Under my Skin

"Are you sure?" he asks, blinking at him, eyes round and impossible deep - warm like a cup of coffee, infinite like the sea. The buzz of the little machine mingles with the smell of black ink and disinfectant. Minho has his skin exposed, an intricate patchwork of draws and doodles and Jinwoo stares, softly, at it, with fingers that are already touching, caressing the surface, sinking into the ocean of hues that is the span of Minho's bare chest. Slow fingertips trace the embroidery of his shoulders, the dried flowers on his sides – blue and yellow splashing, vivid shades bringing colour to his flesh.

"Please," he moans, voice velvety, hands wavering, the tattoo machine handed to Jinwoo with pleading eyes. “I want to have you under my skin,” he says, tenderly cupping his cheeks, pulling him down to him, to capture his lips in a laze kiss, hazing his head, colouring his mind, glossing it with the shades that belong to Jinwoo - soft hues matching soft lips rendered with the taste of falling petals and cherry blossom.

“You already have me,” Jinwoo comments, with his fingers entangled around flocks of blond, rough hair, and he chuckles at the contact, at the contrast between its suave appearance and the coarse touch. Minho stares at him, brow up, inquiring, a smile tethering. “You know you do,” he says, nodding, thumbs travelling down to his collarbones, drowning on the hollow space in between, rubbing reassuring patterns that send shivers to Minho’s senses. He trembles betwixt his hands, glances at him, solely, feeling every brush of Jinwoo’s mischievous fingers, follows them around dancing on his chest, trailing over his ribcage, his lips on his temple, warm, the taste of apricots and spring lingering over his tongue still. He longs for the moment when the needle will pierce his flesh, the aching wave of pleasure, the anticipation for the outcome. He wants Jinwoo’s attention, wants his hands to press his heart on his skin, drawing his name on him – wants Jinwoo’s core to be always next to him, an eternal remembrance of his love.

“Come on, babe,” he beseeches again, dreamily, stars bursting in his eyes, a smile so precious Jinwoo can’t resist. He kisses it, leaving a veil of his lip-balm to swirl, swamping Minho’s mind with its sweet flavour. Minho’s hands hold his hips and, pulling him by the hem of his jeans, Jinwoo leans on him, mouth opened to greet his parted lips. “Please,” but Jinwoo swallows his words, breathes them in, leaving Minho panting, gasping for the air he has stolen from him – and he whimpers when Jinwoo gets up, grins at him from above.

“I can’t draw,” he comments, absentminded, an afterthought to neglect Minho, but he takes the machine nevertheless, makes Minho stare in wonder, in amazement. The artefact seems bigger on his lithe, gentle hands, his fingers around the metallic carcass. For a swift moment, Minho feels the pain before the buzz of the machine, the needle cold on his muscles, the faint smell of ink and sweat. But Jinwoo hums within, singing softly, and it is a sound from heaven – he closes his eyelids and let go of all of his burdens, of all of his anxiety, all the fears and worries piled up inside of him: Jinwoo lifts them with just a glimpse of his crystalline voice, with his hands tenderly pressed around his fingers and his heart next to him, beating at the same rhythm.

He stares at the vastness of Minho’s chest, his fingers busy, searching for the right place – they brush his thorax, past his waist, down to long legs of scrawled designs and random marks he has put there himself, head fogged with wine and whiskey and the sound of Jinwoo's name. He idly shadows them, tracing the shapes with care, the buzz distant, forgotten – there is no pain under Jinwoo’s ministrations, the prickly sensation that leaves the tattoo machine is just a vague memory, faint under his tender care; there is only the pleasure of having Jinwoo on top of him, his glance travelling up and down, watching him expectantly, bathing him with his presence, with the beauty that he irradiates, all sweet and tamed, thrilling, captivating: a sketch out of his best fantasies, his hands searching, placing ink by accident (but Minho can’t care, he jolts at the little pressure and the flick of Jinwoo’s attention, watching him with apologetic glances, a tiny pout stretching his lips).

Like this, with his whole being absorbed, rapture on him, he looks glorious, ethereal, a dream – but Jinwoo has always been his dream, his blithe, his revelry. Minho doesn’t mind the quizzical look, the puzzlement on Jinwoo’s expression when he stumbles over, yet, another inexplicable doodle, he likes it, it looks good on him, it puts light on his thoughtful, calm eyes, brings them to live with gleam and shimmering glee – and Minho gets lost in them again, sinks into the forest that they are, the never-ending constellations forming. He wants to dive into him, take away his bones until reaching his heartbeats, touch the sky of his mind, be all that lives on his core, the reason behind his loving smile, the cause of his laugh, the voice lulling him to sleep. And he needs it, needs Jinwoo to tattoo him, needs to have the sensation engraved on his skin, burning – a legacy of love that will remain over time and space, something that belongs only to them (an intimate moment shared everlastingly).

Amid all the empty regions on Minho’s body, Jinwoo navigates the needle to the left, feels his heart under the palm of his hand – steady, serene, stable. He moves the device, ink sinking, penetrating under his veins, caressing him like melting ice cream, cold and chill. The tincture floods, injected into a mess of curls and swirls, minutes of precise concentration, nails scratching gently, blood blooming in slow rivulets of dark water that Jinwoo wipes off with wet fingers that spread the savour of his tongue on his flesh.

He glares at the result with a little smirk cornering his mouth. He wanders his fingers above it, gently tapping on it with swaps of Betadine, smudging the draw with maroon hues, disinfecting the groove that he has etched over his flesh. He giggles, head shaking, a pool of dark hair falling on his sides that Minho brushes away from his eyes, puts back the locks behind his ears.

“Done!” he beams, all chuckles and cheeriness, covering it with a patch so Minho can’t see his artful skills – but he is sure that, despite all, it will be meaningful, beautiful, a representation of Jinwoo, the illustration of his love. 

Minho can’t wait to see his new tattoo, the one placed by Jinwoo, the gift that will go with him wherever he goes – now he carries Jinwoo's heart with his. It takes a lot to refrain, with Jinwoo nagging at him, worried about it healing, about Minho minding with it, dirty fingers butting in, revealing what lies underneath the cloth, but, once Jinwoo falls asleep by his side, his head on his shoulder, nestling on the crook of his neck, his nose gracing his pulse, he takes a look at it, fingers wandering, uncovering it, lifting the veil, touching the scarred skin.

He traces the sequence of the scabs until it forms the clean contour of a marigold. No, not this, he thinks to himself, feeling it with Jinwoo’s eyes. It's a daisy: twisted and twirled, misshaped, but easily distinctive: Jinwoo’s favourite flower that symbolises all that Jinwoo is – innocent and pure, beauty, Minho's new beginning, his true love (everything that Jinwoo means to him is now stitched on his skin, engraved over his heart). 

"Thank you, hyung," he mumbles, with the night creeping through the window, the melody of Jinwoo's breathe, his hands thrown over his sides, holding him. And Minho kisses his forehead, closes his eyes and counts petals from his personal daisy - he counts to up to four before nodding off, a smile all across his lips, the faint touch of Jinwoo on his bones and the sweet tang of the dark ink).