to soothe his soul. Honestly, it’s a little too perfect.
It’s already a cursed day, he’s soaked to the bone and numb to the world as he stands in wait beside a small group of people beneath their umbrellas. Why not try and converse with another heartless stranger before he offers them money for a job.
At least, that’s what he tends to find in shops like these around this area. New York has always been cold and cut throat, and Minho has adapted well enough if today is anything to go by.
Before the crosswalk signal manages to shift him in another direction, Minho turns on his heel. He approaches a wall of windows and a painted glass door advertising ‘ Tattoos’ in thick, black script.
Once he’s out of the rain underneath the shield of the awning, he notices the list of hours printed into the windows beside the door. Though there’s a bright neon sign that screams ‘ Open,’ it seems he’s about to walk in right upon closing time. It’s bound to be just about 10 in the evening by now.
Still, the rain pushes him through the door and into a bright little shop decorated from floor to ceiling in various plants and framed art pieces. Most of the decor is black; from the paint on the walls to the furniture, offsetting the white flooring.
What really catches his eye is the man standing hunched over a desk with a pen in his hand, focused on a sketch at the opposite side of the parlor. He’s small, quite skinny judging by the generous peek of his torso offered through the wide holes of his black muscle tank top. He has nice arms covered in tattoos, and a jawline so striking, Minho stops in his tracks. A smoke show in a tattoo shop? It’s almost too cliche.
“Sorry..” Did Minho just apologize to someone? Blinking back at the sight of him through the water still dripping into his eyes, Minho shakes some of the wet hair from his face.
He swallows a deep breath when he gets an even better look at the stranger turning over his shoulder to look at him, “Didn’t realize you were about to close, most places around here stay open ‘till at least midnight.”
The artist scoffs as he stands up straight, weaving through the tattooing chairs in dark baggy jeans that practically swallow his lower half whole. He walks in scattered steps toward the front desk with a shrug, looking at Minho with sweet eyes and big, round cheeks that seem to offset his entire visual persona, “What can I say, I like to go home before midnight.”
“Wouldn’t blame anyone for that.” Minho says, taking a few slow steps up to the counter. He’s not sure what he was expecting to find in here, but it wasn’t a man about his age that piques his interest. One of the artist's arms is entirely coated from shoulder to wrist in a thick layer of black ink and nothing more; the other is patched up in smaller tattoos all over.
Meanwhile, his face is an entirely different work of art. Much brighter, framed in long, whispy hair that hangs over his eyes and almost might make him look cute if it weren’t for all those tattoos and earrings.
Minho blinks past his daze, finally looking the artist in the eye in an effort to keep his thoughts clear, “I won’t keep you long. I’ve been thinking about getting a new tattoo for awhile, and when this fucking downpour hit just as I was walking past your shop I figured it might as well be a sign. How does your booking process work?”
“Um.. Oh, yeah.. Of course..” The artist stammers in a deep, groveled voice.He looks down at the table and moves a few pens around for no particular reason; he’s either high and really bad at this, or he’s struggling to look back at Minho for an entirely different reason.
Minho knows he’s drawn to it; his entire world shifts on a dime as he watches this one man struggle to form words and remember where he is in the big, sprawling city.
After the artist rearranges his pens to his liking, he continues bumbling forward, “I.. Uh, what kind of style were you looking for? I, well I don’t do American Traditional or watercolors. Most of my work is geometric or realism, I do anime tattoos too.. lots of black and white. I like some color in my clothes but not usually in my ink, you know?”
The artist huffs a laugh to himself; he knows he’s fumbling this. Unfortunately, it’s endearing. Minho hasn’t enjoyed watching someone squirm in a long while. Hell, it’s been months since anyone even caught his eye for longer than a few fleeting seconds.
“I noticed,” Minho allows himself another glance at the man’s arms; his right arm looks like it may as well have been painted black. He figures there’s a conversation there for another day; Minho already knows what he wants, and he’d like to close this deal so that he has no choice but to come back, “I’ve been thinking about an Imugi. Do you know what that is?”
To Minho, it's a symbol he feels far from deserving of. Representing perseverance and patience, the serpentine creature lives countless years until it finds its chance to reach greatness and ascend into its true form: the dragon. He already feels as though he doesn’t belong where he is now.. Maybe once the Imugi is forever inked into his skin, he’ll finally merge with it.
But perhaps his question was rude. This man looks Korean, but sounds as though his deep voice has been dipped in New York City for a long time. It wouldn’t be all that surprising if he’s never heard of the folklore behind the Imugi, or the patience and trials of the proto-dragon that’s yet to fledge.
That groveled voice soon has Minho eating his words, “Yeah, I know what that is. I grew up in Incheon.”
