by Неизвестный
He pulls away from me with a sharp breath, finally handing the joint over.
I watch him silently, smoke pinched between my fingertips. His eyes are on the sky above us, searching. He’s staring at the stars like they know all of life’s secrets, like if he stares hard enough a beautiful weed angel is going to float down and whisper everything he’s ever wanted to know.
‘Can I stay tonight?’ he asks, voice low.
I don’t say anything, just kiss his cheek and take a drag.
Three
Matty has a journal that he takes pretty much everywhere, but he doesn’t write his thoughts like most people do, he draws them. He lets me look at it whenever I please, but he rarely shows anyone else. And it stirs feelings in me that I can’t really explain. It does something to my nervous system that makes me want to keep turning pages and look away at the same time.
The two of us have been in the same art class since year 9, and somehow, despite the fact we’ve been taught by the exact same people, our styles are polar opposites. I enjoy drawing animals in their natural environments. People, too. I draw life. Matty though, well, he’s drawn to death. His journal is a dark place, full of lost and tortured souls.
I asked him about it once, when we were stoned and on the verge of sleep. I asked him why he was drawn to bones and suffering.
He just grunted at me and said, ‘They’ll eat my brain if I don’t get them out.’
I laughed and went to sleep.
. . .
I step carefully, wading through a sea of dirty washing and empty Red Bull cans to reach Matty’s black, perfectly made bed. I step up onto it and sit cross-legged in the centre, eyes scanning the poster-clad walls. Heavily tattooed men cover every inch of available space; some holding expensive custom guitars, others screaming into microphones. Most are just huddled together with stern expressions on their perfect faces, their lined eyes narrowed and their lips pressed into straight lines.
Matty moves towards the bed carelessly, feet managing to miss every discarded item like he’s following an invisible path. He flops down on the bed beside me, half hanging off the right edge.
‘Aren’t you graceful,’ I say, staring down at him.
‘Fuck off,’ he grumbles, arms curling around a plump pillow.
I uncross my legs, tangling an ankle with one of his. He doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, if I stay quiet enough he’s bound to fall asleep, surprising the famous men that surround us.
I’d let him if I weren’t worried about his brothers catching us together. Or worse, his father. Gio introduced me to their grey-haired dad once, and that was more than enough for me. Something about the way he stared gave me the creeps. He’s a scary fucker.
‘Stay awake,’ I say, tapping Matty’s lower back gently. ‘Your family will be back soon.’
He groans into his pillow, punching it like it will make me shut up. ‘Fuck off,’ he says again.
I pull my hand back. ‘Fine.’
Matty catches my wrist before I get far at all, keeping me beside him. His fingers tighten their grip, his familiar calloused tips waking my insides. He turns his head, his amber eyes speaking to mine silently.
‘Fine,’ I repeat, defeated.
He tugs on my wrist, pulling me down beside him. I go easily. I always do. I lie flat on my back and he drapes himself over me, his face finding the crook of my neck. I ignore the warm tickle of his slow, even breaths hitting my skin, focusing on the ceiling instead.
It looks just like the rest of the walls, every bit of white covered like he doesn’t want anyone to see that beneath all the glossy muscles his room is just as plain as everyone else’s. They surround him like a shield, famous faces he’ll probably never meet. They stare from every angle, watching us like they’re gods or something.
I look away, nose finding Matty’s dark hair instead. It stinks of styling wax and cigarettes, but somewhere beneath it I can just make out the sharp scent of tea tree. I breathe in deeply.
‘When did you swap my cheetah for some scrawny ginge dude?’ I ask, left hand resting on the arm he has stretched across my stomach.
‘Yesterday,’ he mumbles, distant and dreary. ‘I needed it.’ He clears his throat. ‘The empty spot was weirding me out.’
My fingers creep towards his elbow, rubbing tiny circles on the textured skin. ‘What for?’
He exhales loudly and pulls away from me, blindly reaching for something on the floor beside him. He rustles around for a minute before he finally sits up and looks for what he wants.
I flinch when a hardcover book hits my gut. Matty curls into my side again as I pick the familiar thing up.
