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It didn’t even hurt that much, to be fair.
When Lennon got his hand tat, it was a slight sting at most, bit like a cat scratch. Not half as bad as you’d reckon for a first go. He’d always been open to the idea of more ink, he just never knew what to get done.
That was until Gene brought up the idea of matching ones.
Matching tats?
Lennon wasn’t against it; he knew a few artists who’d probably do a decent job of it.
“I can do it,” the younger one said out of nowhere. The two were perched on Gene’s bed, inside his flat.
“What? You? Do you even know how to use a needle, mate?”
“I’ve been practicing,” he said, matter-of-factly. “C’mon Len, let me have a go, please?” It was no secret Gene liked to draw, loved it even, especially on Lennon whenever his big brother let him doodling shapes on his arm with a felt-tip. Would’ve been a cartoonist if the music thing didn’t do it for him.
Lennon thought about it for a sec. He knew he should trust his brother… but the thought of Gene messing it up and leaving him permanently inked with something that looked dead awful?
Yeah, terrifying.
Still, he gave in. He watched Gene scramble up to grab a tattooing kit, returning with a box that looked like a nicked first aid kit.
“When’d you get this, then?” Lennon asked, sitting still as Gene used an alcohol wipe to prep his forearm.
“A while back. Looked like a laugh so I copped one online, but I haven’t had the chance to use it on anyone yet,” he explained, grabbing a tiny needle and a pot of ink. “I’ve got this idea for it, it’ll be proper banging, promise. I’ve been sketching it out.” He flipped open his sketchbook, the one he usually used for lyrics and half-baked melodies. He turned to a page with a hand-drawn crest, a big 'G' right in the middle. For Gallagher. But as Gene had been drawing it, he’d kept thinking how the 'G' stood for him, too. Gene. He’d spent the night kicking his feet under the covers, giddy at the thought of Lennon walking around with his initial marked on him forever. Like a brand. He wasn't going to tell Lennon that part, obviously. It had two meanings, didn't it? No harm in that.
“How’s this? Innit mega?” Gene asked, looking especially boyish. He held the book up, eyes wide and seeking, like a little kid showing off a drawing for the fridge.
“Oh, yeah, that’s mint, mate,” Lennon replied. It was true, simple, but spot on. He could already see it on his arm. Gene gave a happy hum as he got his gear ready. Lennon’s nerves vanished as Gene leaned in with the tool. Lennon pulled his sleeve up, but Gene shook his head.
“Can you take it off? your shirt, ‘s in the way” Gene muttered. “Need a clean canvas, don’t I?” He watched as Lennon pulled the shirt over his head.
Scooting closer, Gene pressed his knee right against Lennon’s, gripping his arm. It wasn't a massive design, so it’d probably take forty minutes if Lennon didn’t start acting up. He dipped the makeshift tool in the ink, he’d tweaked the pen himself after watching some tutorials on YouTube. He started pressing the needle into Lennon’s skin, starting on the letter.
He looked up from his hunch, checking Lennon’s face. He didn't look like he was in an ounce of pain. When Gene had gotten his Savvy tat, he’d been high as a kite, yet it still stung like a bitch. He’d had that one done professional, though, spent the whole time yapping to the artist to keep himself level. He looked back down before Lennon caught him staring, really trying to concentrate now.
As Gene worked, Lennon looked down at his little brother, watching him get halfway through the ‘G’ “You should do this for a living, you know. Reckon you’d be grand at it.”
“Nah, just a hobby, maybe. Being a musician... that’s the dream, d’ya know what I mean? That buzz you get on stage, birds screaming your name, everyone’s eyes locked on you... feels like lightning in your bones.” He started rambling, which he always did. Lennon knew exactly what he was on about. It was electric being in a band, having a crowd lose their minds over your tunes. It made sense Gene wouldn't want anything else, even if they were in different bands.
Their dad always wanted them to start a band together, but it never sat right. Not yet, anyway. For now, this- this little mark on the skin was the only thing they were sharing. As far as commitment goes.
Gene pulled back, finishing the ‘G’. It looked a bit wonky, one of the tails was thicker than the other, but you’d have to be right up in his space to notice.
“Well... first time for everything, innit?” Gene muttered, his voice low.
Lennon looked down, squinting at his arm. It wasn’t half bad, really, just a bit choppy around the edges. But it was done now, written into his skin by his own flesh and blood.
“Right then, now for the crest. Don’t go moving on me, yeah? And tell me if it’s hurting,” Gene said, dipping the needle back into the ink. His eyes didn't leave Lennon’s skin; he looked like he wanted to swallow the sight of it whole.
“Doesn't hurt. Feels like when your foot’s gone to sleep and you try to walk on it, just pins and needles, really. How’d yours feel?” Lennon asked, using his free hand to poke at the tat on Gene’s forearm.
“Hurt like a bitch, mate. I was off my face through half of it, just rattling my gob off to the artist so I wouldn't dwell on the pain. Still felt like a dozen knives needle-nosing into me skin, though.”
Lennon narrowed his eyes. “Hang on. You’re straight right now, aren't you?”
He better not be doing this fucking pissed, Lennon thought. It would explain why the handwriting was so bloody shaky.
Gene let out a breathy, nervous laugh, looking like a schoolboy caught with his hand in the till. “What’d you do if I weren’t?” he asked. He flashed a mischievous little grin, his eyes gone dark and heavy, that dead-eyed stare he used to make people fold. but it never quite worked on Len. Not entirely but, it made his chest feel tight.
“Smack you upside your noggin, that’s what.”
“Alright, keep your hair on. Don’t move.”