Incheon? Another transplant, just like Minho.. Even if Minho wasn’t old enough to consent, let alone understand what kind of life that move would bring him into, finding someone else who might be able to understand feels like a rare little gift. It’s enough for him. He’ll be coming back here; he found his artist.
“Don’t really care what sort of style you put it in just as long as it doesn’t look stupid,” Minho says.
For some reason, the artist doesn’t say anything more right away. No, he’s studying Minho with sweet, almost timid eyes for a long moment. Sucking the air from Minho’s chest, and all of his thoughts along with it until he blinks back at the artist, tilting his head ever so slightly as the silence feeds into his intrigue.
It’s as if the artist shocks himself out of his little stupor with a small startle, turning to look down at the little tablet between them on the desk, “I can draw something up for you unless you have a reference photo. Give me a few days, let me take a look at the schedule.”
“No reference photos,” Minho shakes his head, “I’d rather see what you come up with.”
While the artist works with a thin finger across the tablet screen, Minho can’t help but notice the watch he has wrapped around the wrist of his blacked out arm. It’s a gaudy piece, an expensive one that stands out in an almost glaring way compared to the rest of his relaxed outfit, “That’s a nice watch you’ve got. A… real nice Rolex, yeah?”
Minho hums to himself, biting down on his lips as he realizes tattoos aren’t exactly cheap, either. The man is covered in art that speaks for hours of his time and money. Still, the Rolex isn’t permanently displayed on his skin like the rest of his worth, “You should be careful walking around these streets with that plastered on your arm.”
The artist clicks his tongue as he turns his attention away from the screen in front of him, looking down at the jewelry for a few moments before he reaches for his left earring. He pulls on the small silver ring as his voice falls to a low mumble towards the watchface, and he shrugs, “It was my dad’s. I usually don’t wear it out. Just felt like watching the time today, I guess.”
His eyes flit up to meet Minho’s when he changes the subject along with his tone, returning to his customer service voice with practiced ease, “I can do Friday, I’ve got the afternoon open. That’ll give me enough time to come up with a sketch, what placement are you thinking?”
Shit, Minho should’ve thought this part through. He can’t be anywhere but the office during the daytime hours this week, “Friday won’t work unless it’s late. I could come in around 9 PM.. But I was wanting something fairly large. Across my torso, right side. Ribs down to my hip.”
“Oh.. yeah. O– Of course, Okay.” The artist stutters through a series of blinks, pointedly turning his eyes back to the screen to run his finger over the tablet a few times over in the most useless, repetitive motion Minho’s ever seen.
This man is clearly flustered; Minho half expects his big cheeks to flush red when he pushes him a bit, “Is.. that a problem?”
“Nope, no. Not at all,” The man rushes through his words, keeping his wide eyes glued to the screen while he blows a strand of hair away from his eye. He takes a deep breath before frowning towards the screen, “Listen.. We usually close up by 10, but I’ll come in late if that works best for you. I don’t mind. This’ll take awhile, maybe even multiple sessions depending on the size I’m imagining.. Can you… show me where exactly you’re thinking?”
Minho might’ve giggled if this man wasn’t clearly fighting to maintain his professionalism. He can’t even remember the last time he’d laughed; he keeps it to himself when he gestures with his right hand from his ribs on his right side down to the lower edge of his hip bone.
It seems the artist must have found his focus; he eyes his canvas with a small frown and a bit of his lip stuck between his teeth before he murmurs, “Yeah, okay.. Uh.. I can probably finish the outline in a few hours, but if you want some finer details, you’re gonna have to schedule another.”
The contrast of this man’s nervous demeanor, his features, and the way he dresses is nothing less than a puzzle. Minho can’t help but play with his food a bit; he turns toward the wall of artwork with a heavy sigh, biting at the corner of his mouth before he says, “You seem strangely.. hesitant. If you’re not up for it, I’ll find somewhere else. Just say so.”
“It’s.. no, it’s..”
The flustered artist jumps with a small startle when the front door opens from behind Minho; he turns his worried, wide eyes to the door before his attention leaps back to Minho with a brand new focus, “It’s not that, I’m not hesitant.”
The artist clears his throat, raising his voice a bit before the door closes softly, “I’m actually really excited to do this piece. I’ve done a few dragons already but I haven’t had the chance to do an Imugi yet. They’re super cool.. Well— maybe cool isn’t the right word.. I guess they’re.. pretty mysterious. The lore is… I don’t know why I’m rambling. I—I’ll draw up a few different options for you if I have time.”
“Alright,” Minho says, biting back a smile after whatever that was. “Friday at nine. See you then.”
“Uh, well, there’s a deposit with every booking,” The artist adds in his flurried rush, flipping through the screen with a purpose this time, “And I’ll need a few contact details. Name, phone number, the works.”
