Shane suggests it in the middle of the night on their last day at the cottage - Ilya reaches down and tugs on Shane's fat lower lip the way he's done hundreds of times before. He knows Shane likes it when he pulls a little too hard. He taps it once, twice, leaking and smearing it messily, and suddenly Shane can't get the image out of his mind, a piece of Ilya, there, forever - and Ilya immediately reschedules his return flight to Boston so they can fly to New York together the next day.
They choose Bang Bang because Ilya has been there before with a teammate. He trusts their discretion when celebrity clients request it, but Shane is still nervous. So they ask them to stay open late, and show up under the cover of darkness, and make a big deal about this being a bet. Ilya insists on paying but, Hollander lost the scoring race, Hollander must be humiliated, Hollander will never admit it but this is final confirmation I am better hockey player. The tattoo artist doesn't know who they are and really doesn't give a fuck.
In the sterile white and black room, alone but for the artist intent on their craft, Ilya leans over his boyfriend and watches as the gun carves a piece of Ilya into a piece of Shane.
It hurts. Fuck, it hurts more than any injury Shane has ever sustained. He floats away somewhere in his mind, trying to ground himself in the long line of Ilya's torso behind him, the heat of his big hand tucked discreetly into the small of Shane's back.
The excruciating pain doesn't last forever. Less than half an hour and the artist is pulling back, bringing up a hand mirror, asking Shane what he thinks. Shane's index fingers are stuck in place pulling down at the corners of his bottom lip, but his eyes are magnetized to the angry red flesh between them.
Blocky, gaudy, still bleeding, a picture perfect imitation of something you might find on the sleeve of an authentic game worn NHL jersey - a little '81' right there on his skin.
Shane's fingers release and it disappears, tucked in safe next to his teeth.
