with ink and needles I make my last stand
with ink and needles I make my last stand
1,353 words | 2min
On breaking up, letting go and tattoos. As requested by allafloat
with ink and needles I make my last stand
Minho makes three mistakes in his life that he regrets.
(And one that he doesn’t.)
i.
He gets it removed in the shadier part of town by a name and face that he’ll never remember.
The room smells like smoke and mildew with just the faintest metallic tang. Somewhere in the back, there is a softly sinister sound of scratching and scraping. The fading stain on the reclining chair on which he perches is just reminiscent enough of a horror movie to be effectively disconcerting. And the stifling sense of depravity and despondency is all but bearable.
It makes Minho feel inexplicably better.
He almost asks the technician to forgo anaesthesia but she simply arches her eyebrow at him as he shrinks away from the hypodermic needle and he thinks that, yea, he’s done with posing - trying to be more than he is.
It hurts more than he expects, the chafing of sand on flesh, but it doesn’t even compare with the ache of seeing that (beautiful, intricate, cherished) pattern reflected back at him in the mirror, a reminder of a loss as acute as it is numb. He grits his teeth and bears it because he needs to let go of the past, even if it has to be torn from his very skin.
This is goodbye.
(It is supposed to be a relief, a salvation, but all he feels is a vast emptiness consuming him.)
ii.
They break up a month into Minho’s last year at college.
Last summer, Taemin travels around Europe and falls in love while Minho finds a nine-to-five job and learns responsibility. As they curl around each other, one warm autumn evening, Taemin tells him about the streets of Paris, the opera houses in Prague and the waterways in Venice. He dreams of a life there, in the sun-washed colours of the old world. There are whisperings of lavenders and boulangerie, melodies of Norma and Rossini, and murmurings of cobblestones and gondolas. It is so easy to fall in love.
Then Taemin says, “I’m leaving next week. Come with me.”
Minho wants to ask when will you be back - but the set of Taemin’s jaw tells him what he already knows: Taemin isn’t coming back. He feels a surge of anger at Taemin’s careless selfishness, bred through privilege and excess, but it is quelled by the sincerity and promise in Taemin’s eyes.
He allows himself to imagine for a moment waking up, huddled close to Taemin’s smaller frame, to the smell of freshly-baked bread in Paris, the songs of morning bells in Prague, and the serenity of light reflecting on the waterways of Venice. For a moment, he lives. But he has to look down at his calloused palms and remind himself of the well-worn jacket his father dons to work his second job in the dead of night to put Minho and his brother through school, to remind himself of his mother’s medicine cabinet and the countless bottles of pills, to remind himself of his brother’s fiancée who is threatening to leave because she wants more than they can give.
He wants more than anything to beg Taemin to stay - Taemin will, he knows, if he’ll just ask - but he looks at Taemin (bright, carefree and lovely) and instead he hears himself say, “I can’t.”
Taemin’s eyes go heartbreakingly glassy as he quickly hides his face in Minho’s shoulder, holding on as if he never wants to let go. Minho hears a murmured okay and feels the strained smile through the damp fabric of his shirt as Taemin’s deft fingers traces the outline of a pattern forever branded into Minho’s flesh.
When they part, Taemin says I love you, but all Minho can hear is goodbye.
(There is a ticket to Prague on his desk, a once-promise of mornings he will never have.)
iii.
They are drunk and in love when he first gets it.
They stumble down the street, legs struggling to support their weight and arms linked through one another. There are spots of light surrounding them, in every colour imaginable, though Minho’s not sure if it’s the alcohol or the city lights. A warm, sated happiness permeates the air with the barest undercurrents of recklessness. The cacophony of city life is just this side of overwhelming, but with Taemin’s fingers intertwined with his, it’s hard to find anything to be less than perfect.
Grinning, Taemin points to a tattoo parlour.
Minho laughs and allows himself to be dragged into the shop, a tawdry bell tinkling overhead as the door swings open and shut. Taemin is peering at the designs with vague wonder and infectious enthusiasm, tugging Minho closer to share his discoveries. He stops at one in particular and gives Minho an earnest look, eyes bright and hopeful, as if to say for me, please. Minho takes in the sight of the Taemin before him (spots of colour high on his cheeks from the cold outside, a soft grey coat dusted with the last of the still-frozen snowflakes, a scarf that’s too long but has been wound around his neck with care, handmade shoes that have carelessly trekked through sludge-filled streets), holding his breath lest Taemin disappears with his exhale. Even drunk, he thinks, anything, I would give you anything for which you have want. What is a spot of ink and a smidge of pain in the face of all that I am willing to give you?