“Sure, how much is the deposit?”
“Two-fifty for anything larger than your palm. Non refundable.”
Cheap for Manhattan, Minho thinks. He reaches into his pocket to retrieve his soaked wallet, pulling out a small handful of wet hundreds, fifty, and one dollar bills. Almost immediately, the artist sneers, “You should be careful walking around with that in your pocket.”
He’s cheeky, Minho will give him that. If only he knew how little Minho cared about the pocket change in his hand. He can’t help but smirk as he counts out four hundred dollars, “Do you want my contact info or not?”
“Yeah… Whenever you’re ready.” The artist murmurs somewhat breathily.
The artist isn’t getting Minho’s name out of him just yet. His luck has taken a new turn tonight; he has to know, “First, what’s your name?”
“Oh, um.. It’s– it’s Jisung. I’m Jisung.”
“Lee Minho. Or... First name is Minho. Surname Lee. I’ll put in my own contact information, if you don’t mind.”
“Yeah, sure.. Put your number here, and then it’ll ask for a bunch of info like your birthday and your address and everything,” The artist– Jisung flips the tablet screen around. Minho hands off the cash while he turns his eyes to the screen to type in his number and the rest of the identifying information he’s expected to give.
“Um, did you mean to give me extra cash?” Jisung’s shock is apparent in the small voice he conjures here; at least he’s honest enough to add, “I only need two-fifty…”
“Consider it an early tip,” Minho speaks into the screen whilst still typing away, though most of what he enters in is bullshit, he at least gives Jisung his real number, “I kept you past closing, and apparently it won’t be the first time.”
Jisung clears his throat, pushing past the shock with a roll of his shoulders until he hits Minho with, “Thanks, appreciate that, bro. I’ll see you later this week.”
“Yeah,” He fights back an eye roll at the sudden shift in tone. Minho knows this man is still nervous, and he doesn’t think he’ll be letting him off the hook that easily. He looks back at Jisung, committing his brand new, captivating face to memory when he teases, “I’ll see you then, bro. ”
— —
The days have begun to blur together. Passing the week in Myeong-oh’s office has started to feel like settling into hell, getting comfortable with a fire against his palms and the devil in his ear. Minho had anticipated everything feeling a little easier after the next shipment of drugs came in, but there was always something new chewing at his insides.
Sure, Bill came through on Monday. They’re still millions of dollars in a deficit thanks to Hyejoon lifting the pallet last month, and this considerably smaller shipment won’t even offset a quarter of that lost money.
Over the last week, Minho had sent Chatree on the job of hiking the prices on their product like never before much to the man’s bemusement. It’s a low level job for Chatree; but Minho had axed most of the people who would’ve been on the dealers as soon as he arrived in the office. Samson’s idea; something about making the place Minho’s own.
Now, he’s working with a skeleton crew in a sprawling empire, and he’s starting to feel the tedious implications of keeping his circle small. Minho needs to find his people while he searches for his footing.
He wants to gain full control before letting everyone beneath him know the ugly truth: that Myeong-oh’s gone, and from now on, they’re answering to him. It’s just easier that way, and safer. There can’t be backlash about a major change in management if no one knows it’s happening until it’s too late.
If Minho had stayed close to his father all those years ago, he wouldn’t feel so out of place. He’d know everyone by name and be known in return, and they’d have very little reason to doubt his ascent into power. But this is different. Minho has reemerged out of nowhere at the behest of his father’s most trusted advisors; and truthfully, he's far out of his league here.
The week barrels him right into another Friday. Only this time, where there once was an emptiness near the end of the day, Minho feels something else.
Amongst the droning, constant stress in his life, Minho’s been thinking about Jisung. He can’t get the artist’s face out of his mind; his voice, his tattoos, his obvious nerves... There was something there between them, a mutual attraction; Minho swears it despite the way Jisung had thrown in a nearly dismissive, nonchalant ‘bro’ at the tail end of their first meeting.
Maybe it’s his fault. Minho’s true personality is weird, and his emotions don’t always present outwardly when his walls are up. He’s been told he’s difficult to read.
Though almost a year has passed since Minho’s been in a relationship, he still remembers one of the first things his ex said to him. It started as any other one night stand; he’d met eyes with a cute guy across a grimy gay bar in SoHo. Once they’d gotten their hands on each other, the man had told him between increasingly rushed kisses, “You’re so fucking intimidating… Couldn’t tell if you were coming over here to fight me or kiss me.”
How different his life was, even then. He knows he’s changed, too. When he’d met his ex, Minho didn’t have a personal security guard to dig up as much information on him as he could find. Though when Wooseok received the rather strange request from Minho on Tuesday, he’d made a face when he said, “Background checks and cyber stalking weren’t on my resume.. But I’ll do what I can.”