Gene finished the crest, his movements slow and lingering. He grabbed the clingfilm and wrapped Lennon’s arm with a tenderness that felt almost out of place. “There. How’s that look, hm?” Gene set the tool down, proud of himself, looking at Lennon like he’d just claimed him.
“Love it, mate. Proper job,” Lennon replied, smiling. Then he perked up. “Your turn.”
Gene froze. “Oh. Yeah. Right.”
Truth was, he’d completely forgotten these were supposed to be matching. He’d been too busy marking Lennon, focused on the way the ink took to his brother’s skin. He never tattooed himself; his hands were shaking like a leaf the whole time he was doing Lenny’s.
“You wanna give it a go, then?” Gene asked.
“I’ve never tattooed anyone, Gene. Can’t even draw a straight line.”
“Well, neither had I 'til five minutes ago, had I? I’m too fucking jumpy to do me own, it’s the adhd, makes me twitchy.”
“Right. You been taking your meds, then?”
“Nah. You know that shite makes me feel weird. Boring, too. Besides, remember Da telling me to come off ‘em?”
“S'pose. You’re more a laugh without 'em,” Lennon joked, picking up the needle. “Right, let’s see that arm.”
He grabbed Gene’s arm, stabilizing it with a firm grip. Gene let him maneuver him however he wanted, his eyes fixed on the needle. It looked massive now that it was pointed at him. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard.
“Oh, don’t be a coward, Geney,” Lennon teased, dipping the needle. “Ready?”
It was a strange feeling. Gene felt butterflies in his gut, a fluttery, sick-sweet heat like he was some girl letting a lad get handsy for the first time. But Lennon was so gentle. His big brother. The best man he knew.
It was hard for Gene to wrap his head around how different they were. Gene was his father’s son; all the sharp edges and the temper. Lennon was like his mum, or at least all the soft parts of their Da that hadn't been ruined yet. He was spacing out, lost in the feel of Lennon’s hand gripping his bicep, until the grip tightened.
“Gene? You with me?”
“Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I'm yours.”
“Good”
Lennon started to press the needle into Gene’s arm, starting with the ‘G.’ It already looked miles better than Gene’s attempt; as he worked, he noticed Gene’s eyebrows were furrowed tight. His spoiled brat of a little brother was finally feeling some pain, and it made Lennon laugh a little, his eyes tracking the way Gene’s pulse jumped under the needle.
“Shut up and concentrate,” Gene muttered, his voice strained.
Truth be told, it was a proper thrill having Gene in such a vulnerable position, completely trusting of Lennon. He didn't know if Lennon was being nice or just being a complete dick, and Gene was oblivious to the way Lennon was watching him. It’d always been that way since they were kids; Gene couldn’t imagine Lennon being anything other than the caring older brother who teased him from time to time.
He finished the letter and looked up to see Gene’s face all squinty, little tears in the corners of his eyes. “Big baby,” Lennon whispered, his thumb lingering on Gene’s inner wrist.
“Am not. It just fucking hurts, man...”
“Right, come on then. No backing out of it now. I’ve got you.”
“No, c’mon... we—we can just leave it like this, yeah? Just a 'G' is fine.”
“Gene, don’t be daft,” Lennon murmured, his voice dropping low.
Gene started to thrash. God, he was so difficult for no reason, especially since he was the one who wanted to do this in the first place. Lennon tightened his grip on Gene’s arm as he tried to jerk it away.
“Look, stop moving. It’s fine, you’ll be fine, Gene. Right? Don’t make me have to hold you down”
Gene stilled and nodded as Lennon started on the crest. Gene was making these little whines, complaining that it still hurt, his scrawny arm starting to bleed.
“Fuck, look at you,” Lennon breathed, his eyes fixed on the red welling up on his brother’s skin. He sped up the tattooing a little, but he still managed to make it look good for a rough job and all of Gene’s crying.
Gene must’ve zoned out again, because he found himself looking back down at his arm wrapped in clear clingfilm. His arm was no longer bleeding. He had no problem with blood, he’d had his fair share of rows and bruises but having his own brother be the one to make him bleed, intentionally or not, made his skin crawl with a feeling, one he knew was wrong.
“How long do we keep these on then?” Lennon asked as he put away the ink and pen, staying right in Gene’s personal space.
“Oh, uhm... just for six hours. I can go over the aftercare later.”
Lennon let out a dry, suggestive chuckle, leaning over him. “Aftercare, yeah? Seems like you need a lot of it, seeing as you were sobbing and moaning at me like a right girl. Maybe I should stay the night... make sure you’re properly looked after. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Having me tend to you?”
Gene’s cheeks turned a deep, dusty pink. “Shut up, you’re not funny,” he said, punching weakly at Lennon’s shoulder.
“Alright, alright,” Len rubbed at his shoulder.
The two lay up against Gene’s wall. Gene rested his head on Lennon’s shoulder as the two pressed their wrapped arms side by side, taking in how the tats looked. They were really fucking ugly, but they were theirs. Just for them. Matching. A constant reminder that they were going to be together forever. At least, that’s how Gene felt.
“Thanks for doing this with me, Lenny,” Gene mumbled, his eyes were getting droopy as he nuzzled his cheek against Lennon’s shoulder, just like he used to do when he was small.
“Course. Anything for you, kid.”
It was true; Lennon would do anything for his little brother. He’d let himself be talked into the most outrageous acts, such as this one, just to have Gene under his hand. It was his biggest flaw; Gene would call and Lennon would come running. Not like Gene wouldn’t do anything right back for him. Lennon could ask Gene to jump, and the younger would reply with, “How high?” That’s just how things were with them, and he knew they wouldn’t have it any other way.