Ink | Soulmate AU | ✓

thirty | moving on

Almost a year later, out of nowhere, I suddenly remembered that I was breathing, and from that point on I was able to control my intakes of breath with conscious thought. The air smelled like sweet roses, and I turned up my nose happily; I loved that smell. It reminded me of George. He'd bought them for me.

It stunted my concentration a little, as all my thoughts had turned swiftly towards maintaining the process of inhaling; waiting; exhaling. Taking in the smell.

My brain managed to convince me that if I didn't repeat the cycle constantly in the very forefront of my mind, I would somehow asphyxiate. But I didn't want to, and that was despite the fact that before I had come to the realisation of my breathing I had done so flawlessly, without needing to interfere.

I tried to forget about breathing, to let my instincts kick in and be able to continue once again on the real task at hand - my painting - but I simply found myself focusing too hard on not breathing, and subsequently began to cough and splutter aimlessly for lack of air.

But he was there. His arms were around me and everything was okay, patting my back until I felt safe and forgot about my breathing completely; his lips were pressed against mine, all of a sudden, warm and inviting. I leant into him, kissing him back; he tasted smoky, like salt and roses. He tasted like George. My soulmate. He was love, and passion, and ink. He was mine, and I was his, and we would be forever entwined as one soul. Because that's what soulmates were, although they were still persecuted for their love and their gifts. It was okay.

We found freedom in each other.

He pulled away, and his blue eyes rested on mine. 'I love you, Archie,' he said. My name sounded like music when he said it.

I laughed a little for no real reason, my arms still around him, my painting forgotten behind me. 'You know, that was the very first thing I ever said to you,' I told him. 'It was a mistake. You wrote me a poem, and I was meant to say I loved it—' he looked hurt for a moment, 'but I'm glad it worked out the way it did,' I finished. He smiled softly; that was my favourite sight in the world. I thought I'd never see him happy. And although I wasn't happy, not yet, I liked to see him smile.

'Do you remember that poem?' I asked. He shook his head a little sadly as we remained in an embrace.

I recalled a few lines, closing my eyes to try and remember:

'If time exists, I know a time
If not, I know a place instead
But not a place upon this Earth
It's more a place inside my head.'

I opened my eyes. His lips twitched up into a smile again, and this time I smiled too.

'I wrote that?'

'Yep. You wrote it about what it was like to be Inked. You wrote it when—' I gulped. 'When you were in prison.'

Suddenly his eyes went dark. I knew he didn't really remember, but as he'd told me once, They can take the senses away, your memory of the sights, the sounds, the smells. But what they can never take away is the sensations, the emotions. What I felt, there... I never want to feel it again.

'It was a great poem,' I finished flatly, though I knew he wasn't listening. He shook his head, as if trying to clear it, and looked at the floor. I could only imagine what it was like to have such an empty memory that was so vivid at the same time.

No. I didn't want to imagine.

I turned to kiss him again, shorter and softer this time, just a brush of the lips; if the other kiss was smoke and roses, this one was daffodils in spring. Our noses pressed against each other gently and I whispered to him with a desperate kind of passion: 'We're here now.'