Drew Boutan was fast becoming concerned as he listened to his friend, Vince, tell him how easy it was going to be for his cousin to do a tattoo with just a razor blade and pen ink. When the part about disinfecting the tattoo with vodka came, Drew had heard enough.

"No, listen," Vince insisted. "It only sounds bad, but I've heard you only get like two or three infections and then you're fine."

"Yeah, no thanks," Drew said. "I want to keep the arm the tattoo's on when it's done."

Sitting around the classroom before homeroom, the group of cheerleaders and football players laughed. Out of his cast and fully recovered, Drew had begun to gradually work his way back into the friend group from which his injury had exiled him. And though they no longer shared the bond of being teammates, the others still welcomed him back into the fold as a fellow athlete. In that spirit, he had turned to them for advice on where to go for a tattoo, but he was fast realizing that might have been a mistake.

"Yo, Vince, are you getting like a cut of the profits or something?" one of the other boys asked. "You're really trying to lure Drew into some dude's basement filled with razor blades."

"Look," Vince said, "you want it done quick or you want it done right?"

"At least he knows that's not right," said one of the girls, to more laughter.

As Drew gave a "thanks anyway," pat to Vince on the shoulder, his gaze fell on a figure sitting a few rows away, towards the back of the class. Dressed in whitewashed jeans ripped at the knees, with a checkered shirt tied around his waist, David sat with his head on his arms on the desk. He was turned away from Drew and his friends, showing the black roots of his hair, which had grown out enough to be pulled back in a half up style with a fringe over his nape. Drew had not noticed him come in, but now he paused, a pensive look on his face.

Following his line of sight, one of the other teens frowned at him. "What are you looking at him for?" the boy asked scornfully.

"I was just thinking he might know a good tattoo place," Drew said.

"Him?" said one of the girls. "Why would he know?"

"Look at him," Drew said.

"I'd rather not," she responded, flipping her ponytail over her shoulder.

"Don't worry about it, man," said Andrew, a tall, broad teen with a shaved head, who had taken Drew's spot as starting quarterback. "We'll find you some place good. Bad enough you have to take that class with him, you don't need to be asking for favors."

Drew opened his mouth to respond, but the bell rang then, and the teacher came in, so they broke up and took their seats. As Drew moved to his, he glanced back. Dark rimmed eyes met his, and for a moment Drew thought David was going to say something. But then the dark eyes turned away, and Drew slumped into his seat, tapping his pencil on the desk and hoping Vince's cousin would not be his only choice.

**

At the bottom of the stairwell, outside the open door of the third floor hall, David stood leaning against the wall. On a Friday afternoon, no one stayed longer than was absolutely necessary, and the school was empty, save for the janitors. In a black t-shirt with a graphic of strips of flesh sewn together on the front, he listened to the footsteps echoing in the stairwell getting closer and closer, and when Drew passed through the doorway, he said, "Bailey canceled."

Pulling up short and jumping slightly, Drew sighed as he looked at David. "Good," he said. "I didn't feel much like sitting through two hours of him right now."

David pushed off from the wall. "He left a workbook," he said, handing over a stapled folder of papers.

Drew sighed. "I don't feel like doing this, either."

David looked at the boy, at the clean shaven, open face, at the blue eyes that no longer saw the world the same way they had before. "You feel like getting a tattoo?"

Drew looked up from frowning at the workbook and caught the dark, knowing gaze. Smooth, he couldn't help but think. "Do you know a good place?"

"The best."

"Will they take me even if I'm not eighteen?"

"If you can pay."

"Will I survive?"

A faint smirk pulled at the pale lips. "That's up to you and your tolerance for pain."

"Four surgeries and weeks of physical therapy," Drew said. "I think I'm good." Rolling the workbook up in his hands, he turned back towards the stairwell. "I need to make a stop home first, and then we can go."

"You want to get it done today?" David asked, turning to follow.

"What, I can't?"

"You usually need an appointment. Jun's time fills up fast."

"Damn," Drew murmured, tromping down a flight of stairs. "I wanted it this weekend."

"Some reason you're in a hurry?" David asked, stepping down more slowly.

Pausing to wait until the other caught up, Drew hesitated. "My parents are out of town."

David rose his head slowly and nodded. There was no need to say anymore. "He'll see you," David said, stepping down to the landing with Drew. "And do the consultation, but if he's booked..."

Drew sighed and nodded. What else could he do?

Down the rest of the way to the ground floor, neither of them realized that both of them had just assumed David would take him. It was simply understood.

As they crossed from the building to the rear student parking lot, a few players called to Drew from the football field, and he jogged over to talk to them through the chain link fence. Waiting out of earshot, David saw a lot of gesturing in his direction, and someone reach through the fence to grab Drew's arm. Drew spoke to them briefly before shaking them off and rejoining David.