Clearly he meant it; after another few days, Wooseok came back with almost nothing useful or all that interesting about Jisung. The artist’s internet presence is almost nonexistent aside from a small account advertising his tattoo work. Wooseok couldn’t even manage to dig up an address. He got a full name: Han Jisung, and not much more. No convictions, no announcements or awards advertised in any old papers. By all accounts, Jisung seems… Normal.
A small, pretty man surviving off of his art in a big city. It’s as if the artist has everything Minho has always wanted, but never had the balls to follow and commit to.
So when Minho sidesteps a bickering Samson and Chatree on Friday evening, he leaves his own personal little hell behind in the office to follow after something new. Though the older men don’t let him go with any ease; they call after him once he’s left them behind without a word, shouting reminders that “ We were in the middle of something here” and “We need to figure this out” and “ Myeong-oh never walked away from a problem!”
Except the goddamn problems are neverending, and Minho only shouts right back as he hits the button for the elevator with an excessive amount of force, “I’ve got somewhere to be, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
—
“ Sorry ,” Minho apologizes for the second time as he practically throws himself through the door of the tattoo parlor. In an almost repetitive motion, his shitty day has come to an end just by stepping through the threshold of Jisung’s shop. Though he’s staring at his phone with Samson’s name on the screen attempting to get ahold of him, Minho pushes on, “ Shit, I know I’m early. I was– Well I thought you wouldn’t mind. Am I interrupting anything?”
The aggressive vibrations in his hand come to a quick end when he ignores the call. He can hear the way Jisung practically shoots out of his seat fast enough to send his wheeled chair rolling across the floor behind him when he stands up from his artist desk across the way, “No, god no.”
Not exactly the most believable response given the reaction, he thinks. Minho stops in his tracks just beyond the door closing in his wake. The artist quickly turns away to stare down at the desk by his side in favor of looking Minho in the eye.
Jisung is dressed strikingly similar today than he was for their first meeting; a white side slashed tank top and black cargo pants, only this time there’s no Rolex to be seen. Minho can only blame himself for dressing up a bit with his black silken Louis Vuitton button-front shirt and matching dress coat. He won’t let himself over think it, though.
It’s strange how empty the place is. While he’s only walked in near closing time for the parlor hours, Minho’s never even seen another employee, let alone another customer. For a brief moment, he indulges in the idea that Jisung is just as hopeful and lonely as he is.
“I was just...” Jisung huffs, keeping his eyes on the sketchpad atop his desk before he finally decides to pick it up and walk a bit closer, “Wasn’t expecting you so soon, but I’ve got a few different options for you to look at.”
Minho can’t help the way he lets out a small hum of intrigue as he steps up to the front desk. It’s as if all of his problems wash off of his shoulders with the idea of being on Jisung’s mind this week, long enough for the artist to draw up multiple sketches.
Tilting his head as he slips his phone into his pocket, Minho watches Jisung slide his sketchbook over the front desk all while leaning into his blacked out forearm with his offering. He appears just as alluring as the first time; only now, there’s a new aura of confidence about him.
Whatever has shifted in the short days since their first meeting, Minho isn’t certain. Maybe he had enough time to pick up on the fact that if they were anywhere else upon their first meeting, Minho would have done his very best to bring him home and get him out of his boring little clothes.
Minho takes a few moments to soak in the feeling of Jisung’s eyes looking back at him before finally turning his attention to the first drawing upon the paper before him.
There’s no doubt that Jisung is talented; the time he spent on the sketch of Minho’s Imugi is indisputable. But he did say there were alternatives aside from this one; and there’s something about the short body and unremarkable face with excessive outward details of the spines and scales on the proto-dragon that doesn’t spark much of a draw for him, “Can you show me the others?”
Wordlessly, Jisung flips the page on his notebook to a new version of the Imugi. This one has a much longer snake-like body, more heart to it. Finer strokes of the pen with a bit more attention to the details on how it moves and twists around itself. The face depicted here appears considerably more fearsome than the last version; jagged, sharp teeth and a long tongue threading out of an open mouth.
“I really like this one,” Minho murmurs under his breath, “Are there any other options?”
With a nod, Jisung flips the page once more. Immediately, the third sketch radiates something different than the others. It’s as if Minho can feel the amount of care in every stroke of the pen against the paper in the details here. He appreciates the long, twisting body; it feels the strongest of them all. But what really catches his eye is this Imugi’s face.
Almost melancholy longing, perhaps a hint of fear. It’s as if he can feel the young dragon’s trepidation about its future, what it must do to ascend and how long it must survive to do so just by the look in its eyes. It’s Minho looking back at himself in the symbol upon the page.
