#paris sg

you were half lying across the couch, scrolling aimlessly on your phone, while désiré stretched out beside you with one arm behind his head, completely relaxed after training.

his socked foot kept nudging your leg for no reason, you looked over at the tattoos scattered across his muscular thighs and he noticed you staring.

“what?”

“nothing.”

“that’s a lie.”

you smiled. “i was thinking you’re way too comfortable for someone who lets strangers stab him with needles for fun.”

he glanced down at his arm.

“tattoos don’t hurt that much.”

“easy for you to say. you’ve got half a collection already.”

“not half.”

“don’t be annoying.”

he laughed softly, you rolled onto your stomach and propped your chin on your hands.

“we should get one together.”

he turned his head immediately.

“a tattoo?”

“yeah.”

there was no hesitation in your voice, nor hesitation in your stomach because saying it as a joke was one thing.

watching him actually consider it was another, instead of reacting dramatically, he just looked at you for a few seconds.

“okay.”

you blinked, “okay?”

“yeah.”

“that’s it?”

he shrugged. “you said together.”

“normal people discuss things first.”

“we just talked about it right now.”

fair point.

“you’re serious?”

“why wouldn’t i be?”

“because matching tattoos are crazy.”

“so?”

“so what if we regret it?”

he smiled lazily.

“then i’ll get another one on top of it. problem solved.”

he was impossible.

“you really don’t care.”

“i care,” he said, reaching over to tug you closer by the ankle. “i just don’t panic.”

the next afternoon, you were in a tattoo studio wondering why you ever opened your mouth.

the room smelled like disinfectant and ink, sketches covered the walls. you sat in the waiting chair with your leg bouncing nervously.

désiré looked insultingly calm. hoodie on, cap low, arms folded like he was waiting for coffee instead of permanent body art.

“i hate you,” you muttered.

“because i’m relaxed?”

“because you’re enjoying this.”

“a little.”

you glared at him, he leaned over and kissed your temple.

“you’ll be fine.”

“easy for mr. covered-in-tattoos to say.”

“covered-in-tattoos is generous.”

“let me be dramatic.”

when the artist called your names, your stomach flipped.

you had chosen something simple in the end.

a little shooting star.

you wanted yours near your wrist and désiré chose just above his ribs.

“show off,” you whispered.

“strategic.”

“for what?”

he gave you a look, heat rose to your face instantly.

“disgusting,” you muttered.

“you asked.”

you went first.

the second the needle touched your skin, you grabbed his hand so hard he laughed.

“already?”

“shut up.”

“it’s been two seconds.”

“i’m suffering.”

through the whole thing, he stayed beside you, thumb rubbing slow circles over your knuckles whenever you flinched and annoyingly, he was right. it wasn’t unbearable. when it was done, you lifted your wrist to look.

a tiny shooting star sat there now, clean and elegant, and especially permanent.

“it’s pretty,” you said softly.

“obviously,” he replied. “you chose it.”

then it was his turn. you expected at least some reaction but nothing.

he sat there completely unbothered while the artist worked near his ribs, chatting casually like this happened every tuesday.

you narrowed your eyes.

“fake.”

he smirked. “jealous.”

“no one is that calm.”

“some of us are built different.”

“you’re so irritating.”

five minutes later, he was done. he stood, lifted the edge of his shirt just enough to show you the fresh tattoo above his ribs.

same star.

your star.

his star.

“you like it?” he asks.

“maybe.”

“liar.”

you looked down at your wrist, then at his side.

“it’s weird.”

“what is?”

“knowing it’s there forever.”

“good,” he murmured. “some things should stay.”