If you would have it.
He tries to tell Taemin this but instead, it comes out as an unintelligible murmur and Taemin giggles into the crook of his neck. The lady who works at the parlour regards them with equal parts fondness and irritation, asking if there was anything with which she could help them. Minho explains that he wants a tattoo of the design that has irrevocably captured Taemin’s heart and the lady gives him a vaguely hesitant look at his state of inebriation.
“I just don’t want you to regret it tomorrow morning,” she tells him.
He feels Taemin’s warmth pressing to his side and thinks that he will never be able to regret this, the promise he makes by wedding ink to skin. He nods and the woman leads them to the studio. She guides them through the procedure and helps Minho out of his shirt. When the process actually begins, there’s only a vague buzz of discomfort, dulled by the alcohol and Taemin’s hand in his.
Hours later, when Taemin traces the tattoo almost reverentially, Minho thinks of forever.
(Months later, as his own fingers trace over the loops of the pattern, he thinks of a scar that never fades.)
nulla.
He has a stack of postcards, from various European cities, sitting on his coffee table.
It’s been two years since he has last seen Taemin and three months since the postcards started to make their way into his mailbox. The messages are short, a little stilted and awkward, like Taemin is unsure of his place in Minho’s life now - but they’re always signed off with love, Taemin. The last one is the shortest, with only nine digits and Taemin’s love on the back of a lovely painting of the Klementinum’s interior.
Minho plays with the phone in his hand - the nine digits from the postcard on the display screen, a thumb hovering over the call button. He thinks of the distance between them, in miles and months, and the dull ache of reminiscence, in his heart and his bones. He thinks of ink that was eroded and a ticket that was wasted. Most of all, he thinks of the overwhelming loneliness that has eaten at him for the better part of two years.
He realizes, as he sets the phone down, that he is tired. He can no longer chase this phantom, across the miles and months and breaking hearts.
I love you more than I can bear, he thinks, absently rubbing the spot where intricate black lines used to play.
Perhaps it is a mistake, to love someone as ethereal as sunlight, but he will never regret loving Taemin.
1,353 words | 2min
On breaking up, letting go and tattoos. As requested by allafloat
with ink and needles I make my last stand
Minho makes three mistakes in his life that he regrets.
(And one that he doesn’t.)
i.
He gets it removed in the shadier part of town by a name and face that he’ll never remember.
The room smells like smoke and mildew with just the faintest metallic tang. Somewhere in the back, there is a softly sinister sound of scratching and scraping. The fading stain on the reclining chair on which he perches is just reminiscent enough of a horror movie to be effectively disconcerting. And the stifling sense of depravity and despondency is all but bearable.
It makes Minho feel inexplicably better.
He almost asks the technician to forgo anaesthesia but she simply arches her eyebrow at him as he shrinks away from the hypodermic needle and he thinks that, yea, he’s done with posing - trying to be more than he is.
It hurts more than he expects, the chafing of sand on flesh, but it doesn’t even compare with the ache of seeing that (beautiful, intricate, cherished) pattern reflected back at him in the mirror, a reminder of a loss as acute as it is numb. He grits his teeth and bears it because he needs to let go of the past, even if it has to be torn from his very skin.
This is goodbye.
(It is supposed to be a relief, a salvation, but all he feels is a vast emptiness consuming him.)
ii.
They break up a month into Minho’s last year at college.
Last summer, Taemin travels around Europe and falls in love while Minho finds a nine-to-five job and learns responsibility. As they curl around each other, one warm autumn evening, Taemin tells him about the streets of Paris, the opera houses in Prague and the waterways in Venice. He dreams of a life there, in the sun-washed colours of the old world. There are whisperings of lavenders and boulangerie, melodies of Norma and Rossini, and murmurings of cobblestones and gondolas. It is so easy to fall in love.
Then Taemin says, “I’m leaving next week. Come with me.”
Minho wants to ask when will you be back - but the set of Taemin’s jaw tells him what he already knows: Taemin isn’t coming back. He feels a surge of anger at Taemin’s careless selfishness, bred through privilege and excess, but it is quelled by the sincerity and promise in Taemin’s eyes.
