The parlor wasn’t particularly clean. It didn’t smell like blood or bleach, which Theo figured was a good sign. A neon “TATTOO$ + PIERCING” sign flickered weakly in the window, buzzing like it was having a nervous breakdown.
Boris was already halfway inside before Theo could say, “We shouldn’t—”
"Come," Boris said over his shoulder, grinning. “We get one. A little one. Fast. Not like jail one, this is, uh—" He squinted up at a wall of tattoos. "Mall quality. Good American tradition.”
Theo stood frozen in the doorway. "We're fifteen."
"And adventurous. Is legal in spirit." Boris grabbed Theo’s wrist and yanked him in. “Also you say you never did anything stupid. I say, okay. We fix.”
The tattoo artist, a guy who looked like he played bass in a sad punk band, raised an eyebrow at them from behind the counter. He was covered in ink, from his neck to his knuckles, and didn’t bother asking for ID.
"Cash first,” he said, like he couldn’t be bothered to care about the laws.
Boris handed over crumpled bills and a few coins with a grin that was probably meant to be charming. “We do matching ones," he told the guy, then turned to Theo. "You pick mine, I pick yours. Yes?”
“We’re not doing matching tattoos.”
“We are,” Boris said, sitting down heavily on the cracked vinyl chair. “One here—" he patted his ribs, where his shirt was already halfway off, the sharp curve of his waist jutting out like he'd been carved thin. “Something private. Then one for both of us.”
Theo stared at him. “That’s two tattoos.”
“I can count. You get one. I suffer more. It is romantic.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
Boris leaned back, smirking. “Da. You like it.”
Ten minutes later, Theo was sitting in the same chair Boris had just been in, glaring down at his wrist while the needle buzzed into his skin. It stung, but not badly. Mostly, he was distracted.
On the other side of the shop, Boris stood shirtless in front of the long mirror, examining his new rib tattoo: a messy, jagged little bird in flight. It looked like it had been sketched in pen and then scratched into him with raw lines, delicate and chaotic at the same time.
Theo had picked it.
“You said it looks like you,” Theo muttered, trying not to hiss when the needle stung a little deeper.
“Yes!” Boris shouted across the shop. Everyone in the waiting area—three pierced teens and a woman getting her navel re-done—looked over. “It is little bastard bird. Does not know where it is going. Still goes.”
“Great, I branded you as a metaphor.”
Boris walked over to watch Theo’s wrist tattoo take shape. “You like metaphors.”
Theo didn’t look up. “And what is this, exactly?” he asked, nodding toward the other wrist—the one they were both getting. His was half done: a tiny key, thin and sharp like something out of a storybook.
“Mine is lock,” Boris said, showing off the faint red outline on his own wrist, just above the bird bones there. “So when we put them together, it is like—" He fumbled for the words. “You can open. I can be opened. Blah blah.”
Theo blinked. “That’s actually kind of—”
“Stupid,” Boris interrupted. “Is what I mean. Stupid and mushy. Disgusting. Never speak of it.”
Theo looked at him. “You planned that, didn’t you?”
Boris grinned with all his teeth. “I am genius of romance.”
One of the pierced teens near the couch stage-whispered, “Are they dating or what?”
The woman getting her navel done muttered, “They look like runaways.”
Theo turned bright red. Boris, unfazed, spun toward the crowd and threw his arms wide.
“Yes!” he declared. “We are tragic teenage lovers! We have run away! We are free, poor, and covered in meaningful body art!”
Laughter echoed through the parlor.
Theo covered his face.