The rehearsal space was a mess — wires tangled, pizza boxes stacked on an amp, half-finished lyrics scribbled on crumpled paper. Phantom Youth had just wrapped a rough run-through with Tokio Hotel, and Tom flopped back onto the floor with a groan.
“Dude, that last verse was sick,” he mumbled, half to himself, half to Isadora.
She sat cross-legged beside him, rolling up her sleeves and wiping sweat from her brow. “You totally missed your cue on the bridge.”
He grinned. “Still sounded hot.”
Bill made a gagging noise from across the room. “If I hear one more flirty comment, I’m setting my eyeliner on fire.”
Isadora threw a drumstick at him.
Back at Tom’s place, it was just the two of them. Simone was out late, and Bill was at a friend’s house.
Isadora was in Tom’s room, looking through his sketchbook. “You ever think about getting a real tattoo?”
Tom shrugged. “All the time. But my mom would probably ground me into the next dimension.”
She smirked. “What if we did one ourselves? Like, something small. Hidden. Just… for us.”
Tom sat up. “You serious?”
She nodded, pulling a tiny black tattoo pen from her bag — not a real gun, but something just enough for a stick-and-poke. “Nina gave me this. She did one on her ankle last month.”
Tom’s eyes lit up like Christmas lights. “Okay. You go first.
They set up on the floor — paper towels, rubbing alcohol, and nerves.
Isadora wore a tank top and soft shorts, her hair tied up. “Pick somewhere. Nothing too obvious.”
Tom pointed to her hip. “Here.”
She breathed in and nodded.
He knelt beside her, careful and focused — way more serious than usual. He drew a small lightning bolt, then carefully started the slow, tiny pokes.
She winced. “Ow. Okay, wow. That actually hurts.”
“You said you were invincible,” he teased.
When he finished, she sat up and looked in the mirror. The bolt was jagged, imperfect, but real.
“My turn,” she said, grinning like trouble.
Tom pulled off his hoodie and pointed to the inside of his wrist. “Put it here.”
Isadora raised an eyebrow. “You’re gonna get so busted.”
He grinned. “Worth it.”
She leaned over him, tongue between her teeth as she worked. She drew a tiny sun — matching the lightning bolt, opposite but connected.
He stared at her while she inked. “You’re crazy.”
“I know.”
When she finished, she blew gently over the spot and whispered, “There. Now you’re marked.”
He grabbed her hand and kissed her knuckles.
And for a moment, it wasn’t about fame, or fans, or even music.
It was just two teenagers marking time on each other’s skin.
---
YOU ARE READING
"Strings Between Us
Romance2004. Germany. Tom Kaulitz is used to getting what he wants - the stage, the crowd, the girls. As Tokio Hotel begins to rise, so does his ego... until she shows up. She's the Brazilian guitarist in a rival band - quiet, sharp-tongued, and completely...
