Chapter Text
"Another one?" It’s Attuma, perking up from his workspace at the shrieking ding-dong from the bells and the merry chatters he’s all too familiar with.
"Stop judging me!" Shuri’s laughter bounce on the walls, waving at Attuma and friendly faces that made the shop staff.
"And lo, the Lord sayeth; When there be a tattoo parlour in vicinity, a flower shop must needs be located some ten paces hence. " Riri muses, following close behind her. “‘Sup, Ttuma.”
They're using up whatever is left of the weekend to unwind, and chill, before returning to campus and spending twenty-six hours a day drowning and dying only to be resurrected the next day and work on their research. They've allowed themselves two(2) Sundays per month and the ladies are going to make the most of it by camping inside their favourite parlour’s sixteen-degree celsius AC.
Chokoj Balché (Translates: Hot Wine) resides near the heart of the colourful town of Merida. The black and blue, double-storey colonial-style shop is sandwiched between a florist and a convenience store that has stands spilling over the sidewalk. By normal standards, it’s a charming place, complete with the cliché window decals with the typical fontface one would expect on a tattoo parlour and a custom serpentine neon sign; a minimalized figurehead with the likeness of their Feathered Serpent. The inside, a homey locale that stole her breath away since day one.
It’s been nearly a year and a half since she started coming here after discovering such a cozy place. This would be her ninth session, or tenth, or eleventh, she’s not sure, but she comes here often enough that she knows the locals working in the area, the gossip, the buzz in the streets. It’s said that the Almehens had been in the craft for nearly four hundred years. They mainly converse with each other in Maya and Spanish to regulars, and English to outsiders that spend hundreds, if not thousands travelling all across the continent to get tatted here. They also provide traditional methods with paint and reeds that they learned from their mothers, who learned from their fathers and their grandfathers.
She knows Namora’s been here her whole life, started in the industry and family business at fifteen and is now the best tattoo artist in the peninsular just below her expert cousin. Attuma, the Almehens' family friends' sisters kid started out doing graphics for advertisements in a printing emporium before discovering a passion for freestyle doodling, and later, etching them onto skin
Then there’s Itotia and Tiikal, cousins twice removed, both in Shuri’s age range and protegés in the esteemed business in their respective stations, their clients sitting and lying comfortably while they nod to upbeat reggaeton blasting from the speakers at the reception area. CD's towers and overflow around the music player like its own aureole.
Riri often jokes that she has an addiction, and if she starts getting piercings here she’ll have her ears full of them by the end of the semester. Her wingman understands Shuri though; rich, suppressed youngest child being denied fun her whole life finally tastes the joy of freedom to make up for her closeted teenage years.
She did, eventually, get the piercings Riri teased. Two barbells that clip on her nipples, and unlike what Riri hypothesised, Shuri only has two and stopped at two.
There must be something in the air that kept her coming week after week. Perhaps how easy it is to show some designs to Namora and have her appointments scheduled on the spot or how warm and welcome the family treated them.
It's enchantingly mystical how the Almehens and these two women from Wakanda clicked perfectly. Their conversations gradually turn into thrilling cultural exchanges sharing food recipes, music and ancient stories to discussing a worn copy of Taschen's Book of Symbols page by page as if they are academic delegates in forums. From then on, Shuri and Riri became a part of Chokoj Balché. They are invited to birthdays, drinking parties, daycations to museums and historical ruins, coffee shop hunting in the town. They try to join in whenever they can.
Shuri joyfully skips to where Namora is, to her workspace that sits in the middle of the deep interior. There’s no mistaking that it was hers, not when her name was on every bottle of ink and equipment. Even the floor-to-ceiling mirror on her side was signed in thick, pink paint markers, claiming her territory. Her always-too-tight bun is loose today as her body acclimated to the chilly room. Gold and jade gleamed proudly at both her ears ― seven piercings in each ear, fourteen altogether ― as she ties her apron that also has her name on it in pink.
Another one, indeed, Shuri hums as Namora gets to work. Revealing her drawing sent in last week on tissue-light transfer paper. A soon-to-be brand-new addition to her rapidly growing collection of intricate charcoal motives on the vast canvas of her skin. It may look like a hodgepodge of designs; the massive mandala on her left thigh and Nyame Nwu Na Mawu crosses lining the insides, the thin rings on her fingers, the ‘bead cuffs’ and ferns on a wrist and the threadlike neckpiece that circled halfway around her neckline before hanging down the column of her throat like two uneven fangs. It is all a work in progress but Shuri treasures them all, with meaning or not.