"Do they think I'm kidnapping you?" David asked, almost hiding the annoyance in his voice, but not quite.

"Sort of. They don't know you," Drew said, as they continued into the parking lot. "Not well enough to trust you."

"And you do?" David asked, glancing back at the fence, where the group had grown and were staring in their direction.

"Yeah." He said it without thinking, as if it was natural. "I do."

David's eyes flickered. Caught off guard, he looked away and said nothing until they were at Drew's truck.

They drove with the windows down to let in the warm April air, fragrant with the smell of mesquite and fresh cut grass. It ruffled David's hair as he turned toward the window, but his mind was on the teenagers by the fence and the looks they had given him as he walked away with Drew.

"Why do you trust me?" David asked.

Drew, his mind elsewhere, said, "What?"

"Why do you trust me?" David repeated, dark eyes squinting out the window.

Drew shrugged.

"Your friends don't."

"Yeah," Drew said. "They don't like you."

"Are they afraid I'll corrupt you?"

"No," Drew said. "They're afraid you'll corrupt them."

David glanced at him. He wasn't expecting such a straightforward answer. Then again, Drew had always been a straightforward guy. "You still came."

"Sure."

"Why?"

Drew exhaled sharply at the road. "I don't know," he said. "I just do." There was a pause, then: "She trusted you."

There was no need to ask who she was. David glanced at him, then back out the window. They drove in silence, but it was a comfortable one, if slightly awkward. "Nice hair," Drew said after a while. Though it had already been a few months since David had bleached it.

"You too," David returned.

Since leaving football Drew had let his usual buzz cut grow out, and now the straw colored hair was brushed straight back from his forehead, with a few loose strands quivering in the breeze. He brushed his hand over it self-consciously.

"It works for you," David added.

Drew lowered his hand. He said nothing, but there was a relaxed, pleased expression about his mouth as he drove them towards the highway.

**

The tattoo parlor was a flight of steps down from the sidewalk, along a row of music shops, hamburger places, and discount clothing stores. Wide glass windows along the stairs held a neon sign with the name: Tit for Tats. Prints of colorful and graphic tattoos, and a shrunken head decorated the rest of the slightly grimy window. Inside, a guttural voice sang over quick, shrieking electric guitars over speakers in the background. It was a small space, but with high ceilings lots of small windows that let in natural light. The walls were painted a dark blue, trimmed in black, and covered with prints of tattoos. A black leather couch sat against the right wall, with a heavily scarred wooden table and matching armchair on wood floors. A glass counter sat directly opposite the door, filled with jewelry for every body part, and a metal staircase that curved to a second floor just to its left.

There were about a handful of people inside, sitting and flipping through tattoo books. As they walked in, a smell of spice and perfume hit them, tingling their noses. A guy leaning on the counter sketching in a book looked up. He was older than them, in his early twenties, in a black shirt fitted to a toned torso with the name of the shop across it in jagged letters. His exposed arms were heavily tattooed, earlobes stretched with black disks, with numerous silver piercings in both ears, eyebrows, and a ring through his nose like a bull. His hair was pitch black and shiny, brushed straight back from his face, and his blue eyes lit up when they spotted David.

"Yo, David," he said, standing full height. "Looking fine as ever. I missed you."

"Thanks," David said mildly. "Jun in?"

"Upstairs, finishing up with someone. But if you're in a hurry," lips parted into a smirk, "I'd be glad to do you."

"Thanks," David said, "but I've already got someone to do me. He's the one who needs doing today."

Blue eyes flicked to Drew, and they were not without interest. "Oh?"

Drew shifted from one foot to other, unused to conversations like that between guys.

"Drew Boutan," David said. "This is Pierre."

"Boutan?" Pierre said, extending a hand. "French?"

"Yeah," Drew said, taking the hand and receiving a firm grip and shake. "My family is from Louisiana."

"Ahh," Pierre smiled. "Can you speak any French?"

"No."

"Want me to teach you?"

"Uh..." Drew glanced from the smirking face, down to the thumb rubbing his hand, then to David, who quickly looked away. As Drew hesitated with a response, Pierre chuckled lightly and released him.

"I'll take that as a no," Pierre said. "Have a seat, Jun shouldn't be long." Taking a step over, he leaned on the counter closer to where David was looking into the display case. "Do you really have someone?" he asked.

"Yeah," David replied.

"Better looking than me?"

"Yeah."

"How old is he?"

"Old enough."

"Now it sounds like you're talking about yourself."

David chuckled lightly. "Maybe."

Drew moved away from the flirting pair and towards the wall of prints with a quick, cautious backwards glance. This was definitely not the world he was used to, this wild, free place where you said whatever was on your mind. But it was a place where David seemed to fit in effortlessly, and Drew found himself glancing back at the two at the counter more than once. David had never been one to hide who he was, but while Drew's world actively rejected the black clad boy in eyeliner, David's world accepted Drew with a handshake.

