Beautiful Ones
Tattoos
She’s twenty-four.
“Nice,” Mattia says, swinging a foot forward, then letting his heel come back against the wall with a thud. “Does she know?”
Gianluca takes a drag from his cigarette. The smoke sends him into a vagueness, all soft and languid and blurred and dreamy. Mattia does not stare, but he looks. For a moment, the wine-coloured stain blotched on the side of his neck and face disappears, lost only to return. He hands the cigarette over to Mattia.
“Yeah, of course,” he answers, rubbing his hands over his thighs, laughing to himself. “She thought I was even younger.”
Mattia laughs along with him, cigarette hovering around his mouth between his fingers. “It’s the baby face,” he tells him, reaching over with his free hand to pinch at his face. He looks even younger, face squinched up in embarrassment, trying to get away without moving. Mattia tries not to think about it too much. “I told you, bro, you need to start letting the beard grow out.”
“What beard?” Gianluca asks, and it’s a very good question.
It’s Friday night, near eleven o’clock, and they’ve got nothing better to do than sit on the graffiti-massacred wall that stares down on football pitch they played on as kids. They could break in, but the last time they tried Mattia ended up with a dislocated shoulder, and Gianluca’s no expert on popping them back in, as it turns out. If he lies wrong, he thinks he can still feel it, reaching up across his chest to curl his finger around the curve of his shoulder.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” Mattia says, short. He drops his hand away from his shoulder. “You really like her then?”
“Man, she’s—” Gianluca stares off, whimsical, like he’s had a smoke of something stronger. Mattia wonders if that’s what love feels like, if the leaden feeling at the bottom his stomach is a pale imitation or just as worthy of the title. “She’s so cool. You should see her tattoos.”
Mattia laughs again, because how stupid, how childish. He likes her tattoos and thinks she’s cool.
“She’s got family written right here,” Gianluca continues, taking Mattia by the wrist and tracing the letters adjacent to where the word is inked into his skin already, over the admittedly unflattering portrait of his little sister as a baby. Too bad he loves her too much to get it covered. Doesn’t really have the money, either. “A bunch of flowers here.” His fingers brush past his elbows. “A tiger here.” Hand on his upper arm. “And l’art pour l’art here,” he finishes, horrible French accent and all, fingers dipping into the collar of Mattia’s t-shirt.
He shrugs him off.
“Got her all mapped out, have you?” Mattia says, stubbing his cigarette out against the wall.
“Like this fucking city, Matty,” he announces, loud, smiling with all his teeth.
“Nice,” Mattia says, swinging a foot forward, then letting his heel come back against the wall with a thud. “Does she know?”
Gianluca takes a drag from his cigarette. The smoke sends him into a vagueness, all soft and languid and blurred and dreamy. Mattia does not stare, but he looks. For a moment, the wine-coloured stain blotched on the side of his neck and face disappears, lost only to return. He hands the cigarette over to Mattia.
“Yeah, of course,” he answers, rubbing his hands over his thighs, laughing to himself. “She thought I was even younger.”
Mattia laughs along with him, cigarette hovering around his mouth between his fingers. “It’s the baby face,” he tells him, reaching over with his free hand to pinch at his face. He looks even younger, face squinched up in embarrassment, trying to get away without moving. Mattia tries not to think about it too much. “I told you, bro, you need to start letting the beard grow out.”
“What beard?” Gianluca asks, and it’s a very good question.
It’s Friday night, near eleven o’clock, and they’ve got nothing better to do than sit on the graffiti-massacred wall that stares down on football pitch they played on as kids. They could break in, but the last time they tried Mattia ended up with a dislocated shoulder, and Gianluca’s no expert on popping them back in, as it turns out. If he lies wrong, he thinks he can still feel it, reaching up across his chest to curl his finger around the curve of his shoulder.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” Mattia says, short. He drops his hand away from his shoulder. “You really like her then?”
“Man, she’s—” Gianluca stares off, whimsical, like he’s had a smoke of something stronger. Mattia wonders if that’s what love feels like, if the leaden feeling at the bottom his stomach is a pale imitation or just as worthy of the title. “She’s so cool. You should see her tattoos.”
Mattia laughs again, because how stupid, how childish. He likes her tattoos and thinks she’s cool.
“She’s got family written right here,” Gianluca continues, taking Mattia by the wrist and tracing the letters adjacent to where the word is inked into his skin already, over the admittedly unflattering portrait of his little sister as a baby. Too bad he loves her too much to get it covered. Doesn’t really have the money, either. “A bunch of flowers here.” His fingers brush past his elbows. “A tiger here.” Hand on his upper arm. “And l’art pour l’art here,” he finishes, horrible French accent and all, fingers dipping into the collar of Mattia’s t-shirt.
He shrugs him off.
“Got her all mapped out, have you?” Mattia says, stubbing his cigarette out against the wall.
“Like this fucking city, Matty,” he announces, loud, smiling with all his teeth.