Carefully, Minho scans over the sketch for a long moment. He absorbs the details just like his skin is about to, tapping his pointer finger against the desk surface when he decides in a soft voice, “This is the one.”
With a quiet noise of surprise, Jisung gestures toward his artist station behind the desk, against the opposite wall. While he busies himself with preparing all of his tools and supplies, Minho meanders toward the wall over Jisung’s desk. It’s covered in framed drawings, everything from reinvisioned Studio Ghibli scenes in black and white, to flowers and the occasional winged dragon. Most of them are signed with a small H.J. in the corner; Han Jisung’s work.
The drawings that are marked with the initials B.C. have a much different feeling. A hint of cartoonish glee, a bit more heavy handed. How freeing it must be to spend the days creating something beautiful and nothing more, he thinks.
When Jisung returns to his side with a stencil and shows him to the mirror, Minho can’t ignore the way his heart picks up within his chest. Something about having a visual of his face beside Jisung’s feels right. Minho watches his artist’s pointed focus while offering up his own skin as a canvas; lifting up his silk shirt and hooking a thumb into his trousers to pull the fabric down just over his hip bone, he watches Jisung in the mirror as he lines up the printed version of his sketch just as Minho instructs.
Even from within black rubber gloves, Jisung’s hands pressing into his skin to lay on the stencil sparks something new. He traces his palm with practiced concentration over Minho’s ribs, down his side and over his hip, leaving a shiver in his wake. A feeling once forgotten; something Minho knows he has to chase.
As Jisung heads back to his station to prep the last of his tools, Minho gets to work unbuttoning his shirt. Taking an easy seat onto the tattooing table, he peels the silk fabric off of his arms even though he doesn’t have to take the whole thing off. The look in Jisung’s widening eyes while he laces a face mask over his ears is worth it; he blinks himself back into focus before averting his gaze as quickly as he can, instructing Minho in a low voice to lie down on his left side with his right arm over his head.
Normally, he’s not one to take directions from other men once he’s half naked. But he supposes he did ask for this. Minho can ease into it for the night; give up control, give in to the pain. So long as it’s Jisung’s pretty little hand, he won’t be complaining.
The air feels much colder once he’s lying down on the table without his shirt, resting his right arm over his ear and ignoring the next spike in his heart rate once Jisung sits down beside him, and kicks on the incessant buzz of the tattoo machine. It almost drowns out the quiet, obnoxious music over the speakers, but not quite. While Minho steels himself with a deep breath, he watches his artist’s starry eyes trace over the purple stencil on his side.
“This first bit is gonna be a bitch,” Jisung warns as best as he can through his face mask, turning his eyes to meet Minho’s when he asks. “This your first tattoo?”
“Yeah,” Minho says, holding on to their eye contact until his heart starts to flip in a new way. Maybe it’s his position, or perhaps it’s the promise that they’re about to be stuck together for the next few hours as long as Minho can see it through, “I don’t mind pain. I can handle it.”
He’s survived far worse in the last month of living amongst bloodthirsty sharks, this should be an easy escape to pull his mind away from it all. Jisung’s gloved hand gently tugging at the skin on Minho’s side does just that; he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath in, freeing the hot air through his open mouth just as the needle hits his ribs. It’s an immediate shock. A clear pinpoint of concentrated pain that barrages his bone.
At least he’s starting with the ribs, Minho thinks. Or, Jisung’s just avoiding the part of the stencil that dips below his beltline. By then, he supposes he’ll be acclimated enough to at least carry on a conversation.
Minho will have to sit on it for now; he swallows his words as the sting spreads through his nerves and washes over his body until his mind just goes empty. There’s nothing but the ache, and the constant touch of Jisung’s steadying left hand holding him in place.
The endless, all consuming turmoil within him quickly shifts into something unknown. From what he’d researched, Jisung’s tattooing hand feels far from heavy. The needle constantly running over the peaks and valleys between his rib bones still hurts like a fucking bitch, though. Minho swore he would be able to get through this with ease, talking through the night and getting to know as much about his mysterious artist as he could.
Instead he spends what has to be at least an hour in concentrated silence; mentally talking himself through the pain as Jisung’s tattoo gun slowly traces down the slope of his right side, working to overcome it all so that he can find the time to say what he truly wants to say. The artist stays just as silent as the time ticks by. He’s as focused on his line work as Minho is fixated on holding his composure.
Minho’s eyes stay closed for a long while; he falls behind his shield until the sting begins to warp into a much less intense, burning annoyance. It takes another round of slow, deep breaths with Jisung’s needle tracing into him to form a coherent thought. The last time Minho was here, Jisung wasn’t so easily startled. The artist was working on something; hinged over his desk with his small hips on clear display and his face stuck in another sketch.
