You could watch him all day.
The way he bites his lip gently, the way his eyes are trained on the needle and the skin with such dedication, the way he holds his breath when he makes the first mark and exhales only after he's put the needle down.
You could watch him all day in his craft, but of course, that wasn't quite accepted by today's society norms.
You didn't fancy getting a restraining order.
But you couldn't help yourself all the same, wandering into the shop and marveling over the intricate designs that adorned the walls, tasteful photographs of the skin he's worked on hanging on simple frames, the pointed needles resting on the counter with the coloured inks neatly organized in an extensive rainbow on the counter.
Thinking of getting one?
He asked you the first day you meandered in, his deep voice taking you by surprise, jolting you out of the deep observation you were in at his careful work.
Yeah, I... I'm still deciding. Did you design all of these?
He grins at you, lopsided, pink-lipped - crossing his fully inked arms as he stands next to you, matching your gaze at the work that surrounded his walls.
Yeah, I did.
He says it with a shy proudness in his voice, giving you a quick side glance - this girl with the untouched skin and neatly pressed clothes, the exact opposite to his ripped shirt and decorated skin.
You're a bit out of place in his shop, wide-eyed and pausing, unlike his usual customers that walk in and out without so much of a second glance at his walls, too busy focused on the design they already had in mind.
But he doesn't mind it, not one bit.
You look back at him with awe in your eyes, a certain wonder for his work that makes his heart lift with pride from your appreciation.
You ask him shy questions, how he came up with that design, whether it was strange to tattoo a certain design onto a particular body part, laughing at the stories he tells about his customers, the peculiar meanings behind the more memorable tattoos he's done.
You're an avid listener, more than happy to hear his deep voice lilting in his words, the rasp after his laugh, the ripples of skin that changes the patterns on his skin when he gestures.
It's been a year and you're still "deciding" on what tattoo you want to get.
You always visit his shop when you have a pocket of spare time, his face lighting up the moment he sees you walk through the door, putting away his phone or magazine, all his attention on you and your windblown hair as you step into his store.
Still deciding?
He asks you that every time, just to see the rose tint in your cheeks when you try to look away.
Almost.
You always give the same answer, a light smile on your lips before brushing the subject away.
You think he knows you're not here for the tattoos, but the boy who creates it.
He doesn't comment on it, and he definitely doesn't mind.
Michael's more than happy to spend his afternoon with you, on quiet days where the store is still save for your laughter mixing with his from the front, on busy days when he asks you to stay for a moment, to which you always oblige, sitting on a chair and watching Michael prepare the equipment and draw the picture onto soft skin with the precision of a surgeon.
You're the only person he shows his black leather sketchbook to - they're just... just mindless doodles, really - because he wants to see that wonder in your eyes that you had the first time you saw his work.
He's always shy to show his more personal work; not simple designs, but complex scenes of stories that skin couldn't ever cover.
He watches you, biting his lip as you carefully flip the pages, tracing a light finger over the strokes of pen and paint on the worn pages.
They're beautiful.
He wishes he has the courage to say the same words back to you, but all he can ever manage is a thank you.
And you're the only person he tells the meaning of his tattoos to; full stories with no details uncut, embarrassing and intimate, something vulnerable about the way your fingers are millimeters away from his skin, just a hair's width away from a touch.
He's displayed himself for you to see, his stories inked onto his arm like a biography, his innermost thoughts painted for you.
There's a blank space.
You notice it one day, a small chunk on the inside of his forearm a pale white, a stark contrast to the sleeves of colour that covered his arms, making the art on his skin feel incomplete.
I'm saving it for someone special.
Someone he wants to add to his story, someone he wants to display to the world as something that was a part of him.
You retract your fingers away from him with a small oh, feeling as if you crossed a line.
He wishes you would run right through it, he wishes you would fall into his arms and into the space that he's been saving.
He's always disappointed when you pull away again.
-
"Got a design yet?"
His tone is teasing, wiping the last needle clean, the movement of his arms paired with the large gaping hole of his sleeves just enough to give you a peek at the splash of colour on his ribs that snake across his chest.
"Yes. I do."
He looks at you with surprised eyes, putting the needles down to come to your side, peering over your shoulder at the printed paper in your hand.
You don't have to ask if he can do it, if he needs to practice - he's done things more complex, and what you wanted was a child's drawing in comparison to the art on his arms.
He gestures you to the padded seat, taking the paper from your hands and studying it for a moment more before sitting down on his stool, spinning slightly as he grins at you.
"Where do you want it?"
-
His touch is feather-light on your sensitive skin.
The needle pricks at the soft area that sends small spikes of fear and pain through you at first, but one look into his reassuring eyes is all you needed, grabbing onto the handle of the seat a little tighter.
"Ready?"
He's patient, caring; waiting for your little nod before continuing with the needle on your skin.
The pads of his fingers are lightly holding your skin in place, his touch warm in contrast to the cold metal and cool ink that he prints with precision.
And maybe it's just you, maybe it's just your nerves and your excitement - but there's something intimate about the way he smiles up from the curves of your body to check up on you, about the way his touch is gentle in handling you, a lover's caress and not a service requirement.
He finishes with a soft blow on the pink-tinged skin, the regular rules and responsibilities that he recites to you as he starts to put away the ink again.
"Do you like it?"
He asks it casually, washing the needles but giving you a quick glance to gouge your reaction.
"I love it. It's beautiful - thank you."
There's something about the thought of having you walk around with a piece of his art - a piece of him, almost - that brings a smile to his face.
"Do you like it?"
He's taken aback by your question - nobody's ever asked him that before, not when they're too busy fawning over their new tattoo - but you're sitting up with expectant eyes on his figure.
"It's every bit as beautiful as you."
"Was that a compliment to me or to you?"
"You can take it either way, but I'll take it as both."
You pull out your wallet, but he zooms over on his rolling stool, placing a hand on yours to stop you.
"I'd like to take my payment in another way, actually."
Despite the grin on his face, his knees are shaking at what he's about to ask, hoping that you can't see the tremors through the holes of his ripped jeans.
"Don't be silly - I can't just not pay you after your beautiful work. How much will it be?"
"Dinner."
He says the words and there's no taking them back, staring at your wide eyes despite the heat that was creeping into his cheeks.
"What?"
"Dinner. With me. We can... we can go out and you can pay me back that way."
He's starting to trace the ink on his knuckles, a nervous tic - maybe he's read you all wrong, maybe you were just interested in the tattoos and not the boy like he thought, maybe he was being too straightforward, maybe he should've waited - "
"Deal."
You smile and swing your legs over the seat so you can fully face him, legs dangling like a little girl from the elevated chair.
A relieved sigh escapes his lips and a laugh trickles from yours at the tension that leaves his shoulders, the poor boy shaking his head with a grin that splits from ear to ear.
You extend a hand out to him and he takes it, shaking it firmly as your clear skin entwined with his inked ones, his hand enveloping yours in the agreement.
You catch a glimpse of the patch of pale white on his forearm, and you smile to yourself when you see it.
You think you know the perfect design for it.
