"Ici?" asks the bloke with more tattoos than Draco has ever seen on one human being. The tip of his finger rests lightly on the back of Draco's left shoulder.
"Oui," he answers, getting comfortable on the table and pillowing his head on folded arms.
He's wanted a tattoo for years but never really considered getting one, plagued as he is by the vaguely uncomfortable feeling that it's something a Weasley would do. This, though – this small, disreputable shop in a small, disreputable alley – produces works of complex magic singular enough even for a Malfoy. Draco has… experienced this artist's work in the course of his decidedly extracurricular studies, and was fairly easily persuaded to try it for himself.
Not that he's any less impatient with having to lie on the table and let someone draw on his back. But he knows the end result will be worthwhile, and qualms about Weasleys are left comfortably behind. Whatever virtues that sprawling family might possess somewhere in the depths of their gene pool, they're unlikely to sport tattoos saturated in sex magic, in a position that in terms of announcing one's sexuality and position preference is slightly less blatant than a tattoo in the small of the back but not by much.
The tip of a wand touches his skin, causing a sharp stab of tingling discomfort, and Draco keeps a sharp ear on the incantations the tattooist is murmuring. He can feel the wand-tip moving over his skin in a sinuous line that makes him think briefly of Parseltongue; the tingling discomfort is more like a sting now, but Draco knows better than to react – in either direction. He can feel runes being traced into his skin, ones he recognizes by touch, settling into him and colored over by ink; shimmering with magic that makes the pain in his shoulder ripple like water and close again, a bright surface over the sinking runes.
It reacts to mutual desire, like all such magic, the tattooist told him in French that would have sounded strangely archaic to Muggle ears; to Draco's ears, the brief snatches of Muggle French that he can't help hearing from time to time sound graceless and strange, unlovely, like everything else about Muggles.
The wand-tip moves over his skin, tracing already-sensitive lines. Draco hadn't thought it would take this long; part of him wants to drum his fingertips on the table and generally make his displeasure clear, but more of him is fascinated by this complex amalgamating of art and spellwork, and so he stays quiet and pays attention to the spells required to embed magic and ink in human skin. He can feel the dragon taking shape, all sharp pain and half-finished spells straining toward completion, its magic reaching for Draco's and intertwining with gentle but relentless purpose. He isn't hard but it occurs to him that he might be, if the right person were doing this to him.
His train of thought closes down there, just as it's done for so long that he doesn't remember anymore what he's afraid to find, if he ever knew to begin with.
When it's done the tattooist conjures enough mirrors for Draco to be able to see the tattoo. He's well pleased with it, and tells the tattooist so.
"Les charmes, maintenant," the tattooist reminds him as he's about to get up. His fingertip traces the dragon, watching for Draco's reaction. There isn't one; Draco can feel the magic under his skin but it's dormant. It's possible that idly wondering what someone has tattooed under his clothes doesn't quite qualify as desire.
"Non?" the tattooist asks, frowning thoughtfully.
Draco shakes his head. "Ce n'est rien," he says offhandedly. It's still a beautiful tattoo, even if it doesn't do what it's supposed to.
"Attendez ici," the tattooist says, and leaves the room. Draco slides off the table and pulls his shirt on, not bothering to button it, wincing a bit at the lingering sting. More or less dressed, he stretches out in the chair, ankles crossed in front of him, his wand within easy reach and his nerves on edge – he doesn't like it when people leave the room for no apparent reason. But it's only a minute before the tattooist returns, his assistant trailing behind him.
The assistant is Draco's age, tall and lanky, with a messy shock of black hair and brilliant blue eyes that might look green in the right light. He crosses the room and slips into Draco's lap, straddling him, running a hand over Draco's shoulder and under his shirt to his back, finding the tattoo blind and unerringly.
He has doves in flight tattooed onto his hands where stigmata would be, one on each palm, wings moving lazily on the currents of an imaginary wind. Draco's tattoo flares to life under his touch, sending a shock through Draco as if he'd been touched somewhere much more sensitive than a shoulder. Too well-trained to react, Draco only raises an eyebrow.
The door closes discreetly behind the tattooist. The assistant is pressing closer, sliding Draco's shirt down his shoulders and over his arms. Draco finds the angle at which the shadows turn his eyes green, and holds him there.
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