Minho can tell by the position of the tattoo gun on his lower torso and the weight of Jisung’s forearms against his skin that they don’t have all that much time left together. If anything, he just wants to hear his artist’s voice again, “What were you working on when I walked in earlier this week?”
Jisung doesn’t lose even an ounce of his focus; he continues digging thin, quick strokes of his needle into the side of Minho’s lower stomach when he says, “Someone had commissioned another generic skull tattoo. They no-call no-showed on me, though.”
How strange this little tattoo shop is; perhaps most of Jisung’s money comes from his father, given the solemn way he reacted to the Rolex on his hand. Minho keeps his eyes closed when he offers, “Pocketed that deposit for your time, I hope.”
Jisung huffs, lifting his needle to wipe away a brand new sheen of ink from Minho’s torso, “Obviously. That’s the whole point of the non-refundable bit.”
He has to make a living somehow, perhaps he needs a better way to bring in more foot traffic to this place. Though Jisung may not have been the one to purchase the few thousand dollar watch he’d been wearing on Monday, surely he paid for the excessive amount of tattoos plastered all over his arms, and likely the rest of his clothed body. Even just the sight of his right arm seems far from a cheap expense.
Once Minho finds it in him to open his eyes and look down the bridge of his nose toward the artist with his hands and his needles all over him, he teases, “Saving up for your next exuberant purchase?”
“ Excuse me?” Jisung asks with a playful tilt in his voice. Minho can’t see the lower half of his face behind his mask, but he can tell he’s smiling with the sight of his eyes. Minho isn’t certain what comes over him once that easy, watchful gaze meets his own; but he’s smiling too.
“All that ink in your right arm…” Minho huffs a breath to himself, figuring he can at least give up a fraction of the amount of information he’s already dug up on this one singular person, “I looked it up after we met on Monday, the ‘blackout sleeve.’ Time consuming, painful. Expensive. Why bother?”
His probing question offers him a short reprieve. Jisung lifts his tattoo gun off of Minho’s side for only a breath or two, sparing a quick glance down at the only limb he’s got covered in an incomprehensible layer of ink.
“You’re forgetting I have two other tattoo artists in this shop who also appreciate some unpaid practice,” Jisung shrugs before returning the warmth of his forearms to Minho’s exposed torso. He speaks easily as he picks right back up into carving his way through Minho’s skin, “Besides, it looks cool. I’d wanted it for a while before I eventually went for it. Have you ever seen Oli Sykes’ sleeve? It’s the same thing.”
No, Minho has assuredly never seen the sleeve in question, nor was he expecting the pivot. He wanted the real story. But maybe.. Maybe there isn’t one, and Jisung is just as normal as he seems on the outside. An artist in a small shop in NYC, making a living and covering himself in enough art to prove his worth as a tattooer.
Still, Minho isn’t sure where this is going, “Who the hell is Oli Syke?”
The question doesn’t slow Jisung down in his work against Minho’s skin. He speaks easily even as he threatens to start stuttering again, “He’s.. Well, you’re listening to his voice right now, for starters.”
Now that he mentions it, Minho realizes he’s been focused on the hands, forearms, and needles pressed against him throughout the last few.. however long he’s been here. Jisung’s tattoo gun has remained a constant, loud buzzing noise in his ear; but once he centers himself a bit more, he can hear the quiet music over the speakers, too.
The song is a near mixture of slow and upbeat; it’s quiet enough that the rhythmic guitar and longing voice feel as distant as they are close to him. Still, Jisung had called this person a he and this singer sounds far from it, “Sounds like a woman.”
“That’s the sampled vocals,” Jisung says as if it’s obvious, dragging his needles in a clear, pointed line down towards Minho’s beltline, “This song isn't the best example of Bring Me the Horizon’s music. I just like the lyrics; and honestly, Oli’s a fucking incredible vocalist. It’s nice to hear him sing once in a while.”
Sometimes, it feels as though Jisung is almost as strange as him. He swears his artist just said he copied his tattoo from the singer of the band in question, “Does your favorite singer not normally sing?”
Jisung sits back in his seat with a huff, dragging the towel in his free hand over the leftover ink on Minho’s raw skin, just gentle enough for it to ease some of the sting.
“He wasn’t a singer in the beginning. The band started as a metal screamo band in 2006 or something. He used to just scream.. Now he sings, too.”
“Fucking hell, did you just say 2006?”
