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Sidemen holiday videos were fucking great, Danny was finding. Apparently, on these trips, those who wanted to usually tacked on an extra day to enjoy the amenities free from responsibility—work or financial. About half of the Sidemen had stayed in sunny Spain, but Danny hadn’t seen them in hours. Wherever they’d disappeared off to, he couldn’t give a fuck. Not when the sun was so nice and hot and the pool perfectly blue, with Simon beside him smirking behind his sunglasses.
Simon was unbothered by the others’ presence or lack thereof, at least whenever Danny was around, which was sort of flattering. Logically, Simon was probably bored of seeing them, but it still felt validating that Simon chose Danny just like Danny chose Simon.
Every twenty minutes, Danny started overheating, so another twenty must have gone by, because Danny was itching for a cool-down. He swung out of his lounger and jumped into the pool. Let the water run through his hair—that was the best thing about longer hair, the way water and fingers flowed through it—until he surfaced, hopefully sexily, probably sputtery.
Simon was watching.
Danny rested his palms on the concrete and heaved himself out. Too late, he realized his swimming shorts had sagged just a bit with the weight of the water. And Simon, honed in with that analytical focus that Danny so admired, had seen the 7 tattooed on Danny’s hipbone.
There was no sense hiding it now. Danny sauntered over to the lounger and sat on its side, facing Simon. Awaiting the verdict.
The corner of Simon’s mouth lifted like he knew the power he had over Danny. “You love me that much?”
Danny huffed, sat back just a little so that the number was on show. He wished he could see Simon’s eyes behind the sunglasses, but it might not have helped. Simon was always good at hiding his thoughts, not like Danny, who wore his emotions on his sleeve.
“Fuck off, it’s my lucky number.” It didn’t matter the reason it was lucky.
Simon laughed and shook his head. “You’re such a little fanboy.” He didn’t sound displeased, but the condescension made Danny squirm, not unpleasantly.
“Fuck off.”
“Wish I could’ve seen you get it,” Simon said. “I bet you screamed like a bitch.”
“Obviously not, I’m tough as nails.” Danny rotated his tattooed arms as if they proved some ambiguous point.
Simon chuckled, sort of disbelieving, sort of interested. It was clear even behind the sunglasses that his eyes still lingered on Danny’s hip. Danny’s hands went to his waistband to pull the trunks back up, but a single look from Simon stopped him.
“It was my first one,” Danny continued unprompted. “Got it when I turned 18.”
Simon was always a step ahead of Danny; now, he had got a sharp little smile as though Danny had admitted too much. Danny wracked his brain — he hadn’t, had he? But Simon looked like he’d won anyway.
“I think you should get another tattoo for me. And let me watch.”
Heat washed over Danny that wasn’t from the sun.
“It’s not—” What was the point in protesting? “Yeah, alright, fine, whatever.”
He imagined it, a mere canvas for Simon’s ego. What hardship was a moment’s pain for a man who meant so much to him? With this marking, he’d forever be unambiguously owned.
Simon sat up and pivoted. His knees knocked into Danny’s, bare chest a breath away. Simon, in all he was, made a mockery of Danny. Danny paled in comparison, a flawed, incomplete human. Yet Simon kept reaching out to him, less as a king to a peasant, although a little bit that way, but almost as equals.
Danny’s eyes flickered blindly between Simon’s hidden ones. His breath caught as Simon leaned in closer, hand stabilizing himself beside Danny’s thigh as his other hand brushed across the 7. With an expression of awe melding into gentle disbelief, Simon backed off and lay back down in his own lounger. Danny could breathe again. And, heat radiating from his hip, Danny watched Simon for a long time. Guiltily. Awestruck. And imagining.
Simon meant what he said, so Danny found himself trundled into a cab with Simon just beside him, telling the driver the name of a tattoo shop.
“One isn’t enough for you, huh?”
“Oh, so he admits it,” Simon teased. His attitude was an intriguing mix of lightness and intensity. His mood was giddy, but the way he looked at Danny was weighty. It made Danny shift in his seat, imagining what that gaze might look like when he was in a chair being marked for him.
“Ha ha,” Danny said flatly, but he couldn’t help the smile that crept into his sarcasm. “I’m just saying, it’s a bit greedy of you, no?”
“You should have my name tattooed on you a hundred times.”
“I’d do it,” Danny said immediately.
“I know you would.”
“You can be my right leg sleeve.”
“You’d never beat the glazing allegations.”
Danny bit his lip, the words Maybe I don’t want to on the tip of his tongue. “It wouldn’t surprise anyone,” he said instead.
Simon smiled, proud like he knew it. “This is just for us.”
And if that didn’t sound like fucking everything Danny ever wanted. He breathed a “yeah, alright,” and Simon saw straight through his feigned nonchalance.
Simon made Danny wait in the waiting area while he spoke to the artist. Then the artist took Danny aside to privately speak with him and explain the consent forms, and Danny repeated yes, yes, I want this, please.
And then he was on the table on his stomach, shorts pulled low and shirt up on his back. The padded tables never got more comfortable. Danny rested his head on his forearms and chanced a look at Simon as the artist prepared his supplies.
Simon looked back, apparently cool as ever, but Danny was familiar with his expressions. The set of his mouth, his hungry eyes.
“For you, bro,” Danny said as the tattoo machine touched his skin.
“For me,” Simon replied, hands deep in his pockets.
Danny breathed through the sting, a sensation to which he was well-accustomed. The location was just above his tailbone. Hidden, but not invisible. Simon’s eyes skated across Danny’s body, and it felt sexual, in a way, Danny laid out for him, a sort of S&M-type vibe in the needle’s burn. Danny couldn’t tear his eyes away from Simon’s.
It was done in no time at all. Danny felt loose and wrung out, even though it had hardly taken any time at all.
He stood on wobbly legs. Under Simon’s watchful eye, he turned in the mirror. Written like a tramp stamp was MM7, a skeleton of Simon’s logo.
And Danny was Simon’s. His name was engraved in ink, a symbol of ownership.
“I fucking love it,” he said. To the artist, to Simon. “I love it.”
“Good,” Simon said. “Touch it and think of me.”
Danny half-smiled, eyes locked on Simon. “I already do.”
Every time Simon greeted Danny, it was with a hug or a friendly hand clapped on his back. But now, he let his hand trail down, fingertips brushing possessively over Danny’s lower back. The tattoo couldn’t have made the skin more sensitive, but it felt it, or maybe the tattoo had given it new meaning. Because Danny always lost his breath a little bit, watching Simon helplessly before following him like a puppy, like always.
Nothing had changed except it was made official: Danny was Simon’s bitch. He’d have it no other way.