Ink | Soulmate AU | ✓

three | ink

   Now, I must admit, despite my deeply felt enthusiasm for my fine art course at this prestigious university, it was somewhat hard to focus on a lecture about the history of art when actual art was appearing at a rapid pace on my left arm.

   I mean, this wasn't exactly unusual; I was used to it by now. I'd known I was one of The Inked since I was six years old, when one day foreign marks of deep blue ink began to swirl and slither their way across my milky skin. My grandmother explained to me what I was, and what this newly discovered power meant; I inherited it from her, though the gene had bypassed my parents completely. She told me that when marks were made in ink on my skin, they would appear on my soulmate's skin as well, and vice versa.

   No matter how far away they were, what they wrote or drew, I would see it, as long as it was in ink.

   Like a strange and kind of sinister system of texting. However, this peculiar power that at first seemed like a blessing was actually more of a curse: Inking was illegal, she told me. Just having it made you a target, but using it? That could get you killed. 

   Those found to do it were severely punished, labelled as witches and demons and thrown in jail - tortured, even - simply for having abilities beyond their control. I'd always wondered why, but never truly questioned it. It was just a fact of life. You're born with the curse, you accept your fate and die with it.

   The situation with Matty had been nothing.

   From then on, I made an effort to always use a biro so as never to be seen, and never be caught, as I watched him tell his story through me. Nevertheless, my ability to concentrate on whatever was around me, no matter what that happened to be, took a huge hit whenever the Inking began.

   Of course it was impossible not to be absolutely captivated as the empty canvas that was your skin gradually became someone's masterpiece.

   The Inking - that was, when your soulmate was writing on their skin with Ink - was a strange sensation, like a mild tickle mixed with a slight tingle under the skin, but at the same time not like that at all.

   It was more like music; a melody flying through your veins, a rhythm pounding at your heart and the notes resonating in ink on your skin. It did feel beautiful, if slightly paranormal, and it always meant beautiful things.

   It meant that he was there, even if he didn't know it. That person. It meant that he was alive, and breathing, and writing in ink on his arm. Whether he was just scribbling notes or doodling little pictures or writing tiny reminders because he was forgetful, I loved him for it.

   It meant that he was there with me; no matter if he was a million miles away or sitting right next door. Because who knew where he was? Who ever knew?

   All I knew was whoever he was, he was wonderful. He was like a best friend to me by now. I laughed with him, cried with him; I shared every emotion he did as he wrote me messages, always and consistently in deep blue ink. He must have known I was there, even though I never responded, because he never seemed to shut up.

   I knew it was a he, and not a she, because of the time he'd told me about his father.

   He calls his own son a monster, my soulmate had written. He talks about you all the time; he says I should stop writing to you, that I'm ruining my future because I'm going to get caught. But I'm not, he'd written. Even if you never write back, I know you're there. One day I will find you.

   Very faintly, it was all still there: old blue ink marks coated my thighs, my arms, my stomach. You wouldn't know they were there unless you were looking for them, but I was always looking for them. I'd read them over and over again, sometimes memorise them.

   One day I will find you.

   I didn't really understand the science of it, I don't know if anyone did, but I loved it. I loved him. The thought never crossed my mind that I didn't even know his name – we were so close, yet God knows how far apart.