After about fifteen mins there were voices from the top of the staircase, and then two people came into view. One was an ordinary middle aged man with one sleeve of his shirt rolled up and a white bandage on his bicep. The other was tall and wiry, dressed in the same black logo t-shirt as Pierre, with tattoo dotted arms, and a thick head of black hair brushed straight back from a high forehead. Spotting David from the top, brown almond shaped eyes crinkled with a smile.

"David!" the man said, coming towards him after seeing the client out. "This is a pleasant surprise. I thought we were piecing your lip next month."

"We are," David said, tapping forearms with the man in greeting. "He's the one I'm here for today. Jun, this is Drew Boutan."

"He's French," Pierre added, with a smile and wink at Drew.

"Stop that," Jun said to his employee. It felt like he had to say it a lot. "Good to meet you, Drew," he added, shaking the proffered hand. "I'm booked solid, but I can move some things around for our David. What are you looking to get?"

"I appreciate that, sir," Drew said. "A tattoo. I have a drawing right here."

"Excellent!" Jun said, his voice deep and booming. "I like when they come prepared. Come up to my chair, and we'll get started."

As the two moved up the stairs, from below Drew heard Pierre say to David: "If you let me pierce your lip right now, I'll do it for free."

"Go get your gun then," David replied, to which the other man gave a whoop of joy and clap of his hands.

**

The top of the stairs gave onto a short purple painted hallway that branched off into three other rooms. On the walls were lace trimmed prints of more tattoos, and on the floor a dark red threadbare carpet. A shrill whine filled the hall from the other rooms, until Jun closed the door. Inside his room was small and neat, done in the same purple and reds as the hall. In the middle was a black leather chair with a matching stool beside it, bottles of ink beside a stencil machine and sketchbooks along the walls. On a moveable tray table was the tattoo apparatus, parts of it wrapped in protective plastic.

Pulling a folded sheet of paper from his pocket, Drew handed it over to the man. On it was a drawing of a cherry blossom tree, drenched in pink blooms, grounded in dark earth littered with fallen petals, and an expanse of blue sky beyond. In the tree on a branch were two birds: a large eagle, and a small sparrow nestling against its side.

"This is very well done," Jun said, raising dark brows in admiration.

"My sister drew it," Drew said.

"She's very talented."

"She was."

The man looked up. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice lowering. "How long has it been?"

"Three years."

Jun paused, as if something connected in his mind. Then he gestured to the chair. "I'll do my best to do it justice. Have a seat, while I make a stencil. Where are we putting this?"

"On my arm," Drew said, rolling the left sleeve of his t-shirt back. "With her name on a ribbon along the bottom."

"I can't quite make out the handwriting."

"Sorry, my handwriting sucks. It's Mary."

Once more Jun paused, briefly glanced at Drew, then returned to his task.

"How much will this cost?" Drew asked.

"Usually, a tattoo this size goes for around three hundred," Jun said. "But since you're a friend of David's, I'll do it for half."

"We're not friends," Drew said. It wasn't said maliciously or with disdain, just as simple fact.

"No?" Jun asked, as he donned black gloves. "Then what are you?"

"Classmates." But that didn't seem right. Drew opened his mouth, then closed it. "I don't know."

"We got time," Jun said, sitting on the stool and rolling it close. "Might be a good time to figure it out. You're going to be here a while." Glancing up at the boy as he wiped Drew's arm down with alcohol and applied the stencil, Jun added, "I'll admit, I'm curious about your connection to David."

"My connection?" Drew said. "Why? We're just—" He frowned. "How do you know him?" he asked. Realizing that it came out belligerently, he quickly apologized, but Jun laughed it away.

"I met David three years ago," the man said. "Found him on the side of the highway, with a funeral program in his hand." Drew's looked up quickly, and Jun met his surprised gaze. "I'm curious," he said slowly, "because it seems like you hold a piece of the puzzle I don't. And David isn't one to spill his guts easily, if at all."

Drew looked at the man, then looked away, his gaze going up the purple wall to the black and white checkered ceiling. He was silent all the way through as Jun finished applying the stencil. Next came the gun, and the shrill whining of firing coils filled the room, almost shaking Drew's teeth. When he felt the sharp prick of the needle in his skin, he spoke.

"That was my sister's funeral," he said. "He used to babysit her."

Jun glanced up and saw the deep frown on the young man's face. "I didn't mean to pry," he said. "Three years is not that long ago. It must still be hard for you."

"Yeah," Drew said. "It's hard." A pause. "Sometimes it feels like I'm the only one it's hard for. But then, I see him, and..."

"And?"

"And I can see," Drew said quietly, almost too quietly to hear, "that it's hard for him, too."