"Ramonda's gonna have a heart attack," Riri observes as Namora rubs and peels the film to uncover the blue stencil sticking on Shuri’s right arm, on a clean space between her elbow, the Wawa Aba and its little accents comprising chevrons, dashes and triangles placed strategically for a voluminous effect, and the fully healed panther head near the ball of her shoulder.
"That's the plan," Shuri observes the emboss in the mirror, admiring Namora’s talent to have it aligned exactly where she wants it to be. Stripes of Nayme Dua encircle her arm like decorated armbands.
Once that’s dried, Namora swiftly jumps to it, the buzzing of her machine a soothing white noise. Microneedles stabs dark ink on her supple skin.
The stinging was….meh.
Tolerable’s the right word. It did feel weird because she’d witness men slapping themselves to oblivion, or having friends to hold them down from kicking and screaming Attuma away. Legend has it that women have lower pain tolerance when it comes to getting a tattoo done than men and Shuri has to agree. It’s an interesting case study, something she keep in mind if she wanted to add another doctorate to her name.
Her unbuttoned loose shirt lays open on either side, letting cold air kiss away the sweltering heat on her neck and belly. Her sports bra and denim shorts keep her decent.
On the squeaky red faux leather couch, Riri brazenly dozes ten minutes in. An arm over her eyes to cut off the blinding fluorescents. Shuri can’t blame her. There’s a heat wave outside and where else could they find a cool, ventilated room to nap in that’s not the lab and library. Shuri makes a mental note to tip more for Riri’s discourtesy or send in some sandwiches next time. Attuma often waves her away for there is nothing to be ashamed of. Riri’s not a hazard to their work traffic and there are more than enough chairs for their customers. Besides, Ch'ah doesn’t seem to mind.
As if called, Shuri turns her head to the wider, more spacious worktable near the back rooms.
His clients call him Namor. The very same Namor with eighty-two thousand four hundred and three followers on Instagram as of last night. Popularly known for his family name and the talent that came naturally to him, his intricate craftsmanship, and his steady hand.
The curtains are half closed for some privacy. He's working on a back piece today, head deep in concentration as he works, one hand keeping his client still while the other pens down on her epidermis.
That’s Ch’ah.
And he’s gorgeous.
Like Namora and Attuma, Namor has blocks of logograms adorning his toned arms, most definitely to mimic the stellas she'd seen around the heritage sites across the peninsular. They're darker, greener than the light blue hues of his colleagues, probably to match his golden skin and the heavy jades dangling from each ear, his septum.
His work tee stretched sensuously. Shuri often thinks about how a man who literally owns the place and has access to inventories wears work clothes a size smaller. Maybe he likes showing off his broad shoulders, his muscular biceps that furls when he works. Perhaps he is the sort of man that craves attention but doesn't face it.
Beneath that shirt — it doesn’t matter how and why and where Shuri acquires that information — is poetry, literal poetry that lines down the side of his body that had Shuri gaped in awestruck the first she saw it in his public Instagram.
And that’s how the infatuation started, she guesses. Not the ouroboros that encircled his wrists or the yellow and green quetzal feathers that spreads on his back or the way he laughs when Attuma cracked a bad joke. No, it was the verses that stuck on his ribs, and then it’s his hair, the way he laughs, the satisfied glint in his eyes when he finishes yet another exquisite piece of art, the way his body moves as he works in that tiny, slutty work tee he chooses to wear.
It’s alarming, how fast he manages to turn her world upside down — but she stays cool almost all the time because she’s an adult and it’s creepy. She doesn't want him to be weirded out by her, and she hates getting flabbergasted by her actions fueled by this infatuation. His public profile’s the first recommendation on her social apps. The page that has become her go-to during her five-minute Pomodoro breaks, biting her tongue as she scrolls for his random mirror selfies and the occasional muscle flex in between pictures of his proudest works. The salacious ones were saved into a private album on her phone for no reason at all. All screenshotted and cropped barbarically instead of downloading from a trustworthy third-party website like a normal person would.
Frankly, she does that to avoid his Instagram entirely to evade the cringy, fawning comments, especially the common ‘Soooo exotic’ and ‘Omg tribal inspo😍’ ones.
Ew.
From her vantage, a strand of hair— a Slut-Strand™️ — falls on his brow from his combed-out mohawk sinfully and Shuri swallows to moisten her throat.
So gorgeous.
Despite what she knows about him, he rarely speaks or goes out. He's not the social type. Doesn't join in the youngster's activities and leaves early during parties, a staggering difference from everyone else working with him with their booming personalities and overly friendly traits and he has never, ever spoken a word with her.