‘I’m getting inked,’ he tells me before I have a chance to open his journal.
‘What?’ I blurt out, eyes going straight to him.
He nods against me with an absentminded hum.
I poke his cheek and he opens his eyes, finally focusing on me. He doesn’t look all that thrilled, but I’m not either.
‘Matteo,’ I say firmly, demanding almost. ‘What the fuck?’
‘I hate it when you call me that,’ he complains, propping himself up on his left elbow. He holds my gaze for a moment, lips unmoving. ‘I thought you’d be happy.’
‘Why?’
He doesn’t say anything, just takes his journal and sits up completely. I follow his lead, our shoulders brushing when I’m upright. I watch him flip pages quickly, searching for the source of my assumed happiness I guess.
‘Here,’ he says, finally coming to a stop.
I hold my breath, unable to look away from the picture he’s showing me.
‘You cut it up,’ I say at length, unsure if I’m horrified or awed by what he’s done to the drawing I gave him. ‘You–’
‘Fuck no,’ he says quickly. ‘No, it’s– I copied it first. I cut up the copy. I’d never cut the original.’
Somehow I don’t notice just how hard my heart is pounding until I hear his reassuring words. King cheetahs are his favourite animal in the world; he adores them more than the crash of cymbals and wail of guitars. I spent days getting that piece perfect for him. It’s important to me, fucking special.
The portrait I drew a good year ago now has been cut straight down the middle, its left half glued into Matty’s book. Its right half has been redrawn from scratch, reborn in a way that’s distinctly Matty. My cheetah morphs into a rotting corpse, all bone and torn flesh. He dies as your eyes cross the page.
Or maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he starts out dead and comes back to life, resurrected.
‘It’s us,’ he tells me, breaking the silence.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I admit.
‘I’m getting it on my back,’ he says, gaining my full attention. ‘The whole thing.’
‘Matty, no,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘You can’t. That’s way too big. And what if, like, something happens and we don’t …’
The softness his face shows when we’re alone vanishes in a split second, his amber eyes darkening in a way that makes me flinch. His jawline is hard, his soft lips as straight as his shoulders. Every muscle in his body has stiffened and he’s suddenly wide awake.
This is the face the rest of the world is forced to see. This is the bitter resentment that protects him.
‘It’s my body,’ he tells me, snapping his book shut. ‘I’ll do what I want. You don’t like it, don’t look at it.’
‘I do like it,’ I insist, palms up defensively. ‘I do, Matt. But I just– Your whole back? Seriously?’
He tilts his head, eyes focusing on something other than me. He scratches his jaw.
He looks back at me with a smirk, his forehead relaxed once again.
I lean back a fraction, uncertain. ‘What?’
He licks his bottom lip slowly. ‘I’ll get a smaller tattoo if you get one too.’
I blink. ‘You’re out of your fucking mind,’ I say bluntly.
He laughs loudly, falling back to hit the bed with a soft thump. ‘Don’t act so surp
rised,’ he says brightly. He lets his eyes shut. ‘And don’t be such a pussy, either. It’s just a little prick. You’re used to it.’
I purse my lips.
He’s trying to get a reaction from me, trying to provoke me into saying something he can tease me about for the next month. But I can resist. I can ignore him. I will fight the urge to–
I’m on him in seconds, yanking his shirt over his head. ‘I’ll show you a little prick, fucker.’
. . .
I ignore the angry insults and follow the soft strum of guitar strings instead, stopping when I reach Arielle’s bedroom door. I push it open slowly, eyes quickly finding her at the foot of her bed with an old acoustic balanced in her lap. She glances up at me, but her fingers don’t stop their graceful movement.
‘What is that?’ I ask, nodding in her direction. ‘It’s … familiar.’
‘Some old song from the radio,’ she says absently, eyeing the neck of her guitar. ‘I can’t get the melody out of my head.’
The sound stirs something in me. It fills my head with strange images of Dad smiling and laughing, his heavily tattooed arms exposed while his fingers dance across piano keys.
We’ve never owned a piano, and Dad never listens to music.
I sigh. ‘How long they been at it?’ I ask, leaning against her doorframe.
