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Truth is, Kyouji would have rathered it not gone. Most days, he'd forget it was even there, until he'd run a hand along his right forearm in the shower and feel the bumps kumichou's handiwork left behind.
He'd remember the name; remember the face; remember to stop his hand from moving further down his body. (Can't go back if you let that happen.)
Still, in the summertime, or on a busy day in winter, he'd roll his sleeves up and feel soothed by the characters stabbed upon his skin, a reminder of—what? Something good?
Truth is, if Satomi were to leave, as everyone who found place in his passenger seat would always do, he'd want at least the scar of his name in the form of that tattoo. But Satomi wanted it gone. Satomi had also said that he wanted Kyouji. That was strange, that was scary, that was nice. 'I want us to be like this always.'
Though Kyouji could always stop his hand, he couldn't always stop his mind. Couldn't always stop the invented image of Satomi's face behind his arm, kissing up the strokes of his own name.
Kyouji's seen what laser-removed tattoos look like, though. Maybe Satomi can kiss the pale scarred absence of his name, if he stays. Kyouji wonders if he'll really stay long enough for that last removal session to pass.
The tech finishes her spiel, asks Kyouji if he's ready to start. Kyouji gazes down at the black scratches of ink, thinks of touching them one last time. He smiles up at the tech. Runs a hand up and down his shaved forearm. "Will it hurt, miss?"
The tech smiles sympathetically down at him, lifting the handle of the laser: "Like a bitch."