I want to know why he never sleeps. I want to know him sobadlymy chest aches with it, but I also know if I push too far, he’s going to shut down.
Once I trust I can look at him again without the skin melting off my body, I nod at his hands wrapped around the ice cream container. “I really like your tattoos.”
He holds his hand up to examine it, like he’d forgotten he even has tattoos. I catch a whiff of his smell, of mint and maybe pine sap clinging to his clothes. “Thanks.”
“That must have taken a long time to do,” I say.
Placing the pint on the counter, he pushes his arm closer to me so I can see. He flexes his fingers, the movement making the bones stretch and shift over his skin. “I did it myself.”
“Seriously?” I look up at him. “You tattooed your own hands? That must have hurt like hell.”
“I don’t mind the pain,” he says, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. “It helps clear my head.”
My hand goes to my wrist absentmindedly, but I drop it before Nico can realize what I’m touching.
“I actually did all of them myself.” He tugs up his sleeve, revealing more ink climbing his forearm. “Started when I was seventeen.”
“How the fuck did you do all of these yourself?” I ask.
“Lots of mirrors. Had to draw some of them upside down or backward to get the angle right. The ones on my left arm were easier since I’m right-handed, but the right side took forever. I’d sit for hours trying to get the lines steady. Some days my hand would cramp so bad I couldn’t hold the gun anymore.” He pauses. I don’t dare say anything, since this is the most I’ve ever heard him say in one go, and I don’t want him to stop. “I practiced on oranges until I didn’t completely suck at it. Art’s always been the one thing that made sense to me. When everything else felt out of control, I could lose myself in it.I don’t have any on my back. Just places I can reach. Some of them look like shit, honestly, but it’s not like I can get them fixed.”
I frown. “Why not?”
His jaw muscle jumps as he swallows. “I don’t like crowds.”
I nod, my brain whirring with the new information.
I know that’s not the whole truth. But I can also tell I’ve stumbled into a minefield and need to take a step backward before I blow us both up.
I lean my hip against the counter, running an icy hand down my burning face to try to cool it. “What’s your dumbest tattoo?”
He holds up his left hand, palm facing toward me. On the inside of his pinky knuckle is a tiny stick figure.
I squint at it. “Is that supposed to be a self-portrait?”
“Yes.”
“The resemblance is uncanny.”
A real laugh rumbles out of him. I absolutely beam.
I made himlaugh.
He uncurls and flexes his hand, making the stick figure jump.
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen,” I say, my voice throaty with laughter. “I want one.”
“I saw it on the internet and got inspired.” His eyes are on the stick figure, which is frozen mid-jump. “I used to want to make comic books.”
I picture a younger Nico, hunched over a sketch pad instead of pictures of severed arms, and it’s like a hand reaches into my chest and grabs hold of my heart.
“Did you do all the drawings in the field guide?” I ask, remembering the detailed anatomical sketches.
He nods.
“You’re really talented,” I say.
“Thank you.” He’s quiet for a second. “You have any tattoos?”
