In this small village there are two tattoo artists. They can only properly be called artists; their art is the stuff of legends, intricate and meticulous murals in the medium of flesh and ink. Each has a family, and each comes from a long line of tattoo artists. Each has a son, also, learning their trade, two hot-headed boys who take the family rivalry personally. While the old artists are unhappy with the close proximity of each other, but civil, the boys are full of raging blood, and take every opportunity to hurl insults and stones.
They've fought more than once; the son of the Kazushi family is slightly smaller than the Mahatta son, but he is also the better fighter, and so they are evenly matched. Often they have each come home with a variety of bruises and cuts, black eyes and torn clothing, and been scolded by their parents. "Don't antagonize," their mothers will say, and "Bad blood is dangerous," warn their fathers.
It happens one warm summer evening, when both boys stop by the temple to pray. Sneers turn to insults, insults turn to shoves, and shoving quickly devolves into an all-out brawl, rolling and kicking and biting furiously. The brawl, in turn, results in the breakage of several important temple artifacts, one over the unfortunate head of Inra Mahatta.
The boys' fathers are absolutely furious. They meet together this time, scolding the boys in proximity to each other, hoping to instill a sense of shame. The temple is supposed to be a sacred space of peace, and the disruption of that peace indicates that this rivalry has gone on far too long. They cannot order the boys to be friends - that would be impossible. But they can order respect, since each boy is deserving of it, and so they do so creatively.
Each son is ordered to create a tattoo for the other. It will be their Masterwork, their fathers inform, the final trial of their art to become a full master of the discipline. It must be designed from scratch and carefully inked on to the body of the other boy, entirely by their own hands. The fathers know that their boys are competent, and that each will respect the skill of the other, if nothing else.
The boys retire to their homes to design. Each pictures the other, somewhat sullenly, and thinks. The temptation to tattoo something insulting is awful, but they know that they will be judged on the finished products. So they let their instincts go, dwelling on the form of the other. Long practice and an inner affinity for the art suggest forms to them, more strongly perhaps than for most customers, since these two have become familiar with one another's bodies through long violence.
Inra thinks of Maru Kazushi's slight body and sees grace, and stillness. He sees cool, misty mornings and patience and unwasted, precise motions. Normally Inra draws in charcoal, preferring the thick, heavy sketches it creates. But tonight something moves him to choose ink, the light, flowing lines seeming somehow far more appropriate. He begins to draw the image in his mind, not sure what it is until the form begins to coalesce on the paper, the slim body and tall neck and elegant beak of a heron. Reeds rise around the figure, and lotuses bloom at its feet. He draws with a strange assurance, and when he is finished the figure is so real that he can hear the pre-dawn chirping of the frogs, and the cool droplets of mist on his face.
Maru does not need to contemplate what tattoo would be appropriate for Inra. His parchment is already full of thick charcoal lines, the heavy muscle and powerful stealth of a tiger in a field of bamboo. Maru has been pinned beneath that body more than once; he knows its strength firsthand. Something about Inra's predatory gaze has always reminded him of a tiger, and he pulls that sensation into his art, breathing life into the creature on parchment in a way that he is certain he can replicate on the actual form, as long as he can concentrate and keep himself from remembering that the body belongs to the hated Inra.
Maru is the first to receive his tattoo. The tattoos must be done one at a time; for a tattoo this size, the recipient must lie entirely still during the entire process, which could take days, and for a period of time afterwards as well. Maru is reluctant to leave his skin in the hands of his bitter enemy, but he knows he has no choice. If his flesh is marred, then at least he will take consolation in the fact that Inra will never become a master of the art, and Maru will at last have triumphed.
He must admit, however, as he strips off his clothing and lies on his stomach in preparation, to being impressed with Inra's drawing. The heron shows more delicacy and craftsmanship than he would have granted Inra. If the final tattoo is even close to as good as the drawing, then he will not be ashamed to show his naked back up its completion.
The sharp touch of the needle is painful when it comes, but Inra's touch is surprisingly comforting. The more the hands sweep across his body, the more Maru is certain that the tiger he has drawn for Inra is appropriate. Inra's hands are firm, powerful, and efficient, but they do not needlessly waste or abuse that power. They are confident, and skilled. Maru feels them trailing across his skin, dragging the needle in their wake, like it was a caress, or a warning. He feels like prey, and keeps perfectly still, his heart beating rapidly against the mat below him.
Maru cannot move during this process, and so must be taken care of like an invalid. It is shameful, to need to be fed and cleaned up after, but Inra surprisingly shows no malice. He is quiet and efficient about it, strong, and strangely handsome as a figure of caretaker. Every hour that goes by, Maru feels more and more of his hatred fade away, replaced instead by something fierce and strong. Respect and admiration mix with and fuel an appreciation for Inra's body that has always been there, through their numerous fights, but is now apparent, for the first time, without the accompanying antagonism. Over the course of three days, Maru falls in love with Inra's hands, their warmth seeping into him through his back.