“Listen!” Jisung exclaims just as he buries his needle back into Minho’s side, jolting him straight back into the pain and out of his nearly focused headspace. Jisung continues on from above him, right minded and surely not in any goddamn pain as he rambles on about another artist of a different trade, “He’s not even forty yet. He found his calling early as hell and he’s talented. His lyrics got me through a whole lotta shit when I was actually young. If you call us old, I’ll-”
“Not trying to call anyone old,“ Minho cuts him off without intending to, he just isn’t sure if he can continue on with this conversation while the tattoo gun hammers ever closer to his hip bone, “Just haven’t thought about the year 2006 in… Well, never.”
“Yeah, me either.” Jisung scoffs, “What memories are worth sorting through from back then, anyways.”
Something about his suddenly solemn tone tells Minho there’s much more behind those words than he’s giving off. Just as he’d fallen quiet and lost in thought when the Rolex was brought into question, Jisung took his time to shrug the heirloom from his father off. He’d used the same quiet voice then, too. No one wants to talk about dead parents, Minho knows it more than anyone. He knows the voice almost as well as he knows the near constant reminders.
Perhaps they’re in a similar place, and they always have been. He’s careful when he asks, “Bad childhood?”
Jisung doesn’t respond right away, not while he’s mask deep in Minho’s reddened, constantly bombarded skin. Minho’s certain he hit a nerve with the question; it’s one he knows all too well. Perhaps it’s all too much, too soon. Just as it takes another few breaths for Jisung to find his voice again.
“Not a bad childhood, not at all. Really, I can’t complain. Just wasn’t anything special,” Jisung says, hardly giving Minho any time to respond before he lifts his needle out of his skin to pivot the conversation, “Almost done with the outline. I can finish tonight if you’re up for it, how are you feeling? You haven’t even asked for a break.”
Fuck, Minho feels stiff as a goddamn board. He stretches out his spine as much as he can from where he lays, peeling his tingling right arm off of his face and over the edge of the table, flexing his fingers a few times to regain some blood flow from a brand new angle.
The newly inked skin all across the majority of his torso stings and aches in a brand new way as he moves, forcing a sigh from his chest before he decides, “Don’t need a break, let’s just finish it.”
“Can you move your fancy slacks out of my way, then?”
God, finally. He’s already exposed and at the edge of his wits with the needles, Minho can’t help but smirk as the song over the speakers shifts into a much different genre, “Gladly.. Is this song still your favorite screamer? Sounds generic.”
He leaves the taunting question hanging in the air while using his thumb to drag the right edge of his trousers down until they hang just over his right hip bone. Jisung doesn’t say anything more right away; just takes a quiet moment to himself before he dives into newly exposed skin with the tattoo gun in his hand, and Minho is sucked right back into his world of neverending pain and soothe, pain and soothe..
The reprieve is in Jisung’s voice when he takes the bait, “ This song is far from generic… It’s some of their newer shit, pop metal. It's catchy and thought provoking. And not just because it took me way too long to figure out what ‘Sugar Honey Ice and Tea’ meant.”
Whatever the hell that means, “Why? Thought you were a native English speaker?”
Jisung scoffs, “Thought I told you I grew up in Incheon.”
“You did, but your accent’s practically gone.”
“I adapted.” Jisung shrugs, “The Americans don’t make it easy.”
“No, they don’t…” Perhaps the two of them aren’t so different after all. Two transplants stuck in a foreign country, forced to assimilate. Minho’s already let his artist in closer than most lately, given the way Jisung’s hands now sit upon his lower hip.
He just needs to drag him in a bit closer; and truthfully, he has to know what the hell this goddamn song is actually trying to say. He turns his eyes over his shoulder and down the bridge of his nose to watch Jisung when he asks through a smirk, “So, what does ‘Sugar Honey Ice and Tea’ mean, then?”
Jisung huffs, eyes flitting to meet Minho’s until they’re stuck in the middle there. Exactly where Minho intends to keep him, though he also needs this goddamn tattoo appointment to come to an end soon. His rush can’t even wipe the subtle lift in his lips off of his face now that Jisung is attempting to form another thought while looking into his eyes, though.
Soon enough, Jisung describes the music on the speakers in his own words, “He's angry but he’s clearly trying to salvage something. The song is heavy and melodic at the same time.. ‘You’re so full of Sugar Honey Ice and Tea,’ he’s telling someone they’re full of shit.”
“Ah,” Minho’s still watching him with a small smile on his face, reveling in any break he can get between the needle and Jisung’s attention, “Well that’s… a unique way to go about it, I guess.”
The artist pushes on, his tattoo gun picks up where it left off with its agitating sting, “You don’t have much of an accent, either. Did you grow up here?”
“No,” Minho gives his all into keeping his apparently unaccented voice steady once the needle hits his hip bone. Suddenly, all he’s made of is the truth. He didn’t grow up here, he grew up in, “Gimpo.”
“Shit, you grew up in Korea, too? You sound just as assimilated as I do. What was Gimpo like? Do you remember it? You can’t be much older than me.”
