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There’s a sharp knock against the shop door and Tissaia looks up quickly from balancing the cash register towards the front of the shop, past the tattoo table and workstation. It’s after hours, and the knock itself suggests it isn’t Giltine, who would simply unlock the door to let himself back in if he needed to.
So it must be Yennefer. And yes, it is—over the past few months in which their association has grown from nextdoor businesses to friends or something like it, Tissaia’s grown to recognise the other woman’s long, dark hair. Tissaia misses it on the days when Yennefer forgets to rap on the glass and give her a farewell glance.
As Tissaia moves to the door, she immediately notices Yennefer’s bare arms, crossed tightly over her chest, fingernails dug firmly into her skin. She’s never seen Yennefer wear anything that doesn’t either have sleeves that drape over her wrists or gloves that sweep beyond her elbows. Seeing her in a sleeveless dress comes as a surprise, though not an unpleasant one.
She unlocks and opens the door. “Hello,” she greets.
Yennefer had been glancing over her shoulder at the street, and Tissaia can sense discomfort in her wide eyes and parted mouth when she returns the greeting as if by rote.
“Are you all right?” Tissaia asks. To be honest Yennefer rarely looks settled, as if there’s an ocean dammed beneath her skin, but this is already different.
“That free tattoo you keep offering me, to make up for the colocasias and the cala lilies,” Yennefer says. She jerks her chin at the shop window, where a row of alternating large black-leaved and black-flowered plants creates an eye-catching window border. Tissaia hadn’t initially thought plants would do anything for their clientele, but Giltine said the plants spoke to his artistic sensibilities, and apparently their typical crowd enjoyed living things just as much as anyone, if it was prettied up in luscious darkness. Black sapphires and black stars, Yennefer had called them. Given the size of Yennefer’s shop, receiving enough plants to create a window display was very generous.
“Yes,” Tissaia says, prompting Yennefer to continue.
“Let’s do it.”
“You want me to give you a tattoo now?”
Yennefer jerks her head again in a nod.
“What if I was busy tonight?” Tissaia answers mildly, telling herself not to smile, because of course Yennefer would finally accept her offer by demanding it rather than by thanking her.
“Are you?”
“No.” Tissaia stands aside to let Yennefer in, locking the door behind her. “Take a seat, I’ll bring you our catalogue—”
“No need,” she interrupts, pushing a picture into Tissaia’s hands. She walks quickly to the tattoo chair, and Tissaia’s momentarily distracted by the frown on her face.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure,” she snaps.
“Yennefer,” Tissaia warns, because she has more patience for Yennefer than for the majority of people, but not that much.
Yennefer closes her eyes and grits out, “I’m fine, Tissaia. I just need you not to ask any questions.”
Being fondly exasperated by Yennefer is a familiar feeling. Another thing she misses on the days when she and Yennefer don’t stand on their steps during their breaks and share arch banter as Tissaia nurses a pipe and Yennefer works through half a tank of vape liquid in one session. So Tissaia snorts, and says, “That’s not how it works. I’m obliged to ask where you’d like this tattoo, for instance.”
Yennefer looks taken aback for a second, and then a lovely short bark of laughter bursts out of her, like she didn’t expect it. She rubs her arms for a moment and uncrosses them, curling her hands into loose fists. Then she twists her wrists upward to face the ceiling.
“Here,” she says, voice uncharacteristically subdued.
Tissaia moves to Yennefer’s side, heart sinking. As she gets closer, sees her skin in the light, she sees thick scars slashed across the other woman’s wrists. Tissaia has no problem with markings on skin, of course, even such deep wounds on such beautiful skin. But she hates these, because she hates the pain that must have created them.
“Oh, Yennefer,” she murmurs, and without thinking she gently clasps Yennefer’s wrists in her own hands, stroking her thumbs over her scars.
Yennefer gasps quietly, and Tissaia’s heartbeat pounds in response, louder than she’s heard in years. Oh, it says, oh, that’s what this is.
Tissaia looks at the picture for the first time, discarded in Yennefer’s lap when she took her hands. An asymmetrical, eight-pointed star blooming into life—plants and flowers that Tissaia mostly doesn’t recognise, though she’s sure Yennefer knows every single one: its lifecycle, its origin, its meaning. But she recognises black-leaved sapphires, and black-flowered lilies.
“That’s a beautiful design,” she says. “Rather appropriate.”
Yennefer gasps again, even quieter, even softer, and when Tissaia looks at her, tears are glimmering at the corners of her violet eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she says, letting go of Yennefer’s wrists.
“No,” Yennefer murmurs, “it’s fine.” She clears her throat and laughs softly again. “You’re allowed to touch, Tissaia, you’ll have to.”
Tissaia shakes her head gently, pressing her lips together. “No, that’s not what I meant.”
Yennefer ducks her head, another uncharacteristic action—or at least, a part of her character that Tissaia hasn’t gotten to know just yet. “I know,” she says.