She lifts a shoulder. ‘I dunno. An hour, maybe?’
‘About?’
Ari rolls her eyes, ceasing her strumming. ‘Who the fuck knows.’ She clucks her tongue. ‘Where have you been, ditcher? School finished ages ago.’
‘A friend’s,’ I lie, arms crossing over my chest. I swallow thickly. ‘Have you eaten?’ She shakes her head no and I jerk mine towards the hall. ‘Come on, Dad won’t mind if we take the car.’
‘I’m poor,’ she complains, resting the guitar on the bed beside her. She’s got a ridiculous pout on her face, her bottom lip quivering.
‘You’re always poor, and I’m always paying,’ I say, shaking my head. I push myself off the doorframe. ‘You need to stop buying so much band merch and shit. The stuff just sits in your closet anyway.’
She jumps up with a grin, pulling her too tight jeans up when she’s on her feet. She tugs on the hem of her hoodie, hiding the bulge of her stomach.
‘I’m saving for a new keyboard, actually,’ she says, moving in my direction. She pushes past me, glancing over her shoulder when she’s in the noisy hall, our mother’s hateful tone attacking our ears. ‘A good brother would help me convince our parents to chip in.’
I laugh. ‘Better find yourself a good brother then.’
. . .
Matty and I have been together over a year now, ever since his oldest brother Lucius threw him and Gio a surprise sixteenth. And maybe to old people that’s not significant or anything, but to people our age, we’re practically married. Or would be, if people actually knew we were together. Point is, the longer we’re together, the easier it is for him to talk me into doing stupid shit.
I figure that’s why I’m where I am now: sat in a tattoo shop after hours, watching some over-inked twig attack my boyfriend’s ribs with a buzzing needle.
‘Calm down, man,’ he tells me, amber eyes focused on mine. He breathes in deeply, exhales. ‘It’s not that bad. You’ll be fine.’
Matty hasn’t flinched once since the tattooist started, but I know it’s more painful than he’s letting on. It has to be.
‘Liar,’ I say, arms wrapping around my stomach. ‘You’re a fucking robot.’
He laughs and the man working on him shakes his dark head. ‘Don’t make me fuck up,’ he says, wiping Matty’s ribs with a black-gloved hand. He sounds like he smokes a pack a day. Maybe two.
‘Sorry,’ Matty mumbles, sending me a half-arsed glare.
I just smile at him, thinking about the way he beamed when I agreed to do this and not about the agonising pain I just know is coming my way.
The monotonous buzzing stops and the tattooist leans back a fraction, inspecting his work. He swipes his short fingers over Matty’s skin again and I bite my lip, struggling to ignore the way my heart beats a little faster.
I know it’s his job, but every time he touches Matty’s body I want to close the distance between us and break his fucking fingers.
‘It’s looking really good,’ the guy says, eyes finding Matty’s.
I could punch him in the back of the head right now. He’d never see it coming.
‘You should seriously think about becoming a tattoo artist,’ he adds, his free hand resting on Matty’s leg. ‘I’d take you on as an apprentice for sure.’
My spine stiffens in an instant.
What the fuck?!
‘I dunno, man.’ Matty chuckles, acting casual like some dude’s hand isn’t on his fucking thigh. ‘I’m good with a pen, not a gun. I’d probably fuck up.’
The guy laughs like Matty’s hilarious, patting his leg before he places his tool on the small wheeled table beside him.
I’ve mentally killed him at least three hundred times before he’s on his feet.
‘Piss break,’ he says, tugging each glove off.
Matty nods, relaxing back in his chair.
My eyes follow the sleazy fucker all the way to a staff door, fingers twisting into fists.
I snap my head in Matty’s direction when he chuckles, eyes meeting his amber ones, bright and twinkling like one of Matilda’s little minions. He puts his hands behind his head, his lips curling on one side.
‘What?’ I say, and the word sounds sharp to my own ears.
He tilts his head a fraction, eyes going to my lap. ‘Jealous much?’
I look down, gritting my teeth when I realise how white my knuckles are. I flex my fingers, letting the blood flow back into them.
‘How do you know this creep anyway?’ I ask, arms crossing tightly over my chest.