“Keep calling me old and I’ll walk out of here without paying you,” Minho threatens with the weight of a thousand needles against his hip bone. Truthfully, he hardly remembers much about his childhood in Korea at all.
There are glimpses. Flashes of moments and fond memories, but nothing more. No fine details, no extended scenes that last longer than a singular feeling. He couldn’t explain how he became the person he is today even if he was held at gunpoint.
Tonight, it’s only a tattoo needle, and a beautiful stranger. Minho ignores the emptiness threatening to resurface when he conjures a much lighter tone with the last of his composure, “It was a city, same as this one. Just different people speaking a different language. At least, that’s how it seems in hindsight.”
“Sure,” Jisung offers easily, continuing on with the burning traces he laces into Minho’s skin as he asks, “So now that you’re here, what do you do for work?”
God, isn’t Minho here for an escape? He should’ve expected this question. At least he has an easy answer; one that used to be entirely truthful, “I work in finance.”
While Minho squeezes his eyes shut to offset the pain against his hip, he breathes in just enough to realize he can’t leave his answer at that. It’s almost too open ended, as obnoxiously gaudy as the Rolex Jisung was wearing on Monday.
He falls into the darkness behind his eyelids just enough to remember the life he used to live to explain away all of his excessive spending, and dismiss it at the same time, “Wall Street. I know it sounds exciting, but that’s only for the guys on the floor. The managerial side is wildly boring.”
Jisung hums, continuing beyond the obvious bore of Minho’s previous job, “So you’re based in the Financial District? How’d you end up stumbling into my shop?”
So he used to be. Minho still travels home to Fidi every night, but his new office is only a few blocks away. If only he were in the place to tell the artist his every last problem. No, Minho keeps it close enough to his past that nothing he says even feels like a lie, “Yeah, Midtown isn’t my usual haunt.. Guess I just got lucky.”
Except despite his careful footwork around the truth, Minho does feel like he found a stroke of luck walking into this place. How many times has he met an outrageously attractive man that he needs to find a way to dive deeper into?
A handful of times; only this one feels different. Minho’s not fucking wasted for starters, and he’s desperate in a brand new way. He needs to dig his old self out of the dust, and something about Jisung makes him feel as though he can latch on to who he used to be all over again.
“Careful,” Jisung warns in an almost tauntingly deep voice, “Flattery will work on me.”
“Good to know,” Minho bites his lip, squeezing his eyes shut as the overwhelming sting on his hip threatens to take him away. He won’t let it happen, he has to know, “So, am I supposed to wait until you’re finished to ask if you’re single?”
Jisung lifts the needle out of his skin as he comes to a pause. It takes him a few moments, almost enough for Minho to have himself swallowing his words all over again before he hears that deep voice decide, “For the sake of your artwork, probably.”
Minho hums in disappointment; he can still hear the same song playing over the speakers behind the tattoo machine still held just above his skin. The small break in the constant pain is enough for him to shift the conversation before he falls too far into his own head, “Fine. How do you like your tea? Sugary, or black like your tattoos?”
His artist doesn’t say anything more right away, instead choosing to continue on with his work in scrambling Minho’s thoughts amongst the pain until he decides, “I’m more of a coffee guy. But if it’s gotta be tea, it’s gotta be sweet.”
“Sugar and honey?” Minho prods through clenched teeth, he has a feeling his once nervous artist has clear preferences, “Or is that too much sweetness for you?”
Just as his question falls into the air, the song fades out into a much heavier and obnoxious track. Minho can’t help but look down towards his hesitant artist to watch the way he stews in his own thoughts, and eventually lifts his tattoo gun just to fall right back into Minho’s stare.
“I think I’ll pass on the sugary drinks,” Jisung murmurs in a low, suggestive tone, “I’m more of an eater.”
Fuck, he’s too perfect. Minho doesn’t hide the smirk spreading across his face as he meets Jisung’s eyes, “Jesus. At least ask me out to dinner first.”
His artist chokes on an exhale, clearing his throat within his mask as he turns to the buzzing tattoo gun in his hand and digs back into Minho’s skin, “Give me another ten minutes.”
“No pressure,” Minho drops his right arm behind his back to find a new angle of bloodflow, lifting his head up with his left hand so he can look down at the very last of the lines Jisung needs to finish off on his lower hip, “I’ll be here.”
Right beside Jisung, as he intended. There’s somewhere else they should be tonight before the dawn breaks. While the sun remains hidden and all of Minho’s problems are reserved for another day, they should be getting to know each other outside of the heavy, daunting melodies of Jisung’s favorite music that seem to encapsulate Minho’s life almost a little too well. He could fall into it if he allowed himself; he just knows he’d rather melt into Jisung.