He allows himself to imagine for a moment waking up, huddled close to Taemin’s smaller frame, to the smell of freshly-baked bread in Paris, the songs of morning bells in Prague, and the serenity of light reflecting on the waterways of Venice. For a moment, he lives. But he has to look down at his calloused palms and remind himself of the well-worn jacket his father dons to work his second job in the dead of night to put Minho and his brother through school, to remind himself of his mother’s medicine cabinet and the countless bottles of pills, to remind himself of his brother’s fiancée who is threatening to leave because she wants more than they can give.
He wants more than anything to beg Taemin to stay - Taemin will, he knows, if he’ll just ask - but he looks at Taemin (bright, carefree and lovely) and instead he hears himself say, “I can’t.”
Taemin’s eyes go heartbreakingly glassy as he quickly hides his face in Minho’s shoulder, holding on as if he never wants to let go. Minho hears a murmured okay and feels the strained smile through the damp fabric of his shirt as Taemin’s deft fingers traces the outline of a pattern forever branded into Minho’s flesh.
When they part, Taemin says I love you, but all Minho can hear is goodbye.
(There is a ticket to Prague on his desk, a once-promise of mornings he will never have.)
iii.
They are drunk and in love when he first gets it.
They stumble down the street, legs struggling to support their weight and arms linked through one another. There are spots of light surrounding them, in every colour imaginable, though Minho’s not sure if it’s the alcohol or the city lights. A warm, sated happiness permeates the air with the barest undercurrents of recklessness. The cacophony of city life is just this side of overwhelming, but with Taemin’s fingers intertwined with his, it’s hard to find anything to be less than perfect.
Grinning, Taemin points to a tattoo parlour.
Minho laughs and allows himself to be dragged into the shop, a tawdry bell tinkling overhead as the door swings open and shut. Taemin is peering at the designs with vague wonder and infectious enthusiasm, tugging Minho closer to share his discoveries. He stops at one in particular and gives Minho an earnest look, eyes bright and hopeful, as if to say for me, please. Minho takes in the sight of the Taemin before him (spots of colour high on his cheeks from the cold outside, a soft grey coat dusted with the last of the still-frozen snowflakes, a scarf that’s too long but has been wound around his neck with care, handmade shoes that have carelessly trekked through sludge-filled streets), holding his breath lest Taemin disappears with his exhale. Even drunk, he thinks, anything, I would give you anything for which you have want. What is a spot of ink and a smidge of pain in the face of all that I am willing to give you?
If you would have it.
He tries to tell Taemin this but instead, it comes out as an unintelligible murmur and Taemin giggles into the crook of his neck. The lady who works at the parlour regards them with equal parts fondness and irritation, asking if there was anything with which she could help them. Minho explains that he wants a tattoo of the design that has irrevocably captured Taemin’s heart and the lady gives him a vaguely hesitant look at his state of inebriation.
“I just don’t want you to regret it tomorrow morning,” she tells him.
He feels Taemin’s warmth pressing to his side and thinks that he will never be able to regret this, the promise he makes by wedding ink to skin. He nods and the woman leads them to the studio. She guides them through the procedure and helps Minho out of his shirt. When the process actually begins, there’s only a vague buzz of discomfort, dulled by the alcohol and Taemin’s hand in his.
Hours later, when Taemin traces the tattoo almost reverentially, Minho thinks of forever.
(Months later, as his own fingers trace over the loops of the pattern, he thinks of a scar that never fades.)
nulla.
He has a stack of postcards, from various European cities, sitting on his coffee table.
It’s been two years since he has last seen Taemin and three months since the postcards started to make their way into his mailbox. The messages are short, a little stilted and awkward, like Taemin is unsure of his place in Minho’s life now - but they’re always signed off with love, Taemin. The last one is the shortest, with only nine digits and Taemin’s love on the back of a lovely painting of the Klementinum’s interior.
Minho plays with the phone in his hand - the nine digits from the postcard on the display screen, a thumb hovering over the call button. He thinks of the distance between them, in miles and months, and the dull ache of reminiscence, in his heart and his bones. He thinks of ink that was eroded and a ticket that was wasted. Most of all, he thinks of the overwhelming loneliness that has eaten at him for the better part of two years.
He realizes, as he sets the phone down, that he is tired. He can no longer chase this phantom, across the miles and months and breaking hearts.
I love you more than I can bear, he thinks, absently rubbing the spot where intricate black lines used to play.
Perhaps it is a mistake, to love someone as ethereal as sunlight, but he will never regret loving Taemin.