The tattoo, when it is finished, is magnificent, even better than the drawing. The heron rises up his side, its head at his shoulderblade, gazing down its beak at the center of Maru's back. The vibrant colors seem to glow on Maru's pale flesh, but he cannot see this himself, because he is forced to lie one more night on his stomach before he can move again and begin Inra's tattoo the following morning. Instead he stares forward at the drawing, pinned to the wall in front of him. There is a small shape, an oval with a tapered downward tail, like the head of a snake, or an unraveled fern, in the upper corner, right on the back of his shoulder, creeping onto his arm. It is facing away from the heron's head, a counterpoint to the design. It is small, mostly nothing, but for some reason Maru becomes fixated on it as a symbol of something, although of what he is uncertain.
He wakes early the next morning in the pre-dawn chill, and makes one small alteration to his own drawing. Then he spends the rest of the morning flexing his shoulder, ensuring that he will have its full motion available, and preparing his tools.
Inra strips down with something like resignation. He has seen Maru's drawing, and it is good, excellent in fact, but he knows Maru to be spiteful and vindictive, and does not hold out much hope for receiving that particular tattoo. He expects Maru to be sneering when the young man walks in, but instead Maru looks strangely quiet and solemn. He goes to work wordlessly, his small hands soft on Inra's skin, and as they move over his body, Inra slowly comes to a realization.
There is a tenderness in Maru's hands that Inra never expected. They are light and gentle, but efficient, just as the heron tattoo depicts him. But there is something in them, an imperceptible hesitance, perhaps, or a light uncertainty. Maru's hands do not shake; he is a professional, and his hands would never shake during so important a procedure. But through his hands, Inra can feel Maru's heart shaking.
Maru is a tender care-giver, though he refuses to meet Inra's eyes as he's feeding him. Inra wants to reach out, grab Maru's wrist and make him meet Inra's gaze, but he must not move his arm while the tattoo is in progress, and so he does not. He waits the hours patiently instead, learning all he can from Maru's hands, surprised in spite of himself at their skill; he hardly feels the bite of the needle.
When Maru finishes, he packs his tools in silence, and leaves without a word. Inra lies dozing, waiting, wondering about his tattoo. He has no doubt now that it will be exactly like the drawing he saw, and he wishes now that he'd paid more attention to it when he'd seen it. He seems to have developed a small obsession with Maru, and he thinks he could learn more from that picture if he could just see it again. If he could just analyze the strokes, perhaps he could find the hidden something at Maru's core.
The cold, grey light of dawn wakes him in the morning, and Inra stands, his muscles sore and creaking from disuse. He heads immediately for the mirror and turns his back, staring. The tiger stares back at him, roaring defiance. The striped fur sits so well over his muscles that the thing seems alive, its own body rippling at every flex of Inra's.
There is something else, something in the corner over one arm, and Inra's breath stops a moment when he sees it. It is a small, decorative line, hardly noticeable, curved upward with a small bud shape at the end, like the head of a snake. He recognizes it instantly from the corner of his own drawing, and he realizes that its placement would put it such that, should he and Maru stand next to each other, the snake's head designs would reach for each other, and should they stand back to back, the designs would press up against one another. Inra sees this, and he understands.
It is still barely light, the households not yet stirring, when Inra creeps across the street to Maru's home, finding the young man's window and quietly letting himself in. He moves like the creature of his tattoo, stealthy and strong, kneeling beside Maru's bedroll. Maru's sleeping face is troubled. Inra reaches out with one hand and trails a finger down Maru's cheek.
Maru's eyes open instantly, and he stares up and Inra's face in silence. A week ago that look would be opaque to Inra, perhaps even seen as a challenge. But now he understands, and shows Maru that he understands by leaning down and kissing him.
Maru's body is warm, and responds instantly, pressing up against him. Inra disrobes quickly and slips under Maru's blankets. It seems Maru sleeps in the nude. They both find, with some surprise, that their bodies are already accustomed to one another; years of fighting have given their muscles a sort of intimacy second only to lovers, and soon to none. Inra knows the feeling of the lithe body beneath him, Maru remembers the solid weight of Inra's form.
Inra holds Maru's body in a new way now, large hands sliding down the planes of his back, cupping his buttocks. Maru dares to hold Inra's face in his palms and draw the face towards his own, planting needful kisses and the corners of Inra's mouth.
Unknown to them both, their bodies have been striving towards this goal, and both are impatient with their masters. The hungry forms drive them forward, through a cursory preparation—hands hasty and slick—and through any foreplay to the long-desired meeting. Inra slides into Maru's body like he was meant to fit there. Below him, Maru's head falls back in pleasure, exposing the column of his throat. They join naturally, like two streams flowing together. It seems amazing that they never reached this point before, never realized this craving for what it was.
The first rays of the early morning sun to creep into Maru's window find the two of them lying entwined on Maru's pallet, spent beyond recollection. Fierce animosity has turned to tenderness, a fire of a different sort burning in their skin where they touch. They stay and stay, basking in the burning of their muscles, until Inra must leave or risk being caught in Maru's bed.
He slips out the way he came. The world is different now, different for both of them. He doesn't bother to ask or reassure whether this will happen again - the question would be pointless now, when they both understand each other so well. The world is different. Their lives are different now, and will be different.
That afternoon they stand side by side as their fathers inspect their backs, murmuring over the craftsmanship in each tattoo. The young men can tell from the tone of their fathers' voices that both works exceed expectation. Maru's eyes glance sideways and lock with Inra's. Inra reaches out his hand, and clasps Maru's own. Across their shoulderblades, the two tattoos gaze at one another, like lovers lost in each other's eyes.