Ink | Soulmate AU | ✓

twelve | the professor's secret

   Inside my head huge fireworks had just exploded and the leftover sparks were making me feel numb and dizzy. My stomach felt like a weight had just been dropped in it: so heavy and yet so achingly hollow at the exact same time. Words eluded me, but this time, the silence was less than empty. It was full of nothing.

   What if there were cameras in here? What if someone could hear us? What if he was a spy?

   The entire world had just crashed down around me. Imaginary sounds shattered my ears. I tried to swallow, but my mouth was dry and useless. I couldn't remember if I was sitting or standing until I felt my knees almost buckle beneath me; I had to steady myself so as not to crash onto the floor and stay there, curled up in a ball. For the first time in my life, I was absolutely speechless.

   But he wasn't.

   'I'm sorry to put you through this, but there's something I need to talk to you about. I trust you, Archie, and for your sake, I hope you feel similarly.' It was like he'd pre-prepared this little speech.

   I must have looked dumbstruck, because he placed his long fingers on my arm as a comforting gesture. It was not even remotely comforting, but I tried to weave my face into a neutral expression, not wanting to give anything away to this man who had suddenly become... what? A confidant? A threat?

   'I've known for some time.' His words were kind but arrogantly spoken, his tone silky and soft; he oozed with the kind of velvety charm that the gods bestowed only a chosen few. 'You must be confused— and scared. I understand. I've been there.' He looked me squarely in the eyes. 'Trust me, Archie,' he murmured, his voice low and incredibly persuasive.

   I wanted to.

   Despite his tone, his eyes were sympathetic and thoughtful; I knew he was telling the truth. He must've risked a lot to have this conversation with me. Smiling faintly, but feeling sick, I tried to nod.

   Then, slowly, he rolled up his cardigan sleeves to reveal long arms, stained with years of paint and ink abuse. 'It never really washes off,' he whispered.

   Gazing up at his aged face, which appeared so much younger when he smiled, and then down at the arm he held in front of me, I saw what he meant: blue letters in small, cursive handwriting shimmered dully against his pale skin, contrasting the dark hair that thickly coated his forearms.

   Looking up again, I noticed that the warm sensitivity in his eyes had changed, subtly, to a gentle pain, and it made them appear vulnerable and distant. It was like when no one was looking, he became... smaller, somehow. Or perhaps that was the wrong way of describing it. He became the same size as everyone else, instead of trying to be so much bigger. When he realised I was staring, he looked hastily straight down at the floor. Only when no one was looking. He pulled down his sleeves.

   Though I didn't press the subject, he seemed to deliberate on something for a minute, before turning away from me. Silently, he gestured for me to follow him as he began to trek slowly towards his desk at the front of the room. I did.

   My footsteps as well as his echoed coolly off the art-covered walls, filling the emptiness we left in conversation. I felt strange going behind the professor's desk, like I was intruding on his personal space. He didn't once look back to see if I had indeed followed him.

   He knew I would.

   With the stiffness of an older man, he eased himself into his black leather chair and reached forward for a photograph frame that sat proudly on the desk. I'd never noticed it before – but then, I hadn't been looking for it.