‘Customer,’ he says with a shrug.
Fucking stoner.
He drops his arms, scratches the tip of his nose. ‘He’s got like a four-month waiting list or something, but I told him I’m going away tomorrow so he said tonight’s cool. Well, as long as I bring him some weed.’
I purse my lips. ‘What else does he want in return?’
Matty shakes his head at me. ‘A blowjob, obviously. A fuck if he does yours too.’
I know he’s joking, but it doesn’t make me feel any less uptight.
I’m pretty sure he’s joking.
‘Jake,’ he sighs when I don’t ease up, getting to his feet. He crosses the room in a few easy strides, stopping when he’s stood right in front of me. He reaches for my hands, shaking my newly formed fists loose. ‘He’s harmless, Jake.’
His fingers are freezing compared to how hot mine have suddenly become.
‘I wouldn’t cheat on you for a tattoo.’ He pauses. ‘Maybe for a big cat,’ he says thoughtfully, eyes wandering. He nods. ‘Yeah, I’d fuck him for a pet tiger or something.’
I squeeze his hands and he laughs again. He leans in until his mouth is barely an inch from mine. I can taste his last cigarette every time he breathes out, a hint of Red Bull, too.
‘Don’t be so paranoid, babe,’ he says slowly.
‘Don’t call me babe,’ I mutter back. ‘I’m not a girl.’
‘Sure act like one,’ he returns quickly.
He kisses me before I have a chance to reply, his lips pressing to mine gently, barely. His day-old stubble makes my skin itch, but I like it. I love it. He’s warm and familiar and mine. All mine.
A sudden bang makes me pull away from him, head hitting the chair I’m on.
Matty doesn’t move for a good minute or so, not until the tattooist has returned to his seat and asked if he’s ready to finish. He doesn’t say anything, just nods and crosses the room again.
The buzzing resumes and he doesn’t take his eyes off me for a second. But I can’t tell what he’s thinking. He’s shut me out the way he does sometimes, showing me the mask he insists on showing the world.
It’s like he doesn’t want me to know what he’s thinking.
When it’s finally my turn I feel like I can’t get any air into my lungs. My heart’s beating so hard that it’s suffocating me, crashing into my ribcage over and over and over. I’m gripping my chair so tightly that my fingers could snap off at any second. It’s my lifeline, and I can’t focus on anything else. Not the angle of my leg or holding my underwear up high enough.
‘It might be easier if you just take them off,’ the tattooist says, his brown almond eyes on me.
‘Easier for who?’ I bite.
He grins, lips pulling into a crooked smile that exposes the black smoke spot on his two front teeth. ‘You need to relax, kid. It’ll hurt less if you relax.’
‘Kid?’ I say, breathing sharply. ‘Who are you, my dad? You look twenty, dude. Twenty-two, tops.’
‘I’m actually twenty-eight,’ he says with a shrug. ‘And married. With kids. So like, we have to get this started now.’
I look down, inspecting the outline on my left thigh. It’s just like Matty’s, only a fraction of the size. I can cover mine with a closed fist, but his would probably take both of my open hands. He says it’ll be quicker than Matty’s, an hour tops, but I don’t think I can handle it. I won’t handle it.
I shake my head quickly. ‘Matty, I–’
Matty’s behind me all of a sudden; his right hand on my shoulder, his left going to my boxers so he can hold them up. ‘You’ll be fine,’ he says, squeezing my shoulder gently.
I can feel his thumb stroking my inner leg gently and I realise I have a whole other problem on my hands. What’s worse: crying in front of a strange dude, or getting a boner in front of him?
I can’t decide.
The tattooist makes his gun buzz a few times, getting my full attention again. ‘You’re eighteen, right?’
‘Fifty bag says he is,’ Matty tells him.
I shake my head quickly. ‘Sixteen,’ I confess.
He puckers his lips, making a contemplative hum. My heart freezes, waiting for him to tell me to put my pants on and fuck off. It waits for his fatherly conscience to kick in and stop me doing something so fucking stupid.
The guy shrugs. ‘Close enough. Got my first when I was fifteen, so who am I to judge?’