Initially, Shuri perceived that he loathes having them around. Yes, they talk loudly and swear a ton in his shop. Maybe he despises outsider brats that play pranks with each other and run around screaming when Attuma or Tiikal chases them.
But Namora ensures them that Ch'ah is... Cha'ah.
"He's ancient. He lived through rounds of economic downfall and uprisings. One day, we will all end up like that. I can see myself liking the quiet, ignoring the noise. It is peaceful."
When he does speak it's always to advise Namora on her techniques in their language, short hums of approval when he checks the younger ones at work and quick small talks with his customers.
He did speak to her, once. Sort of. About a month ago.
She was admiring the panther near her shoulder on Namora’s infamous mirror that took up a generous amount of wall space. It was still red and raw from Namora’s ministrations and she was too occupied checking the new tattoo that she was unaware of him being next to her until she jumped a stride backwards.
"Miiso'.” Namor pointed dully to the panther,
And that was it. One word, two syllables. Shuri wasn’t able to form a single coherent thought and could only watch him walk and disappear to the back rooms.
"What's ‘panther’ in Maya?" She turns her face to Namora, nearly finishing.
"Balam."
"What about ‘cat’?"
"Miis."
Shuri frowns, "So what's 'miiso'’ ?"
Namora doesn’t look up from her work, "Who called you that?"
Was it a derogatory term? Could it be an insult? "Cousin Ch'ah."
"Reaaally?" Namora sits back, rolling the R and A’s while admiring her handiwork from a short distance.
"Small cat."
Small cat.
Small cat.
Her frown remains and idly, her eyes gravitate back to where Ch’ah was. Only this time, her oogling backfires when she sees his lustrous brown eyes staring back at her. His machine hovers noisily over light skin.
Shuri promptly moves her attention back to Namora, the ceilings. Liquid heat lights her cheeks aflame.
***
Three weeks later, she returns with a new design in mind.
It’s a little thing she drew while listening to a three-hour talk on Antiviral and Antiproliferative Potential of Marine Organisms from Yucatan. A turned-over cross to match the one grazing her inner thighs. In five minutes she was able to shift the pencil sketch to her up-to-date Photoshop and printed it out according to scale.
“I think this will be the last one. I’m going back.”
“Back? Back home?” Namora's eyes widen.
“After Turn-In Week, yes.”
Namora rapt something in Maya loudly that has the whole shop reverberating in disappointment.
“Nooooooooooooooooooo.” Cries Tiikal from his station,
“Don’t go Shuri!” Attuma yells.
“Booooooooooo.” Tiikal again.
“Tomato. Tomato. Boooooooo.” Itotia hollers.
“She won’t need to leave if she fails.”
“Attuma!” Everyone resounds.
“What? I’m right, am I?”
"I'm coming back!" Shuri titters at their antics, almost wistful herself that she’ll be leaving this corner of the world too soon.
"Where do you want it?" Namora brings her back.
“Down there.” Shuri makes a pointed look at the waistband of her shorts. A daring perimeter for the grand finale. “Exactly that size.”
Namora inspects the design before nodding curtly, “I’ll have it traced. I’m booking you with Ch'ah."
“C― Ch’ah?” Her mind stutters. "Your cousin Ch'ah? Namor? That Cha’ah?”
"I'm booked for the whole month and he's more experienced," Namora sighs, turning the pages of the shabby appointment book. “Unless you'd want to wait. Or if you're uncomfortable I can book you with Attuma but Ttuma's free on weekdays…"
“Itotia? The others?”
“They’re not ready. He gave Tiikal a C minus the last time he did it.” There was no question who the ‘he’ mentioned is. Not when Namora side-eyed the path to the backrooms. “It’s a tender spot. You don’t want a rough hand down there.”
It's a wonder that Namora's not looking up to witness her mind tumbling down imaginary stairs like those secondary characters on prime-time telenovelas. Brain pounding at each drastic fall. At the same time, her chest pukes out butterflies while her stomach fell into a cold dark pit of agony.
She's not going to throw up at their doorstep. Attuma just mopped.
“If you want it quick, Ch’ah’s the best guy or you can wait for Attuma.” Namora taps on her book.
The man in question was ― thank Bast and his reclusiveness ― not in the room. So Shuri allows herself to grip the edge of the counter as if her life depends on it.
“You want me to book you with Attuma? Wednesday at 2?”
"No." Shuri declines, it’s too close, too far out, and a weekday. Not unless she wants to have coochie irritation for the whole of Turn-In week. “Ch’ah’s fine.”
Just one time, for the last one.
"He’s a professional." Namora adds a sunny side, “And hey you can finally brag that you got tatted by the Namor.”